Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1890-1950: A Critical Anthology 9780300210545

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Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1890 –1950

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, R E T A tHE , E H T OF

BY EDITED

T N AVA E D R GA

OPF N K T R ROBE

– 1890 1950

y holog t n A l ica A Crit y uction b d o r t n I New with a opf and n K t r e Rob engarten t s i L a i l Ju

n & Londo n e v a H New

Introductions and bibliographies Copyright ∫ 2015 by Yale University. Copyright ∫ 2001 by Yale University. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. Designed by James J. Johnson and set in Electra Roman & Gill Sans type by Keystone Typesetting, Pottsville, PA. Printed in the United States of America. Yale University books may be purchased in quantity for educational, business, or promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected] (U.S. office) or [email protected] (U.K. office).

ISBN: 978-0-300-20673-9 (pbk.) Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939826 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39-48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). 1

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For the late great

Danny Zorn Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum, minutus carborata descendum pantorum

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contents Editor’s Note

xi

Introduction robert knopf and julia listengarten

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1. Franco-Russian Symbolism Maurice Maeterlinck, Interior (1894) Maurice Maeterlinck, ‘‘The Modern Drama’’ (1904) Valery Briusov, The Wayfarer (1910) Valery Briusov, ‘‘Against Naturalism in the Theater’’ (1902)

17 21 31 40 48

2. Pataphysical Theater Alfred Jarry, King Ubu (1896) Alfred Jarry, ‘‘Theater Questions’’ (1897)

53 60 99

3. Intimate Theater/Chamber Drama August Strindberg, The Ghost Sonata (1907) August Strindberg, from Zones of the Spirit (1907)

103 110 137

4. Correspondences Wassily Kandinsky, The Yellow Sound (1909) Wassily Kandinsky, ‘‘On Stage Composition’’ (1912)

145 149 156

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5. Italian Futurism Filippo Marinetti, Feet (1915) Umberto Boccioni, Genius and Culture (1915) Francesco Cangiullo, Detonation (1915) Filippo Marinetti, Emilio Settimelli, and Bruno Corra, ‘‘The Futurist Synthetic Theater, 1915’’ (1915)

163 171 173 176

6. German Expressionism Reinhard Sorge, The Beggar (1912) Yvan Goll, ‘‘Two Superdramas’’ (1918)

183 187 237

7. Dada Tristan Tzara, The Gas Heart (1920) Tristan Tzara, Dada Manifesto, 1918 (1918)

239 246 257

8. The Theater of Pure Form Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz, The Cuttlefish (1922) Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz, ‘‘On a New Type of Play’’ (1920)

265 271 295

9. French Surrealism Roger Vitrac, The Mysteries of Love (1927) André Breton, First Surrealist Manifesto (1924)

301 309 339

10. The Theater of Cruelty Antonin Artaud, The Spurt of Blood (1925) Antonin Artaud, ‘‘No More Masterpieces’’ (1938)

347 352 356

11. Russian Oberiu Aleksandr Vvedensky, Christmas at the Ivanovs’ (1938) Daniil Kharms, Aleksandr Vvedensky, and others, ‘‘The Oberiu Manifesto’’ (1928)

363

177

368 389

12. American Dada and Surrealism Gertrude Stein, Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights (1938) Gertrude Stein, ‘‘Plays’’ (1934)

400 425

13. The Theater of the Absurd Arthur Adamov, The Invasion (1949) Martin Esslin, ‘‘The Theater of the Absurd’’ (1961)

441 446 473

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Contents

477 493

ix

General Bibliography Index

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editor’s note Readers will find in the table of contents the titles of the plays and major theoretical pieces included in the anthology. In addition, though, each part contains biographies of the authors of those pieces, shorter critical excerpts about their works, and select bibliographies of criticism. These briefer items are not listed in the table of contents. A few very minor changes have been made here to the pieces reprinted from other sources, primarily for the sake of internal consistency of spelling and for grammatical correctness. I would like to thank my research assistants Antonio Dougherty, Alana Graber, Stephanie Klajbor, and Lauren Stricos for their exceptional work helping me assemble the updated bibliographies for the revised edition of this book. I’d also like to thank my friend Mike Gauger for his editorial insight and oversight throughout the years, and the students in my AvantGarde Theater Workshop for their willingness to embrace the challenges of staging this material. And lastly, to my collaborator Julia Listengarten: my most sincere thanks and gratitude for all you’ve taught me about avant-garde theater, scholarship, friendship, and collaboration.

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Introduction Robert Knopf and Julia Listengarten

In the introduction to Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1950–2000, we explored the oft-debated notion of the death of the contemporary avant-garde, concluding that the avant-garde was, by definition, constantly dying in order to be reborn. In this sense, the avant-garde’s destructive impulse must eventually turn on itself to create a fresh start and develop innovative artistic forms. Now, as we write a new introduction to the earlier volume, Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1890–1950, we confront the most basic questions about the foundations of the early European avant-garde:1 What is the impulse to create avant-garde theater? What is its contribution to culture? Can the avant-garde exert an influence on mainstream culture without eventually exhausting its destructive force and dying? And perhaps most fundamentally, how do we define and delineate the theater of the avant-garde? In Jacobellis v. Ohio (1964), Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart famously recognized that his first test for obscenity was a subjective and extremely personal one—‘‘I know it when I see it.’’ Less famously, Justice Stewart conceded that although he believed he could recognize obscenity, he might never be able to define it clearly. Justice Stewart’s quote has turned into the catchphrase for anyone attempting to define something that remains resistant to categorization. With full knowledge that we might never succeed in defining the avant-garde, we shall nonetheless outline some of the fundamental aims and elements of avant-garde theater. We shall elucidate what others have written about the matter, with a focus on contemporary scholarship, which has expanded the geographic and artistic boundaries of the avant-garde and examined this ever-expanding body of work through a new set of critical lenses.

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The term ‘‘avant-garde’’ derives from French, referring to the advance guard or vanguard of the military. The ‘‘avant’’ (French for ‘‘fore’’ or ‘‘front’’) was the first of three military formations (‘‘guards’’) to be sent into action. Olinde Rodrigues, a disciple of Claude Henri de Rouvroy, comte de SaintSimon, was the first to apply the term avant-garde to the arts in his 1825 essay ‘‘L’Artiste, le savant et l’industriel’’ (‘‘The Artist, the Scientist, and the Industrialist’’). He proposed that the artist would be the first of three sets of ‘‘troops’’ involved in guiding society toward a utopian socialism, a scheme that he based on Saint-Simon’s 1820 observation, ‘‘New meditations have proved to me that things should move ahead with the artists in the lead, followed by the scientists, and that the industrialists should come after these two classes.’’2 In this way, the original application of the term to artists follows this tripartite division of ‘‘troops,’’ in service to a utopian political and economic goal. For many years, scholars accepted the notion that the definition of ‘‘avantgarde’’ derived directly from Saint-Simon and Rodrigues, even though Rodrigues’s statement predates the earliest avant-garde movements by several decades. More recently, scholars have reworked the definition to admit multiple avant-gardes, based on the critique that the conception of linear avantgarde development—its roots firmly planted in Western Europe—is a hopelessly colonialist interpretation. As James Harding remarks in The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s), ‘‘The avant-garde is always the avant-gardes, and while the constituting points of departure for one may borrow from another, one avant-garde is seldom directly contingent upon the precedents set by its predecessors.’’3 In Harding’s view, each avant-garde starts from its own cultural and political context, reacts against its own set of societal pressures, and defines itself on its own terms. For this reason, the term ‘‘avant-garde’’ is not a guarantee of an artwork’s political or cultural aims. Avant-garde artists aim to be at the forefront, to play a primary role in the shaping of culture: to address ‘‘the imagination and feelings of people . . . to achieve the most vivid and decisive kind of action.’’4 But beyond that overarching generalization, the specifics—as well as the relative emphasis on the cultural, aesthetic, or political realms—remain open to definition by each particular avant-garde movement and/or artist. This has sparked frequent clashes amidst and among avant-gardes, particularly on political grounds, as elicited by the Italian Futurist F. T. Marinetti’s allegiance to Benito Mussolini’s National Fascist Party and the loyalty, however unstable, of the Surrealist André Breton to the French Communist Party. Arnold Aronson, in American Avant-Garde Theatre: A History, notes that

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the avant-garde has no specific political agenda. We can say, though, that if one purpose of the avant-garde is to attack the cultural mainstream, it often comes with a radical political agenda, even if the agenda differs greatly from avant-garde to avant-garde; artists who place themselves outside the cultural mainstream often resist the political mainstream as well. In recent criticism, the term avant-garde has been extended beyond purely theatrical/artistic/ aesthetic concerns, reconceived as a broader confrontation with power in many forms. In Mike Sell’s redefinition, ‘‘The avant-garde is a minority formation that challenges power in subversive, illegal, or alternative ways; usually by challenging the routines, assumptions, hierarchies, and/or legitimacy of existing political and/or cultural institutions.’’5 The use of military terminology as the umbrella for a particular type of experimental work now captures the aggression inherent in the ‘‘challenge’’ that the avant-garde issues to mainstream cultural and political institutions. Among contemporary scholars and practitioners, it is a matter of individual perspective and choice as to how much weight should be placed on political, cultural, and aesthetic aims in defining the avant-gardes. Harding observes ‘‘the alwayscontested social, political, cultural terrains of the avant-gardes’’ and how ‘‘the histories of the avant-gardes are uneven, divergent, and frequently at odds with one another, both in terms of aesthetics and politics.’’6 Yet when we examine the European avant-garde theater of the early twentieth century, we still find common adversaries, whatever the range of responses among avantgardes. These plays and approaches are the primary focus of this volume. On a dramaturgical and philosophical level, the early European avantgarde theater reacted against plays that presented a rationalist or positivist vision of the world. This theater rejects the norms and conventions of realism and naturalism, with their dependence on linear plots to link actions and events through causality, psychologically motivated characters, and divine or humanistic morality.7 Realistic problem plays, epitomized by the middle works of Henrik Ibsen, encourage audiences to make moral judgments of characters by foregrounding the characters’ motivations and displaying a clear link between each action and reaction. At the peak of Act III of Hedda Gabler (1890), for example, Hedda lends one of her father’s pistols to Eilert Lövborg, only to discover in Act IV that the weapon was responsible for Lövborg’s death, which leads directly to Judge Brack’s power over Hedda, and in turn motivates her suicide at the end of the play. The central difference between Ibsen’s realism and the naturalism to which others have aspired (but few have achieved) is causality: realism tends to focus on single causes of action, whereas naturalism—in its purest form an attempt to view

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and depict human behavior as if it took place in a laboratory—explores and devises multiple causes. Traditional drama’s causal lines of action tend to bring attention to the writing and the text, making the playwright’s construction of events evident to the audience. Avant-garde theater artists prefer to abandon a clear chain of events, thus the manifold ways in which most avant-garde plays manipulate, supplant, or shun causal action. Maurice Maeterlinck’s earliest Symbolist plays, for example, emphasize mood, tone, and atmosphere over causality. The impulse is to avoid offering audiences seemingly rational explanations of behavior that help reassure them of the legitimacy of society’s status quo. Through the Symbolists’ focus on synesthesia—the experience of one sense triggering other sensory effects or creating the perception of a melding of the senses— they aimed to stimulate audience members’ awareness of their inner realities rather than provide explanations of external behaviors. Indeed, most avantgarde theater places great emphasis on audience members’ visceral experience in the theater, their internal reactions to external stimuli. Avant-garde playwrights favor ambiguity and confusion as means of stimulating audiences to think and feel in new, less predictable ways. Of the plays in this volume, Wassily Kandinsky’s The Yellow Sound (1909), Marinetti’s Feet (1915), Tristan Tzara’s The Gas Heart (1920), and Antonin Artaud’s The Spurt of Blood (1925) dispense with causality almost entirely. In Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights (1938), Gertrude Stein replaces linear causality with looping repetitions that attempt to achieve her notion of ‘‘landscape drama,’’ the dramatic kin to landscape painting, with its emphasis on capturing multiple viewpoints on one canvas. A case can be made for the causality of Umberto Boccioni’s Futurist play Genius and Culture (1915), but the linearity of its plot is disrupted by the ‘‘shaggy dog joke’’ that concludes the play: The Critic murders The Artist for little reason other than to reach the punchline, in which The Critic stands over The Artist’s corpse and assesses his greatness with a tape measure. Parody and irreverent humor undermine the authority of linear causality. The early European avant-garde theater was also preoccupied with undercutting the psychological motivations that are foregrounded in traditional realistic dramaturgy and production. Many of the plays in this volume cast doubt on logical explanations of human behavior by distorting, simplifying, or simply avoiding three-dimensional characters whose actions and objectives appear to be justified by detailed given circumstances. Avant-garde characters can be illogical, one- or two-dimensional, or exhibit elements of abnormal psychology; plays’ settings and environments can manifest or re-

The principle of causality in Christmas at the Ivanovs’ is not based, however, on a normal or logical relationship between cause and effect. Devoid of logic,

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flect the inner workings of the playwright’s psychosis, as in The Spurt of Blood, Alfred Jarry’s King Ubu (1896), and August Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata (1907). The Surrealists, for instance, created a range of improvisatory games to help them channel the madness of the subconscious or unconscious mind, including ‘‘automatic writing’’ (a method of generating uncensored, stream-of-consciousness writing) and variations of Exquisite Corpse (‘‘cadavre exquis’’), a game in which three or more people collaborate to create a deliberately illogical drawing, sentence, or story.8 The Futurist sintesi—plays that are at most two minutes long, composed of bursts of compressed action—allow for little more than one-dimensional characters and stereotypes, sometimes offering no characters at all. Likewise, a Dada play, such as The Gas Heart, reduces character to various body parts (Eye, Mouth, Nose, Ear, Neck, Eyebrow) that speak in riddles, repetitions, and nonsense. The avant-garde’s most direct attack on a country’s or society’s mainstream culture—bourgeois mores, the industrialist urge to get rich, a communist or fascist dictatorship—often takes the form of a complete moral collapse in the world of the play, whether that means amorality or immorality. From the moment Jarry’s King Ubu set foot on a Paris stage and uttered his first word, ‘‘Merdre’’ (loosely translated into the English ‘‘Shitr,’’ or ‘‘shit’’ with an extra ‘‘r’’), provoking a riot in the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre, the avantgarde recognized the effectiveness of a direct, oft-times blunt assault on the moral standards of their contemporaries. Ma and Pa Ubu indulge in many vices and crimes, from gluttony to avarice to murder, yet, unlike their Shakespearean counterparts, in the end they simply sail off to pillage and plunder another day, in the rarely produced sequels, Ubu Cuckolded (1898) and Ubu Bound (1899), thereby escaping the moral judgment of Shakespeare’s resolutions. In contrast to the grotesque gluttony of King Ubu, Aleksandr Vvedensky’s Christmas at the Ivanovs’ (1938) uses surreal imagery to violate the mores of the bourgeois cultural mainstream but also embraces the amorality to criticize the Stalinist dictatorship steeped in the politics of terror and absolute power. Meting out punishment for cursing, a nanny chops off the head of a character that the stage directions describe as a ‘‘32-year-old girl’’ (still portrayed as a child) and leaves her head on a cushion next to her coffin; head and body then converse with each other at the end of a scene. Amorality coincides with a gradual loss of plot and linearity, as if the lack of moral center has infected the dramaturgy of the play:

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Vvedensky’s world in part becomes a parody of the seemingly rational bourgeois world, the logic of which can easily be turned into absurdity and the rationale for which can just as easily be reduced to meaninglessness.9

We begin to see, then, that the avant-garde’s various strategies for challenging the cultural mainstream can be interrelated, supporting and blending with each other to further upset audience expectations. Perhaps the most fundamental unit of theater and drama that the early European avant-garde can attack or subvert is the word. In traditional drama, words, syntax, and grammar are critical transmitters of meaning and rationality. As soon as King Ubu expelled the obscene, invented, and butchered ‘‘Merdre,’’ however, the avant-garde undermined the belief that language should be safe, constant, and clean. From the microcosmic challenge to rationality rooted in the gibberish of many Futurist and Dada plays,10 to the stream-of-consciousness language of Stein and the Surrealists, to the unexpected and unrestrained macrocosmic violence of Artaud, the avantgarde has continually assailed the idea that language can and should convey ideas clearly and logically. For avant-garde playwrights, their resistance to enlist language to help make sense of the world leads them to challenge its logic through a variety of means, as Sarah Bay-Cheng observes in her influential study of Gertrude Stein’s theater: Whereas Beckett’s belief in the futility of language led to the progressive elimination of the spoken word from his plays, . . . Stein articulates the same belief through an over-abundance of language. . . . Though moving in opposite directions, Stein and Beckett ultimately came to the same conclusion that language was no longer an effective means of communicating—that communication itself had become impossible.11

It is this fundamental attack on the certainty of language that often makes avant-garde theater so confusing for many audience members, who have grown dependent upon words and stories to help them understand the stage world, and thus of the world that traditional drama claims to mirror. In place of traditional dramaturgy, avant-garde theater frequently substitutes compelling visual images and sounds. For most, if not all, of the plays in this anthology, rhythm and tempo—both visually and aurally—help sustain the dramatic impulse in performance. Spectacle and music, generously defined to encompass all visual and aural elements of production, dominate avant-garde theater, and it is up to readers, creators, and audiences to attune themselves to each script’s rhythms when imagining the plays in production. What the early European avant-garde theater accomplished, in effect, was to

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invert the six elements of drama observed by Aristotle in his Poetics. This does not require us to rebut Aristotle, but to recall that he was observing what he believed made for a successful tragedy in his day, when theater production had deteriorated in ancient Greece,12 leading him to focus on text over performance. Avant-garde theater privileges performance over text, as well as visceral experience over intellectual contemplation and provocative action over reassuring logical causality. Despite the periodic presence of a radical political agenda, perhaps the early European avant-garde’s attack on authority must always begin with an attack on dramatic form and convention, as that is the central authority of the Western theater and stage.13 Stripped of plot, lacking realistic, psychologically motivated characters, and often devoid of clear language that communicates ideas in a logical manner, European avant-garde theater has sought to affect audiences through more visceral, yet oblique means, attempting to provoke change in people’s beliefs by bypassing the protective cocoon of logic to penetrate more deeply into their psyches. By challenging the assumptions of the theatrical mainstream, avant-garde theater attempts to transform, not reinforce, how its audiences see the world. ‘‘A true avantgarde theatre must seek an essential change in audience perceptions that, in turn, will have a profound impact on the relationship of the spectator to the world,’’ Aronson writes.14 In Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1950–2000, we wrote that ‘‘The relationships among the avant-garde(s) and the mainstream(s) are never simple or stable. They reveal multiple tensions between negation and appropriation, resistance and acceptance, rebellion and compromise.’’ The new understanding of the complex negotiations among the avant-gardes and the mainstream further complicates the utility of tracing a clear-cut, linear genealogy—but we know that the avant-garde will be absorbed into the mainstream, and that it can create change within the mainstream. Although mainstream theater easily adopted and adapted many avant-garde techniques, we argue that the subversive message lay dormant within, waiting to erupt, like the creature in Ridley Scott’s classic sci-fi film Alien (1979), that latches on to one character’s face like a parasite and then dies, only to explode from his chest later on in the film. (Early avant-garde audiences swiftly recognized the direct threat of plays like King Ubu to the cultural mainstream and reacted accordingly, hence the countless riots provoked by the premieres of many avant-garde plays.) To return to Rodrigues’s military metaphor, the shock troops of the first garde sometimes succeed through infiltration rather than direct, frontal assault.

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Disrupting the Canon Since the first publication of Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1890–1950 in 2001, scholarship has challenged the predominantly Western European vision that guided the canonization of the early European avant-garde, sometimes referred to as ‘‘historical avant-garde,’’15 during the twentieth century. In their recent work, James Harding, Mike Sell, and John Rouse, among others, have spearheaded a major revision by advocating for a reassessment of the avant-garde’s geographic and cultural boundaries.16 Arguing that the traditional concept of the avant-garde is rooted in Western cultural politics and ideology, and in a linear understanding of history, they offer an alternative vision of the avant-garde as ‘‘cross-disciplinary in approach and global in scope.’’17 Harding contests the use of the term ‘‘historical avant-garde’’ because he believes that it reinforces the sense of linear development, thereby flattening the differences among avant-gardes.18 This new conception of the avant-garde is indebted to recent debates in feminist critical studies, in addition to postcolonial and queer theories,19 and further informed by current developments in the study of the global economy and transnationalism. It is also part of ‘‘the expansive tendency’’ in current scholarship to stress the necessity for ‘‘temporal, spatial, and vertical directions’’ in reevaluating modernism. Pointing to the importance of transnational exchanges not only in contemporary culture but also in the early modernist period, modernist scholarship has signaled a ‘‘transnational turn’’ in reassessing twentieth century culture.20 Harding argues that ‘‘the connection between the term avant-garde and the European experimental theatrical tradition is an ideological construct rather than a historically unified moment of authentic signification.’’ He challenges this construct for giving Europe (predominantly Western Europe) credit for the vast majority of artistic innovation yet excluding the contributions of other cultures to innovative theater and performance practices.21 Opposing the notion of innovative singularity or the ‘‘cutting edge’’ of the European avant-garde, he introduces the idea of the ‘‘plurality of edges’’ to capture how the avant-garde serves as a ‘‘deterritorialized phenomenon’’ built on principles of ‘‘simultaneity and transnationalism.’’22 Having broken free from geographic boundaries, the avant-garde can be seen as arising concurrently around the world in independent displays of innovative theater writing and practices. The current scholarly focus on nonlinearity and polycentrism guided our approach to anthologizing contemporary avant-gardes in Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1950–2000. This volume, however, continues to capture the

The Textual and the Performative The major shift in authority from literary text to performance-rooted practices, which characterized the twentieth-century avant-garde theater, is exemplified in the infamous evenings/performances that the Futurists and, later, Dadaists organized. Also, it is evident in Artaud’s proposal for a Theater of Cruelty, as he envisioned a total theatrical experience that fiercely obliterated the hegemony of the literary text. In addition to including or referring to these works and practices, this volume introduces the theatrical works of

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predominantly Eurocentric vision rooted in the notion of the avant-garde as a manifestation of Western European innovative thought and practice in the first half of the twentieth century. Its content is principally organized around widely acknowledged and analyzed European-based theatrical movements, such as Symbolism, Futurism, Dadaism, and Surrealism, as well as the Theater of Cruelty. Unified by a powerful desire to rebel against the status quo in art and life, each of these movements expressed its vision and philosophy through manifestos and practical investigations. Although the collection of plays and documents in this volume largely tracks the early European avant-garde, several sections include work that extends beyond the Western European canon: the Polish artist Stanis™aw Witkiewicz’s Theater of Pure Form; Kandinsky’s abstract stage composition The Yellow Sound; Valery Briusov’s Russian Symbolist play The Wayfarer; and the Russian Oberiu, the last experimental movement in the Soviet Union before the country’s totalitarian regime imposed socialist realism. The introduction of Eastern European avant-garde theater and performance practices as independent parallel explorations, not directly generated by their Western European counterparts but existing simultaneously or in dialogue with them, is an important initial step toward a more comprehensive reassessment of early avant-garde theater. The Oberiu, formed in the late 1920s just a few years before the harrowing reality of Stalinist purges, is particularly noteworthy in this connection; its philosophy and practice are closely tied to Russian culture, whose ambivalent, self-doubting spirit and desire for self-theatricalization largely informed the Oberiu’s tragi-grotesque aesthetic. Moreover, one could argue that in their bleak vision of humanity filled with cruelty and meaninglessness, without hope or redemption, Oberiu plays of the late 1920s and 1930s preceded Western absurdist theater, canonized several decades later in the works of Beckett, Jean Genet, and Eugène Ionesco by Martin Esslin’s seminal study, The Theatre of the Absurd.

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visual artists-cum-playwrights such as Kandinsky and Witkiewicz, whose experiments with visual art forms informed their approaches to text and language. For Kandinsky, a stage composition was a theatricalized synthetic form steeped in the principles of abstract painting. Influenced by the concept of synesthesia, he sought to advance the theory and practice of an interdisciplinary art form, which he hoped to accomplish by developing the principles of stage composition. For Witkiewicz, in turn, theater was a means of realizing a theory of ‘‘pure form’’ drawn from his experiences as a painter, photographer, and art theorist; he perceived theater as an ideal artistic medium for evoking a sense of metaphysical wonder through the fusion of auditory and visual elements. By revealing (sometimes unintentionally) multiple tensions between the textual and the performative, these experiments were among several important interdisciplinary innovations during the modernist period that paved the ground for post-1950 cross- and multi-disciplinary developments such as Happenings, dance-theater, performance art, and intermedial theater. By bringing visual artists and playwrights together in one critical anthology and exploring the mutually influential relationships among various art forms, this volume recognizes the avant-garde’s interdisciplinary tendency, but it also points to the necessity of further reexamining the significance of the avant-garde’s performative nature. Because most non-Western theater traditions are predominantly performance-based, they have been perceived as inferior to Western literary cultures, an approach that arguably formed the basis for the Eurocentric conception of the ‘‘historical avant-garde.’’ The latest assertion of the crucial role of ‘‘performance gesture’’ in understanding the avant-garde has fostered invigorating critical discussions about ‘‘the avant-garde’s intercultural and transnational groundings.’’23 The disruption of Western cultural hierarchies, including the one that for centuries privileged literary text over performance, has thus precipitated the ‘‘transnational turn’’ in avant-garde scholarship.24 In the framework of the transnational avant-garde, debates about cultural negotiations and exchanges have replaced assumptions about cultural appropriation. Scholars such as Marvin Carlson, Adam Versényi, Jean GrahamJones, and Joachim Fiebach have argued that innovative theater practices in Africa, Latin America, and the Middle East should be seen as parallel or simultaneous avant-garde developments.25 These advances might result from trans- or intercultural negotiations, but they are not merely derived from the European avant-garde. Carlson considers whether a MiddleEastern avant-garde theater ‘‘operates on its own terms and not simply as a

colonial or postcolonial reflection of a European model.’’26 Versényi discusses the Mexican theatrical avant-garde in the early twentieth century as a national phenomenon inspired by the Mexican Revolution. Graham-Jones, analyzing Argentina’s early-to-mid-twentieth century theatrical innovations, investigates the origins of avant-garde experiments in Buenos Aires, placing them in the Argentinean tradition of grotesco criollo. Fiebach, uncovering the problematic dialectic between African traditional cultures and the European avant-garde that ‘‘borrowed’’ freely from African performance forms, looks beyond the native/colonial binary that marked the colonialist strategies in avant-garde practice and criticism.

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Contemporary scholarship also investigates the relationship between the European avant-garde and indigenous performance traditions, focusing on the ambivalent role that the early European avant-garde played in reactionary politics, particularly issues of race and gender. The term ‘‘primitivism,’’ which Christopher Innes originally used in Avant-Garde Theatre, 1892– 199227 to describe the avant-garde’s fascination with the exotic, ritualistic, magic, and unconscious, has come under fire as evidence of the avantgarde’s underlying colonialist biases. Citing the avant-garde’s patronizing approach to Asian performance traditions (as seen in the theories of Brecht and Artaud, for example) and its attraction to the aesthetics of ‘‘primitivism’’ and ‘‘negritude’’ (in Dada and Surrealist art), recent scholarship implicates the European avant-garde in colonialist tendencies and racist attitudes toward non-Western cultures.28 Nevertheless, European avant-garde artists launched anti-colonial and anti-racist campaigns by organizing exhibitions and publicly supporting artists from beyond the European borders and origins. The Surrealists, in particular, were sensitive to their own problematic exchanges with non-Western cultures. In response to the 1931 Colonial Exhibition in Paris that commemorated the 100th anniversary of France’s conquest of Algeria, Surrealist writers André Thirion and Louis Aragon organized a counter-exhibition, L’exposition anti-impérialiste: La vérité sur les colonies (The Anti-Imperial Exhibition: The Truth about the Colonies). Another French Surrealist, René Crevel, was a powerful voice in opposition to France’s racist ideology and white patriarchy. Moreover, in their willingness to include Mexican and Caribbean artists in their artistic circles, Surrealists led the way toward further transatlantic avant-garde exchanges.29

Introduction

Rethinking Identity: Race, Gender, the Avant-Garde Canon, and Beyond

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Recent expansion of the ‘‘historical avant-garde’’ framework to include non-European and non-white artists as well as non-Western theatrical innovations, coincides with a major reassessment of the avant-garde’s traditionally gendered narrative. Feminist scholar Rebecca Schneider, in her book The Explicit Body in Performance, finds that the early European avant-garde fused the ‘‘dream of femininity with the dream of primitivity.’’30 Examining a wide range of art, including the paintings of Pablo Picasso, the Dadaist posters of Marcel Janco, and the photographs of the American Dada-turnedSurrealist Man Ray, she proposes the term ‘‘the savage goddess’’ (an echo of Yeats’s famous response to the opening night of King Ubu, ‘‘After us the Savage God’’) to indicate the avant-garde’s conflated interests in the primitive ‘‘savage’’ and the feminine ‘‘goddess.’’ Schneider observes that ‘‘like the feminine, the primitive stands as emblematic of the vanishing point of knowledge and provokes a related terror and fascination that tangle race and gender in significant ways.’’31 In addition to being melded with the primitive, the female image in a male-dominated Dada discourse is intrinsically connected to the machine, which appears to be in constant need of man’s guidance and control. As the Dadaist Paul Haviland asserted in 1915, ‘‘[Man] has made the machine superior to himself. That is why he admires her. . . . But the machine is yet at a dependent stage. Man gave her every qualification except thought. She submits to his will but he must direct her activities. . . .’’32 Some feminist scholars maintain that male Dada artists called machines ‘‘she’’ as a projection of their misogynist view of women as dependent beings. Unable to function autonomously from man, however, the machine is turned into an idealized image of male desire. The artist’s wish to control the machine thus coincides with ‘‘his’’ desire to admire and sexualize ‘‘her’’ while directing her movements and enjoying her submission to his power. The Surrealists, whose work and personal lives revealed conflicted conceptions of the female persona, also objectified women. ‘‘Surrealists conceived of woman as man’s mediator with nature and the unconscious, femmeenfant, muse, source and object of man’s desire, embodiment of amour fou, and emblem of revolution,’’ Gwen Raarberg writes in her introduction to Surrealism and Women.33 Even though women writers and artists contributed significantly to the Surrealist movement, a contribution that critical scholarship has acknowledged only recently, women were most commonly viewed as sources of artistic inspiration and objects of sexual desire—and rarely recognized as official members. Artists such as Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, and Méret Oppenheim initially found their way into Sur-

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realist circles through associations with their male counterparts; their roles as spouses, lovers, or models often obscured recognition of their artistic contributions. Inferior and sexualized statuses of women artists were not unique to the Surrealist movement. The misogynist tendencies of Futurism’s founder, Marinetti, have been well documented. Mina Loy, his one-time lover and briefly a member of the Futurists, wrote her 1914 ‘‘Feminist Manifesto’’ partly in response to her failed relationships with male artists, declaring that men and women are innate enemies and questioning woman’s instinctive desire to be loved and cared for by man. Dadaism’s troubling contempt toward its female artists, whose artistic contributions have yet to be fully recognized by scholars, is unearthed in Naomi Sawelson-Gorse’s critical anthology Women in Dada. This anthology documents the deep-seated condescension underlying the male Dadaists’ praise for their female collaborators, with ‘‘shy or thoughtful smiles,’’ ‘‘slightly nun-like grace,’’ and ‘‘tiny voices.’’34 Attacking the aesthetics and politics of bourgeois society through their nihilistic anti-art, Dada artists paradoxically reinforced that society’s patriarchal foundation by sustaining masculine stereotypes of ‘‘appropriate’’ female behavior.35 The recognition her avant-garde contemporaries afforded Gertrude Stein was a lone exception. She was admitted into the predominantly male canon because of her influential accomplishments and unique artistic vision, but her status in avant-garde circles might have been boosted by her prominent art patronage in early twentieth-century Paris, as well as the overt masculinity of her persona and image, captured in the paintings of several major avant-garde artists including Picasso and Francis Picabia. By defying stereotypes about femininity and challenging homophobic attitudes entrenched in avant-garde circles, Stein engaged in a polemic about sexual politics through her literary work and through personal example—her openly lesbian relationship with her life partner, Alice B. Toklas. By seeing some of the plays and performances of the early European avant-garde through the lens of feminism, we are compelled to recognize the male artist’s perspective on a female persona and reconsider the portrayal of women in modernist art and literature. Many of the excesses of King Ubu can be seen as driven by misogynist attitudes and filled with images of debasing ‘‘primitive’’ violence. The Woman in Boccioni’s Genius and Culture is full of self-admiration and conceit, and her indifference toward the Artist’s wounded ego contributes to his self-destruction—perhaps a glimpse into a man’s nightmarish vision of a woman who could be mysterious and

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attractive, yet irrational and dangerous. Artaud’s macabre world of subconscious desires takes this vision to an even more grotesque and disturbing place in The Spurt of Blood, in which ‘‘a multitude of scorpions crawl beneath the Wet-Nurse’s dress.’’ In that play and Vitrac’s surrealist fantasy The Mysteries of Love (1927), women are intrinsically connected to men’s fascination with and fear of the unknown. Vitrac’s heroine becomes a conduit for madness and violence, at once real and imagined. Contemporary reexaminations of the European avant-garde canon reveal the tensions between its reactionary and radical inclinations, challenging long-held assumptions about the consistency of the avant-garde’s progressive impulse. In this light, critics have been reexamining not only its elitist, racist, and imperialist tendencies, but also its relationship to power and ideology. The intricate links between the aesthetics and politics of the avant-garde remain a subject of reconsideration, especially in the context of the Futurists’ connections to Italian fascism and Marinetti’s attempts to curry favor with Mussolini. Still, the chauvinist, militaristic focus at the core of the Futurists’ philosophy can no longer be attributed exclusively to Italian Futurism; similar tendencies mark Russian Constructivism and Suprematism, just as Expressionist and Surrealist aesthetics exhibit signs of religious and ideological intolerance. In her bold revisionist work on Artaud, Kimberly Jannarone identifies fascism in his powerful call for a loss of individuality, his ‘‘spiritual pessimism,’’ and ‘‘reactionary nihilism.’’ She observes that ‘‘As Artaud dreams of self-annihilation for the participants in the Theater of Cruelty, he dreams of unleashing fury, violence, and power through the simultaneous acts of loss and destruction. The ignited crowd is a selfconsuming fire that exalts because it is both everything and nothing, all powerful and annihilating, with nothing stable at its center.’’36 Connecting Artaud’s philosophy to the reactionary politics of post World War I Europe, Jannarone calls for a major reassessment of Artaud’s legacy, which was, for the most part, constructed by liberal-minded, post-1950 avant-garde artists such as Peter Brook and the Living Theatre’s founding directors, Julian Beck and Judith Malina. The impulse in current scholarship to reassess, reimagine, and reclaim the avant-garde’s historic, geographic, cultural, and ideological borders in conjunction with its aesthetic principles has led to a broader conception of the term ‘‘avant-garde,’’ one that embraces its plurality and transnational exchanges. Such work, pointing to the early European avant-garde as one among a number of ‘‘other’’ avant-gardes, shows that the concept of the avantgarde is in constant flux. We hope that this anthology and its companion

volume, Theater of The Avant-Garde, 1950–2000, will inspire vanguard scholars to continue to expand geographic and cultural boundaries as they develop new critical lenses to better locate, investigate, and understand the theater of the avant-garde, just as we encourage future generations of artists to follow the avant-garde impulse and conceive and create new artistic forms.

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1. For the sake of simplicity, we refer to the pre–World War II avant-garde theater epitomized by the plays in this anthology as ‘‘early European avant-garde theater.’’ Although there was some American avant-garde theater during this period, represented by Gertrude Stein in this volume, the American avant-garde theater was largely derivative of the European until the 1950s. Indeed, Stein lived most of her adult life in Paris. 2. From Saint-Simon’s 1820 letters, in Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1987), 101–103. 3. James Harding, The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s): Exorcising Experimental Theater and Performance (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013), 4. 4. Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity, 103. 5. Mike Sell, ed., Avant-Garde Performance and Material Exchange: Vectors of the Radical (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 5–6. 6. Harding, Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s), 15. 7. See Sarah Bay-Cheng, Mama Dada: Gertrude Stein’s Avant-Garde Theatre (New York, Abingdon: Routledge, 2005), 9. 8. An Exquisite Corpse is a blind collaboration in which three or more people develop a drawing together. To create one, fold a piece of paper into three parts: top, middle, and bottom. The first person draws the head of a creature, but it can be made up of virtually anything: human being, animal, or inanimate object. The lines at the bottom of the top panel are extended just slightly into the middle panel and serve as the starting point for the second person’s drawing. Without looking at the top panel, the second person draws the ‘‘upper body’’ and extends its lines in a similar fashion into the bottom panel. The third person completes the lower body in the same way. Together, the three parts fuse to uncover an ‘‘exquisite truth’’ created by the group’s subconscious mind. This method can also be adapted to create group writing, by dividing a sentence into three or more parts. 9. Julia Listengarten, Russian Tragifarce: Its Cultural and Political Roots (Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 2000), 178. 10. The Russian Futurists, who are not represented in this anthology due to considerations of space, invented a made-up language, ‘‘Zaum,’’ that aimed to transcend reason through ambiguity and deliberately open-ended and obscure meaning. See Gerald Janecek, The Look of Russian Literature: Avant-Garde Visual Experiments 1900–1930 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989). 11. Bay-Cheng, Mama Dada, 25–26, italics in original. 12. Aristotle wrote his Poetics about 200 years after the birth of Greek tragedy, 100 years after its heyday, and 65 years after the last original productions of Sophocles and Euripides, so he had no opportunity to see what are reputed to have been the best live performances of tragedy in ancient Greece. 13. It should be noted that non-Western avant-garde theater does not by and large evince the same preoccupation with the text as the European and American avant-gardes, because many nonWestern societies do not privilege literary text as authority to the same extent. 14. Arnold Aronson, American Avant-Garde Theatre: A History (New York, Abingdon: Routledge, 2000), 6. 15. Peter Bürger introduced the term ‘‘historical avant-garde’’ in his discussion of early Euro-

Introduction

Notes to Introduction

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pean avant-garde movements. See Peter Bürger, trans., Michael Shaw, Theory of the Avant-Garde (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984). 16. See, for instance, James Harding and John Rouse, Not the Other Avant-Garde: The Transnational Foundations of Avant-Garde Performance (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 2006); Mike Sell, ed., Avant-Garde Performance and Material Exchange; Sell, The Avant-Garde: Race Religion War (London: Seagull Books, 2011); and Harding, Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s). 17. Sell, The Avant-Garde, 4. 18. Harding, Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s), 14. 19. See Sell’s discussion about the impact of contemporary theories on avant-garde scholarship, The Avant-Garde, 2–3. See also the works of Hélène Cixous, Frantz Fanon, Homi K. Bhabha, and Judith Butler, among other theorists, as their theoretical writings contributed significantly to the reconception of the avant-garde. 20. For the discussion of the transnational turn in current literary criticism, see Douglas Mao and Rebecca L. Walkowitz, ‘‘The New Modernist Studies’’ in PMLA (123.3, 2008): 737–774. 21. Harding, Not the Other Avant-Garde, 38. The formation of the European avant-garde as an ideological construct is attributed to early avant-garde theorists such as Renato Poggioli, Theory of the Avant-Garde; Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde; and Matei Calinescu Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism. 22. Harding, Not the Other Avant-Garde, 27. 23. Harding and Rouse, Not the Other Avant-Garde, 9. 24. This conception has been extensively discussed in Harding and Rouse’s collection of critical essays, Not the Other Avant-Garde. 25. See the respective essays on the transnational avant-garde approach in Not the Other AvantGarde. 26. Ibid., 9. 27. See Christopher Innes, Avant-Garde Theatre, 1892–1992 (London and New York: Routledge, 1993). 28. See Harding, Not the Other Avant-Garde, 18. It has also been argued that the SaintSimonian model of technical and cultural activism, which has been associated with the origins of the European avant-garde, contributed to the development of France’s colonialist sensibilities by bringing the country’s vanguards to its colonial outposts. 29. See Harding’s reference to the counter-exhibition, Not the Other Avant-Garde, 28. See also Sell’s discussion of race in the context of the avant-garde, The Avant-Garde, 53–148. 30. Rebecca Schneider, The Explicit Body in Performance (New York, Abingdon: Routledge, 1997), 126. 31. Ibid. 32. See Paul Haviland, ‘‘Statement,’’ 291, nos. 7–8 (September–October 1915), n.p. See also Naomi Sawelson-Gorse quoting Haviland in Women in Dada: Essays on Sex, Gender, and Identity, ed. Naomi Sawelson-Gorse (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1998), xii. 33. Gwen Raarberg, in Surrealism and Women, ed. Mary Ann Caws, Rudolf Kuenzli, and Gwen Raarberg (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1991), 2. 34. In her introduction to Women in Dada, Sawelson-Gorse provides a string of fragmented commentaries by male Dadaists on their female counterparts, xii. She quotes Hans Richter, Dada: Art and Anti-Art, trans. David Britt (London: Thames and Hudson, 1965), 45, 132. 35. See Sawelson-Gorse, Women in Dada, xii. 36. Kimberly Jannarone, Artaud and His Doubles (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 2012), 192.

part one Franco-Russian Symbolism

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aurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949) made his primary contribution to avant-garde drama with his early plays, in which he sought to achieve a form of ‘‘total theater’’ that would harness all the elements of production to create an overwhelming mood of pessimism, loneliness, and fear of death. An essayist, theorist, and poet as well as a playwright, he was born in Ghent, Belgium, where he was educated in the law, a profession that he practiced during the first stages of his writing career. Maeterlinck began to associate with the Parisian Symbolists in 1886, but he did not move to France until 1897, after his initial playwriting success. In The Intruder (1890), The Blind (1890), Interior (1894), and Princess Maleine (1889), Maeterlinck’s characters speak a language that seems to emanate from their souls, as if these figures exist in another dimension. His dialogue, emphasizing repetition of words and sounds, helps give the plays a ritualistic musicality. By allowing tone and atmosphere to dominate, he created what he called a static drama, in which mood-images replace linear action, and silence and pauses reveal more than dialogue about both the internal state of the characters and the external state of the universe. Aurélien Lugné-Poë, who directed Maeterlinck’s early work at the Théâtre d’Art and the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre, captured the atmospherics through the use of dim lights as well as the actors’ monotone delivery and slow, measured movements. Drama, Maeterlinck argued in his major theoretical work, The Treasure of the Humble (1896), should seek to transcend reality. He suggested the use of marionettes to reveal how unseen forces control human actions. Later, in ‘‘The Modern Drama,’’ from The Double Garden (1904), Maeterlinck seemed to propose a view of theater contrary to his ‘‘static’’ one, stating that ‘‘the sovereign law of the stage, its essential demand, will always be action.’’ Actually, he was referring to internal action that aims to penetrate deeper into human conscious-

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ness—the type of action that Maeterlinck saw in the quasi-Symbolist plays of Henrik Ibsen and Gerhart Hauptmann around the turn of the century, which blend elements of static drama with more traditional dramatic structure and plots. Maeterlinck wrote his last significant work for the theater, The Blue Bird, in 1908 and won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1911. His influence then waned, as his later plays—shaped by his ‘‘Modern Drama’’ essay or perhaps by his efforts to overcome depression—conformed to dramatic convention and became more optimistic and accessible. Nevertheless, his early Symbolist dramas resonated with a wide range of playwrights, including August Strindberg, Oscar Wilde, W. B. Yeats, and John Millington Synge, and stood as distant precursors to the Theater of the Absurd.

Evolution of European ‘‘Drama of the Interior’’ Maeterlinck

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n Intérieur (1894) Maeterlinck created a powerful and haunting stage image to express his sense of the strangeness of ordinary human life and the mysteries which we usually prefer not to contemplate. He makes us look with new eyes at a quite ordinary family of father, mother, and three children by the simple, brilliant device of placing them behind glass in their commonplace house, so that we see but never hear them. Our viewpoint is that of an Old Man and a Stranger who stand in a corner of a garden looking into the lighted, curtainless room where the family are sitting, noting every small movement and waiting for the moment when the Old Man will have courage to go into the room and break the tragic news that one of their daughters has been found drowned. We are involved, so to speak, in a godlike position, seeing the pathos of the family’s ignorant happiness, their unawareness of the pitying and curious eyes upon them and of the future that is already formed for them. Maeterlinck calls for a dreamlike effect in the movements of the mute family; they should appear ‘‘grave, slow, apart, and as though spiritualised by the distance, the light, and the transparent film of the windowpane.’’ He builds up subtle metaphysical implications through the situation of watching and being watched. The eavesdroppers watch the parents, who are watching their youngest child sleeping: they muse on the strangeness of this recession and are prompted to reflect, ‘‘We too are watched.’’ At such moments the audience themselves, those other watchers, are drawn into the experience; it may cross their minds to wonder whether in some other sense it might be said of them also, ‘‘We are watched.’’ Although the people in the interior are so enclosed and separated, so unhearing and unseeing, they are allowed occasionally to have intuitions of what lies in the dark outside. When the Old Man and the Stranger are speaking of the drowned girl’s hair pathetically floating on the water, her two sisters move uneasily in the room, their hair seeming to ‘‘tremble,’’ while at another moment they are drawn to the window, where they stand looking into the garden as if they had a sense of someone there. ‘‘No one comes to the middle window,’’ says one of the watchers, and surely then we feel a shudder of apprehension, as though a shadowy figure might slowly form there, the wraith of the drowned girl. Although the family do not learn the news until the Old Man goes into the house at the end of the play, delicate movements such as I have described suggest that, as Maeterlinck might say, the soul is responding to invisible pressures on it; that the interior can never be totally sealed off. The play ends, indeed, with the family plucked out of the safe, lighted interior. We see—though we do not hear—the Old Man breaking the news and the family leaving the room by a door at the back of the stage. They will find there the body Excerpted from Katharine Worth, ‘‘Evolution of European ‘Drama of the Interior’: Maeterlinck, Wilde, and Yeats,’’ Maske und Kothurn: Internationale Beiträge zur Theaterwissenschaft 15.1–2 (1979): 161–70.

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of the dead girl, but Maeterlinck supplies a stage direction which calls for an unexpected view. When the door is thrown open, what we see is a moonlit sky with a lawn and fountain bathed in light; the moment of apprehending death is associated not with darkness but with emergence into the light. The effectiveness of this subtle ending depends entirely upon stagecraft, and especially lighting, for its realisation. Maeterlinck is in this sense a pioneer of ‘‘total theatre’’ techniques. Intérieur is a poetic demonstration of how the physical resources of theatre can be used to transmute ordinary reality and draw a mysterious patina over the surface of things, so making us realise that it is only a surface. Seen in the lighted frame, silently moving about their everyday business, unaware that they are being watched from their garden by a messenger bringing tidings of death, the characters of Intérieur do indeed seem to inhabit some other dimension— which is the essence of the Symbolist aesthetic or enterprise in drama.

Select Bibliography on Maeterlinck Halls, W. D. Maeterlinck: A Study of His Life and Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1960. Knapp, Bettina L. Maurice Maeterlinck. Boston: Twayne, 1975. Konrad, Linn Bratteteig. Modern Drama as Crisis: The Case of Maeterlinck. New York: Peter Lang, 1986. Mahony, Patrick. Maurice Maeterlinck, Mystic and Dramatist. 2d ed. Washington, D.C.: Institute for the Study of Man, 1984. McGuinness, Patrick. Maurice Maeterlinck and the Making of Modern Theatre. Oxford: Oxford University, 2000. Muse, John. ‘‘The Dimensions of the Moment: Modernist Shorts,’’ Modern Drama 53:1 (Spring 2012): 76–102. Worth, Katharine. ‘‘Maeterlinck in the Light of the Absurd.’’ In Around the Absurd: Essays on Modern and Postmodern Drama, ed. Enoch Brater and Ruby Cohn, 19–32. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990. ———. Maeterlinck’s Plays in Performance (book and slide set). Cambridge, England: Chadwyck-Healey, 1985. See also Daniels; Deak; Lambert; Lilar; Mallinson; McFarlane; and Rose, in the General Bibliography.

Interior Maurice Maeterlinck

characters In the Garden— the old man the stranger martha mary a peasant the crowd In the House— the father the mother the two daughters the child

⎫ ⎬ ⎭

Granddaughters of the Old Man

⎫ ⎪ ⎪ ⎬ ⎪ ⎪ ⎭

Silent personages

The interval that elapses between the occurrence of a disaster and the breaking of the news to the bereaved is one full of tragedy; and here the pathetic ignorance of the drowned girl’s family and the painful knowledge of the reluctant bearers of the evil tidings provide material for a touching little play—slight material to all appearance, but in the hands of M. Maeterlinck sufficient for the display of a wealth of kindly wisdom and sympathetic knowledge of human nature. An old garden planted with willows. At the back, a house, with three of the ground-floor windows lighted up. Through them a family is pretty distinctly Reprinted from The Nobel Prize Treasury, ed. Marshall McClintock; trans. William Archer (New York: Doubleday, 1948), 203–9.

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visible, gathered for the evening round the lamp. The father is seated at the chimney corner. The mother, resting one elbow on the table, is gazing into vacancy. Two young girls, dressed in white, sit at their embroidery, dreaming and smiling in the tranquillity of the room. A child is asleep, his head resting on his mother’s left arm. When one of them rises, walks, or makes a gesture, the movements appear grave, slow, apart, and as though spiritualized by the distance, the light, and the transparent film of the windowpanes. the old man and the stranger enter the garden cautiously. the old man. Here we are in the part of the garden that lies behind the house. They never come here. The doors are on the other side. They are closed and the shutters shut. But there are no shutters on this side of the house, and I saw the light . . . Yes, they are still sitting up in the lamplight. It is well that they have not heard us; the mother or the girls would perhaps have come out, and then what should we have done? the stranger. What are we going to do? the old man. I want first to see if they are all in the room. Yes, I see the father seated at the chimney corner. He is doing nothing, his hands resting on his knees. The mother is leaning her elbow on the table . . . the stranger. She is looking at us. the old man. No, she is looking at nothing; her eyes are fixed. She cannot see us; we are in the shadow of the great trees. But do not go any nearer . . . There, too, are the dead girl’s two sisters; they are embroidering slowly. And the little child has fallen asleep. It is nine on the clock in the corner . . . They divine no evil, and they do not speak. the stranger. If we were to attract the father’s attention, and make some sign to him? He has turned his head this way. Shall I knock at one of the windows? One of them will have to hear of it before the others . . . the old man. I do not know which to choose . . . We must be very careful. The father is old and ailing—the mother too—and the sisters are too young . . . And they all loved her as they will never love again. I have never seen a happier household . . . No, no! do not go up to the window; that would be the worst thing we could do. It is better that we should tell them of it as simply as we can, as though it were a commonplace occurrence; and we must not appear too sad, else they will feel that their sorrow must exceed ours, and they will not know what to do . . . Let us go round to the other side of the garden. We will knock at the door, and go in as if nothing had happened. I will go in first: they will not be surprised to see me; I sometimes look in of an evening, to bring them some flowers or fruit, and to pass an hour or two with them. the stranger. Why do you want me to go with you? Go alone; I will wait until you call me. They have never seen me—I am only a passerby, a stranger . . .

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the old man. It is better that I should not be alone. A misfortune announced by a single voice seems more definite and crushing. I thought of that as I came along . . . If I go in alone, I shall have to speak at the very first moment; they will know all in a few words; I shall have nothing more to say; and I dread the silence which follows the last words that tell of a misfortune. It is then that the heart is torn. If we enter together, I shall go roundabout to work; I shall tell them, for example: ‘‘They found her thus, or thus . . . She was floating on the stream, and her hands were clasped . . .’’ the stranger. Her hands were not clasped; her arms were floating at her sides. the old man. You see, in spite of ourselves we begin to talk—and the misfortune is shrouded in its details. Otherwise, if I go in alone, I know them well enough to be sure that the very first words would produce a terrible effect, and God knows what would happen. But if we speak to them in turns, they will listen to us, and will forget to look the evil tidings in the face. Do not forget that the mother will be there, and that her life hangs by a thread . . . It is well that the first wave of sorrow should waste its strength in unnecessary words. It is wisest to let people gather round the unfortunate and talk as they will. Even the most indifferent carry off, without knowing it, some portion of the sorrow. It is dispersed without effort and without noise, like air or light . . . the stranger. Your clothes are soaked and are dripping on the flagstones. the old man. It is only the skirt of my mantle that has trailed a little in the water. You seem to be cold. Your coat is all muddy . . . I did not notice it on the way, it was so dark. the stranger. I went into the water up to my waist. the old man. Had you found her long before I came up? the stranger. Only a few moments. I was going toward the village; it was already late, and the dusk was falling on the riverbank. I was walking along with my eyes fixed on the river, because it was lighter than the road, when I saw something strange close by a tuft of reeds . . . I drew nearer, and I saw her hair, which had floated up almost into a circle round her head, and was swaying hither and thither with the current . . . (In the room the two young girls turn their heads towards the window.) the old man. Did you see her two sisters’ hair trembling on their shoulders? the stranger. They turned their heads in our direction—they simply turned their heads. Perhaps I was speaking too loudly. (The two girls resume their former position.) They have turned away again already . . . I went into the water up to my waist, and then I managed to grasp her hand and easily drew her to the bank. She was as beautiful as her sisters . . . the old man. I think she was more beautiful . . . I do not know why I have lost all my courage . . .

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the stranger. What courage do you mean? We did all that man could do. She had been dead for more than an hour. the old man. She was living this morning! I met her coming out of church. She told me that she was going away; she was going to see her grandmother on the other side of the river in which you found her. She did not know when I should see her again . . . She seemed to be on the point of asking me something; then I suppose she did not dare, and she left me abruptly. But now that I think of it—and I noticed nothing at the time!— she smiled as people smile who want to be silent, or who fear that they will not be understood . . . Even hope seemed like a pain to her; her eyes were veiled, and she scarcely looked at me. the stranger. Some peasants told me that they saw her wandering all the afternoon on the bank. They thought she was looking for flowers . . . It is possible that her death . . . the old man. No one can tell . . . What can anyone know? She was perhaps one of those who shrink from speech, and everyone bears in his breast more than one reason for ceasing to live. You cannot see into the soul as you see into that room. They are all like that—they say nothing but trivial things, and no one dreams that there is aught amiss. You live for months by the side of one who is no longer of this world, and whose soul cannot stoop to it; you answer her unthinkingly; and you see what happens. They look like lifeless puppets, and all the time so many things are passing in their souls. They do not themselves know what they are. She might have lived as the others live. She might have said to the day of her death: ‘‘Sir, or Madam, it will rain this morning,’’ or, ‘‘We are going to lunch; we shall be thirteen at table,’’ or ‘‘The fruit is not yet ripe.’’ They speak smilingly of the flowers that have fallen, and they weep in the darkness. An angel from heaven would not see what ought to be seen; and men understand nothing until after all is over . . . Yesterday evening she was there, sitting in the lamplight like her sisters; and you would not see them now as they ought to be seen if this had not happened . . . I seem to see her for the first time . . . Something new must come into our ordinary life before we can understand it. They are at your side day and night; and you do not really see them until the moment when they depart forever. And yet, what a strange little soul she must have had—what a poor little, artless, unfathomable soul she must have had—to have said what she must have said, and done what she must have done! the stranger. See, they are smiling in the silence of the room . . . the old man. They are not at all anxious—they did not expect her this evening. the stranger. They sit motionless and smiling. But see, the father puts his fingers to his lips . . . the old man. He points to the child asleep on its mother’s breast . . . the stranger. She dares not raise her head for fear of disturbing it . . .

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the old man. They are not sewing any more. There is a dead silence . . . the stranger. They have let fall their skein of white silk . . . the old man. They are looking at the child . . . the stranger. They do not know that others are looking at them . . . the old man. We, too, are watched . . . the stranger. They have raised their eyes . . . the old man. And yet they can see nothing . . . the stranger. They seem to be happy, and yet there is something—I cannot tell what . . . the old man. They think themselves beyond the reach of danger. They have closed the doors, and the windows are barred with iron. They have strengthened the walls of the old house; they have shot the bolts of the three oaken doors. They have foreseen everything that can be foreseen . . . the stranger. Sooner or later we must tell them. Someone might come in and blurt it out abruptly. There was a crowd of peasants in the meadow where we left the dead girl—if one of them were to come and knock at the door . . . the old man. Martha and Mary are watching the little body. The peasants were going to make a litter of branches, and I told my eldest granddaughter to hurry on and let us know the moment they made a start. Let us wait till she comes; she will go with me. . . . I wish we had not been able to watch them in this way. I thought there was nothing to do but to knock at the door, to enter quite simply, and to tell all in a few phrases. . . . But I have watched them too long, living in the lamplight. . . . (Enter mary.) mary. They are coming, grandfather. the old man. Is that you? Where are they? mary. They are at the foot of the last slope. the old man. They are coming silently. mary. I told them to pray in a low voice. Martha is with them. the old man. Are there many of them? mary. The whole village is around the bier. They had brought lanterns; I bade them put them out. the old man. What way are they coming? mary. They are coming by the little path. They are moving slowly. the old man. It is time . . . mary. Have you told them, grandfather? the old man. You can see that we have told them nothing. There they are, still sitting in the lamplight. Look, my child, look: you will see what life is . . . mary. Oh! how peaceful they seem! I feel as though I were seeing them in a dream.

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the stranger. Look there—I saw the two sisters give a start. the old man. They are rising . . . the stranger. I believe they are coming to the windows. (At this moment one of the two sisters comes up to the first window, the other to the third; and resting their hands against the panes they stand gazing into the darkness.) the old man. No one comes to the middle window. mary. They are looking out; they are listening . . . the old man. The elder is smiling at what she does not see. the stranger. The eyes of the second are full of fear. the old man. Take care: who knows how far the soul may extend around the body. . . . (A long silence. mary nestles close to the old man’s breast and kisses him.) mary. Grandfather! the old man. Do not weep, my child; our turn will come. (A pause.) the stranger. They are looking long. . . . the old man. Poor things, they would see nothing though they looked for a hundred thousand years—the night is too dark. They are looking this way; and it is from the other side that misfortune is coming. the stranger. It is well that they are looking this way. Something, I do not know what, is approaching by way of the meadows. mary. I think it is the crowd; they are too far off for us to see clearly. the stranger. They are following the windings of the path—there they come in sight again on that moonlit slope. mary. Oh! how many they seem to be. Even when I left, people were coming up from the outskirts of the town. They are taking a very roundabout way. . . . the old man. They will arrive at last, nonetheless. I see them, too—they are crossing the meadows—they look so small that one can scarcely distinguish them among the herbage. You might think them children playing in the moonlight; if the girls saw them, they would not understand. Turn their backs to it as they may, misfortune is approaching step by step, and has been looming larger for more than two hours past. They cannot bid it stay; and those who are bringing it are powerless to stop it. It has mastered them, too, and they must needs serve it. It knows its goal, and it takes its course. It is unwearying, and it has but one idea. They have to lend it their strength. They are sad, but they draw nearer. Their hearts are full of pity, but they must advance. . . . mary. The elder has ceased to smile, grandfather. the stranger. They are leaving the windows. . . . mary. They are kissing their mother. . . .

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the stranger. The elder is stroking the child’s curls without wakening it. mary. Ah! the father wants them to kiss him, too. . . . the stranger. Now there is silence. . . . mary. They have returned to their mother’s side. the stranger. And the father keeps his eyes fixed on the great pendulum of the clock . . . mary. They seem to be praying without knowing what they do. . . . the stranger. They seem to be listening to their own souls. . . . (A pause.) mary. Grandfather, do not tell them this evening! the old man. You see, you are losing courage, too. I knew you ought not to look at them. I am nearly eighty-three years old, and this is the first time that the reality of life has come home to me. I do not know why all they do appears to me so strange and solemn. There they sit awaiting the night, simply, under their lamp, as we should under our own; and yet I seem to see them from the altitude of another world, because I know a little fact which as yet they do not know . . . Is it so, my children? Tell me, why are you, too, pale? Perhaps there is something else that we cannot put in words, and that makes us weep? I did not know that there was anything so sad in life, or that it could strike such terror to those who look on at it. And even if nothing had happened, it would frighten me to see them sit there so peacefully. They have too much confidence in this world. There they sit, separated from the enemy by only a few poor panes of glass. They think that nothing will happen because they have closed their doors, and they do not know that it is in the soul that things always happen, and that the world does not end at their house-door. They are so secure of their little life, and do not dream that so many others know more of it than they, and that I, poor old man, at two steps from their door, hold all their little happiness, like a wounded bird, in the hollow of my old hands, and dare not open them . . . mary. Have pity on them, grandfather. . . . the old man. We have pity on them, my child, but no one has pity on us. mary. Tell them tomorrow, grandfather; tell them when it is light, then they will not be so sad. the old man. Perhaps you are right, my child. . . . It would be better to leave all this in the night. And the daylight is sweet to sorrow. . . . But what would they say to us tomorrow? Misfortune makes people jealous; those upon whom it has fallen want to know of it before strangers—they do not like to leave it in unknown hands. We should seem to have robbed them of something. the stranger. Besides, it is too late now; already I can hear the murmur of prayers. mary. They are here—they are passing behind the hedges. (Enter martha.)

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martha. Here I am. I have guided them hither—I told them to wait in the road. (Cries of children are heard.) Ah! the children are still crying. I forbade them to come, but they want to see, too, and the mothers would not obey me. I will go and tell them—no, they have stopped crying. Is everything ready? I have brought the little ring that was found upon her. I have some fruit, too, for the child. I laid her to rest myself upon the bier. She looks as though she were sleeping. I had a great deal of trouble with her hair—I could not arrange it properly. I made them gather marguerites—it is a pity there were no other flowers. What are you doing here? Why are you not with them? (She looks in at the windows.) They are not weeping! They—you have not told them! the old man. Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul; you cannot understand. . . . martha. Why should I not understand? (After a silence, and in a tone of grave reproach.) You really ought not to have done that, grandfather. . . . the old man. Martha, you do not know. . . . martha. I will go and tell them. the old man. Remain here, my child, and look for a moment. martha. Oh, how I pity them! They must wait no longer. . . . the old man. Why not? martha. I do not know, but it is not possible! the old man. Come here, my child. . . . martha. How patient they are! the old man. Come here, my child. . . . martha (turning). Where are you, grandfather? I am so unhappy, I cannot see you any more. I do not myself know now what to do. . . . the old man. Do not look any more; until they know all. . . . martha. I want to go with you. . . . the old man. No, Martha, stay here. Sit beside your sister on this old stone bench against the wall of the house, and do not look. You are too young, you would never be able to forget it. You cannot know what a face looks like at the moment when Death is passing into its eyes. Perhaps they will cry out, too . . . Do not turn round. Perhaps there will be no sound at all. Above all things, if there is no sound, be sure you do not turn and look. One can never foresee the course that sorrow will take. A few little sobs wrung from the depths, and generally that is all. I do not know myself what I shall do when I hear them—they do not belong to this life. Kiss me, my child, before I go. (The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. A portion of the crowd forces its way into the garden. There is a sound of deadened footfalls and of whispering.) the stranger (to the crowd). Stop here—do not go near the window. Where is she?

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a peasant. Who? the stranger. The others—the bearers. a peasant. They are coming by the avenue that leads up to the door. (the old man goes out. martha and mary have seated themselves on the bench, their backs to the windows. Low murmurings are heard among the crowd.) the stranger. Hush! Do not speak. (In the room the taller of the two sisters rises, goes to the door, and shoots the bolts.) martha. She is opening the door! the stranger. On the contrary, she is fastening it. (A pause.) martha. Grandfather has not come in? the stranger. No. She takes her seat again at her mother’s side. The others do not move, and the child is still sleeping. (A pause.) martha. My little sister, give me your hands. mary. Martha! (They embrace and kiss each other.) the stranger. He must have knocked—they have all raised their heads at the same time—they are looking at each other. martha. Oh! oh! my poor little sister! I can scarcely help crying out, too. (She smothers her sobs on her sister’s shoulder.) the stranger. He must have knocked again. The father is looking at the clock. He rises. . . . martha. Sister, sister, I must go in too—they cannot be left alone. mary. Martha, Martha! (She holds her back.) the stranger. The father is at the door—he is drawing the bolts—he is opening it cautiously. martha. Oh!—you do not see the . . . the stranger. What? martha. The bearers . . . the stranger. He has only opened it a very little. I see nothing but a corner of the lawn and the fountain. He keeps his hand on the door—he takes a step back—he seems to be saying, ‘‘Ah, it is you!’’ He raises his arms. He carefully closes the door again. Your grandfather has entered the room . . . (The crowd has come up to the window. martha and mary half rise from their seat, then rise altogether and follow the rest toward the windows, pressing close to each other. the old man is seen advancing into the room. The two sisters rise; the mother also rises, and carefully settles the child in the armchair which she has left, so that from outside the little one can be seen sleeping, his head a little bent forward, in the middle of the room. The mother advances to meet the old man, and holds out her hand to him, but draws it back again before he has had time to take it. One of the girls wants to take off the visitor’s mantle, and the other pushes forward an armchair for him. But the old man makes a little gesture of

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refusal. The father smiles with an air of astonishment. the old man looks toward the windows.) the stranger. He dares not tell them. He is looking toward us. (Murmurs in the crowd.) the stranger. Hush! (the old man, seeing faces at the windows, quickly averts his eyes. As one of the girls is still offering him the armchair, he at last sits down and passes his right hand several times over his forehead.) the stranger. He is sitting down. . . . (The others who are in the room also sit down, while the father seems to be speaking volubly. At last the old man opens his mouth, and the sound of his voice seems to arouse their attention. But the father interrupts him. the old man begins to speak again, and little by little the others grow tense with apprehension. All of a sudden the mother starts and rises.) martha. Oh! the mother begins to understand! (She turns away and hides her face in her hands. Renewed murmurs among the crowd. They elbow each other. Children cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of the mothers do as they wish.) the stranger. Hush! he has not told them yet. . . . (The mother is seen to be questioning the old man with anxiety. He says a few more words; then, suddenly, all the others rise, too, and seem to question him. Then he slowly makes an affirmative movement of his head.) the stranger. He has told them—he has told them all at once! voices in the crowd. He has told them! he has told them! the stranger. I can hear nothing. . . . (the old man also rises, and, without turning, makes a gesture indicating the door, which is behind him. The mother, the father, and the two daughters rush to this door, which the father has difficulty in opening. the old man tries to prevent the mother from going out.) voices in the crowd. They are going out! they are going out! (Confusion among the crowd in the garden. All hurry to the other side of the house and disappear, except the stranger, who remains at the windows. In the room, the folding door is at last thrown wide open; all go out at the same time. Beyond can be seen the starry sky, the lawn, and the fountain in the moonlight; while, left alone in the middle of the room, the child continues to sleep peacefully in the armchair. A pause.) the stranger. The child has not wakened! (He also goes out.) curtain

The Modern Drama Maurice Maeterlinck

I When I speak of the modern drama, I naturally refer only to those regions of dramatic literature that, sparsely inhabited as they may be, are yet essentially new. Down below, in the ordinary theatre, ordinary and traditional drama is doubtless yielding slowly to the influence of the vanguard; but it were idle to wait for the laggards when we have the pioneers at our call. The first thing that strikes us in the drama of the day is the decay, one might almost say the creeping paralysis, of external action. Next we note a very pronounced desire to penetrate deeper and deeper into human consciousness, and place moral problems upon a high pedestal; and finally the search, still very timid and halting, for a kind of new beauty that shall be less abstract than was the old. It is certain that, on the actual stage, we have far fewer extraordinary and violent adventures. Bloodshed has grown less frequent, passions less turbulent; heroism has become less unbending, courage less material and less ferocious. People still die on the stage, it is true, as in reality they still must die, but death has ceased—or will cease, let us hope, very soon—to be regarded as the indispensable setting, the ultima ratio, the inevitable end, of every dramatic poem. In the most formidable crises of our life—which, cruel though it may be, is cruel in silent and hidden ways—we rarely look to death for a solution; and for all that the theatre is slower than the other arts to follow the evolution of human consciousness, it will still be at last compelled, in some measure, to take this into account. Reprinted from Maurice Maeterlinck, The Double Garden, trans. Alfred Sutro (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1904), 115–35.

When we consider the ancient and tragical anecdotes that constitute the entire basis of the classical drama, the Italian, Scandinavian, Spanish, or mythical stories that provided the plots, not only for all the plays of the Shakespearian period, but also—not altogether to pass over an art that was infinitely less spontaneous—for those of French and German Romanticism, we discover at once that these anecdotes are no longer able to offer us the direct interest they presented at a time when they appeared highly natural and possible, at a time, when, at any rate, the circumstances, manners, and sentiments they recalled were not yet extinct in the minds of those who witnessed their reproduction.

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II To us, however, these adventures no longer correspond to a living and actual reality. Should a youth of our own time love, and meet obstacles not unlike those which, in another order of ideas and events, beset Romeo’s passion, we need no telling that his adventure will be embellished by none of the features that gave poetry and grandeur to the episode of Verona. Gone beyond recall is the entrancing atmosphere of a lordly, passionate life; gone the brawls in picturesque streets, the interludes of bloodshed and splendour, the mysterious poisons, the majestic, complaisant tombs! And where shall we look for that exquisite summer’s night, which owes its vastness, its savour, the very appeal that it makes to us, to the shadow of an heroic, inevitable death that already lay heavy upon it? Divest the story of Romeo and Juliet of these beautiful trappings, and we have only the very simple and ordinary desire of a noble-hearted, unfortunate youth for a maiden whose obdurate parents deny him her hand. All the poetry, the splendour, the passionate life of this desire, result from the glamour, the nobility, tragedy, that are proper to the environment wherein it has come to flower; nor is there a kiss, a murmur of love, a cry of anger, grief, or despair but borrows its majesty, grace, its heroicism, tenderness—in a word, every image that has helped it to visible form— from the beings and objects around it; for it is not in the kiss itself that the sweetness and beauty are found, but in the circumstance, hour, and place wherein it was given. Again, the same objections would hold if we chose to imagine a man of our time who should be jealous as Othello was jealous, possessed of Macbeth’s ambition, unhappy as Lear; or, like Hamlet, restless and wavering, bowed down beneath the weight of a frightful and unrealisable duty. III These conditions no longer exist. The adventure of the modern Romeo—to consider only the external events which it might provoke—would not provide material for a couple of acts. Against this it may be urged that a modern poet who desires to put on the stage an analogous poem of youthful love is

Maeterlinck

But we need dwell no further on the necessarily artificial poems that arise from the impossible marriage of past and present. Let us rather consider the drama that actually stands for the reality of our time, as Greek drama stood for Greek reality, and the drama of the Renaissance for the reality of the Renaissance. Its scene is a modern house, it passes between men and women of today. The names of the invisible protagonists—the passions and ideas— are the same, more or less, as of old. We see love, hatred, ambition, jealousy, envy, greed; the sense of justice and idea of duty; pity, goodness, devotion, piety, selfishness, vanity, pride, etc. But although the names have remained more or less the same, how great is the difference we find in the aspect and quality, the extent and influence, of these ideal actors! Of all their ancient weapons not one is left them, not one of the marvellous moments of olden days. It is seldom that cries are heard now; bloodshed is rare, and tears not often seen. It is in a small room, round a table, close to the fire, that the joys and sorrows of mankind are decided. We suffer, or make others suffer, we love, we die, there in our corner; and it were the strangest chance should a door or a window suddenly, for an instant, fly open, beneath the pressure of extraordinary despair or rejoicing. Accidental, adventitious beauty exists no longer; there remains only an external poetry that has not yet become poetic. And what poetry, if we probe to the root of things—what poetry is there that does not borrow nearly all of its charm, nearly all of its ecstasy, from elements that are wholly external? Last of all, there is no longer a God to widen, or master, the action; nor is there an inexorable fate to form a mysterious, solemn, and tragical background for the slightest gesture of man; nor the sombre and abundant atmosphere that was able to ennoble even his most contemptible weaknesses, his least pardonable crimes. There still abides with us, it is true, a terrible unknown; but it is so diverse

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perfectly justified in borrowing from days gone by a more decorative setting, one that shall be more fertile in heroic and tragical incident. Granted; but what can the result be of such an expedient? Would not the feelings and passions that demand for their fullest, most perfect expression and development the atmosphere of today (for the passions and feelings of a modern poet must, in despite of himself, be entirely and exclusively modern), would not these suddenly find themselves transplanted to a soil where all things prevented their living? They no longer believe, yet are charged with the fear and hope of eternal judgement. In their hours of distress they have discovered new forces to cling to, that seem trustworthy, human and just; and behold them thrust back to a century wherein prayer and the sword decide all! They have profited, unconsciously perhaps, by every moral advance we have made—and they are suddenly flung into abysmal days when the least gesture was governed by prejudices at which they can only shudder or smile. In such an atmosphere, what can they do; how hope that they truly can live there?

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and elusive, it becomes so arbitrary, so vague and contradictory, the moment we try to locate it, that we cannot evoke it without great danger; cannot even, without the mightiest difficulty, avail ourselves of it, though in all loyalty, to raise to the point of mystery the gestures, actions, and words of the men we pass every day. The endeavour has been made; the formidable, problematic enigma of heredity, the grandiose but improbable enigma of inherent justice, and many others beside, have each in their turn been put forward as a substitute for the vast enigma of the Providence or Fatality of old. And it is curious to note how these youthful enigmas, born but of yesterday, already seem older, more arbitrary, more unlikely, than those whose places they took in an access of pride. V Where are we to look, then, for the grandeur and beauty that we find no longer in visible action, or in words, stripped as these are of their attraction and glamour? For words are only a kind of mirror which reflects the beauty of all that surrounds it; and the beauty of the new world wherein we live does not seem as yet able to project its rays on these somewhat reluctant mirrors. Where shall we look for the horizon, the poetry, now that we no longer can seek it in a mystery which, for all that it still exists, does yet fade from us the moment we endeavour to give it a name? The modern drama would seem to be vaguely conscious of this. Incapable of outside movement, deprived of external ornament, daring no longer to make serious appeal to a determined divinity or fatality, it has fallen back on itself, and seeks to discover, in the regions of psychology and of moral problems, the equivalent of what once was offered by exterior life. It has penetrated deeper into human consciousness but has encountered difficulties there no less strange than unexpected. To penetrate deeply into human consciousness is the privilege, even the duty, of the thinker, the moralist, the historian, the novelist, and to a degree, of the lyrical poet; but not of the dramatist. Whatever the temptation, he dare not sink into inactivity, become mere philosopher or observer. Do what one will, discover what marvels one may, the sovereign law of the stage, its essential demand, will always be action. With the rise of the curtain, the high intellectual desire within us undergoes transformation; and in place of the thinker, psychologist, mystic, or moralist there stands the mere instinctive spectator, the man electrified negatively by the crowd, the man whose one desire it is to see something happen. This transformation or substitution is incontestable, strange as it may seem; and is due, perhaps, to the influence of the human polypier, to some undeniable faculty of our soul, which is endowed with a special, primitive, almost unimprovable organ, whereby men can think, and feel, and be moved, en masse. And there are no words so profound, so noble and admirable, but they will soon weary us if they leave

the situation unchanged, if they lead to no action, bring about no decisive conflict, or hasten no definite solution.

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But whence is it that action arises in the consciousness of man? In its first stage it springs from the struggle between diverse conflicting passions. But no sooner has it raised itself somewhat—and this is true, if we examine it closely, of the first stage also—than it would seem to be solely due to the conflict between a passion and a moral law, between a duty and a desire. Hence the eagerness with which modern dramatists have plunged into all the problems of contemporary morality; and it may safely be said that at this moment they confine themselves almost exclusively to the discussion of these different problems. This movement was initiated by the dramas of Alexandre Dumas fils, dramas which brought the most elementary of moral conflicts onto the stage; dramas, indeed, whose entire existence was based on problems such as the spectator, who must always be regarded as the ideal moralist, would never put to himself in the course of his whole spiritual existence, so evident is their solution. Should the faithless husband or wife be forgiven? Is it well to avenge infidelity by infidelity? Has the illegitimate child any rights? Is the marriage of inclination—such is the name it bears in those regions— preferable to the marriage for money? Have parents the right to oppose a marriage for love? Is divorce to be deprecated when a child has been born of the union? Is the sin of the adulterous wife greater than that of the adulterous husband? etc., etc. Indeed, it may be said here that the entire French theatre of today, and a considerable proportion of the foreign theatre, which is only its echo, exist solely on questions of this kind, and on the entirely superfluous answers to which they give rise. On the other hand, however, the highest point of human consciousness is attained by the dramas of Björnson, of Hauptmann, and, above all, of Ibsen. Here we touch the limit of the resources of modern dramaturgy. For, in truth, the further we penetrate into the consciousness of man, the less struggle do we discover. It is impossible to penetrate far into any consciousness unless that consciousness be very enlightened; for, whether we advance ten steps, or a thousand, in the depths of a soul that is plunged into darkness, we shall find nothing there that can be unexpected, or new; for darkness everywhere will resemble only itself. But a consciousness that is truly enlightened will possess passions and desires infinitely less exacting, infinitely more peaceful and patient, more salutary, abstract, and general, than are those that reside in the ordinary consciousness. Thence, far less struggle—or at least a struggle of far less violence—between these nobler and wiser passions; and this for the very reason that they have become vaster and loftier;

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VI

for if there be nothing more restless, destructive, and savage than a dammedup stream, there is nothing more tranquil, beneficent, and silent than the beautiful river whose banks ever widen.

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VII Again, this enlightened consciousness will yield to infinitely fewer laws, admit infinitely fewer doubtful or harmful duties. There is, one may say, scarcely a falsehood or error, a prejudice, half-truth or convention, that is not capable of assuming, that does not actually assume, when the occasion presents itself, the form of a duty in an uncertain consciousness. It is thus that honour, in the chivalrous, conjugal sense of the word (I refer to the honour of the husband, which is supposed to suffer by the infidelity of the wife), that revenge, a kind of morbid prudishness, pride, vanity, piety to certain gods, and a thousand other illusions have been, and still remain, the unquenchable source of a multitude of duties that are still regarded as absolutely sacred, absolutely incontrovertible, by a vast number of inferior consciousnesses. And these so-called duties are the pivot of almost all the dramas of the Romantic period, as of most of those of today. But not one of these sombre, pitiless duties that so fatally impel mankind to death and disaster can readily take root in the consciousness that a healthy, living light has adequately penetrated; in such there will be no room for honour or vengeance, for conventions that clamour for blood. It will hold no prejudices that exact tears, no injustice eager for sorrow. It will have cast from their throne the gods who insist on sacrifice, and the love that craves for death. For when the sun has entered into the consciousness of him who is wise, as we may hope that it will some day enter into that of all men, it will reveal one duty, and one alone, which is that we should do the least possible harm and love others as we love ourselves; and from this duty no drama can spring. VIII Let us consider what happens in Ibsen’s plays. He often leads us far down into human consciousness, but the drama remains possible only because there goes with us a singular flame, a sort of red light, which, sombre, capricious—unhallowed, one almost might say—falls only on singular phantoms. And indeed nearly all the duties which form the active principle of Ibsen’s tragedies are duties situated no longer within, but without the healthy, illumined consciousness; and the duties we believe we discover outside this consciousness often come perilously near an unjust pride, or a kind of soured and morbid madness. Let it not be imagined, however—for indeed this would be wholly to misunderstand me—that these remarks of mine in any way detract from my admiration for the great Scandinavian poet. For, if it be true that Ibsen has

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contributed few salutary elements to the morality of our time, he is perhaps the only writer for the stage who has caught sight of, and set in motion, a new, though still disagreeable poetry, which he has succeeded in investing with a kind of age, gloomy beauty, and grandeur (surely too savage and gloomy for it to become general or definitive); as he is the only one who owes nothing to the poetry of the violently illumined dramas of antiquity or of the Renaissance. But, while we wait for the time when human consciousness shall recognise more useful passions and less nefarious duties, for the time when the world’s stage shall consequently present more happiness and fewer tragedies, there still remains, in the depths of every heart of loyal intention, a great duty of charity and justice that eclipses all others. And it is perhaps from the struggle of this duty against our egoism and ignorance that the veritable drama of our century shall spring. When this goal has been attained—in real life as on the stage—it will be permissible perhaps to speak of a new theatre, a theatre of peace, and of beauty without tears.

v

alery Briusov (1873–1924) began writing plays around 1893. As the editor of and contributor to several anthologies of Russian Symbolist poetry in the mid-1890s, he exposed this artistic work to a wider audience. By the early 1900s, he became a mentor to a new generation of Russian Symbolists. In his theoretical writings on drama, Briusov criticized the Naturalism of the Moscow Art Theater, believing that it failed to confront the ingrained and complacent viewing habits of Russian audiences. Following the French Symbolist models of Paul Verlaine, Stéphane Mallarmé, and Arthur Rimbaud, he argued that the author’s task is to reveal the inner soul through implication or suggestion, rather than to present a complete representational picture through the precise reproduction of external appearances. Briusov’s dramas include The Earth (1905), which captures a negative vision of the future: society’s technological overdevelopment results in the complete isolation of human beings from nature. The Wayfarer (1910), a one-act play with two characters, only one of whom speaks, is an example of monodrama—a genre favored by Russian Symbolists for its mystical or internal possibilities and given a theoretical foundation by Nikolai Evreinov in his Introduction to Monodrama (1909). Briusov also translated several plays into Russian, including works by Molière, Maurice Maeterlinck, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and Oscar Wilde. After the October Revolution of 1917, he tried to write plays that embraced the revolutionary ferment, but he failed to recapture the success and influence of his Symbolist period.

Valery Briusov, Russian Symbolist

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he projection of a single consciousness and its inner workings, The Wayfarer is a play about the insurmountability of human loneliness. In her solitude and anguish, Julia is a dreamlike character in contact with the netherworld. Invoking the presence of the mute Wayfarer, she creates imaginary lives for him and for herself in a desperate attempt to know something other than the self and to break out of intolerable human isolation. For Julia, there is no fixed boundary between the real world and the imaginary one, between dreaming and waking, life and fantasy. By penetrating deeper and deeper into the kingdom of her visions, at the same time as she speaks directly to the audience, Julia implicitly posits that what we commonly consider imaginary may be the highest reality, and that the reality acknowledged by everyone may be the most frightful delirium. Briusov’s mode in this work, as well as its meaning, is thus thoroughly Symbolist: The Wayfarer’s drama is both internalized within the mind of the dreamer and externalized within the mystery of the universe.

Select Bibliography on Briusov See Borovsky; Gerould, Doubles, Demons, and Dreamers; Green; Kalbous; and Segal, Twentieth-Century Russian Drama, in the General Bibliography. Fleischer, Mary. ‘‘Incense and Decadents: Symbolist Theatre’s Use of Scent.’’ In The Senses in Performance, eds. Sally Banes and André Lepecki. New York: Routledge, 2007: 105–14. Gerould, Daniel. ‘‘The Symbolist Legacy.’’ PAJ 31.1 (2009): 80–90.

Excerpted from Daniel Gerould, ‘‘Valerii Briusov, Russian Symbolist,’’ Performing Arts Journal 3.3 (Winter 1979): 85–91. Johns Hopkins University Press. Reprinted by arrangement with PAJ.

The Wayfarer A Psychodrama in One Act Valery Briusov

characters: julia, the daughter of a forester wayfarer, a nonspeaking character A room in the forester’s house. A wet, stormy night. The windows are closed and shuttered. The howling of the wind and the beating of the rain can be heard. The room is dimly lighted by a kerosene lamp. The stove is burning. Knocking at the gate. A dog barking. julia: (At the window, trying to peer through a gap in the shutter.) Who’s there? I cannot let you in: I am alone. Go to the miller’s, along the path, to the left, Across the brook . . . But, look, you’ve got to stop That knocking now. You’ll simply hurt your hands! The door is strong, you’ll never break it in. There’s not a chance I’ll open up. And we’ve got A vicious dog. Be on your way in peace. The miller’s place is less than two miles off. They’ll let you in . . . (Aside.) But he can really bang! (She moves away from the window. The knocking continues. The dog barks.) Reprinted from Doubles, Demons, and Dreamers: An International Collection of Symbolist Drama, ed. and trans. Daniel Gerould (New York: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1985), 191–200. ∫ 1985. Reprinted by permission of paj Publications.

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julia: (She comes back to the window, but still does not open the shutters.) Listen, whatever your name is! You hear me talking: I am a young girl, and alone in the house, I do not know you. Then judge for yourself Whether I can let you in. What would The neighbors have to say about me if You spent the night with me! Out of the question! And, when he left, my father ordered me Not to let anyone in. And what’s so bad About your walking two miles under the pines? Well, rain is rain! You really won’t get soaked. (Silence. Knocking at the gate. The dog barks.) julia: (To herself.) He just stands there and knocks . . . He looks so tired, And perhaps he’s even sick. Since wedging himself Against the door-frame, he hasn’t moved away, And, like a robot, beats the board with his hand. Just look, the poor boy’s drenched right through. He’s dressed In city clothes—he’s young and pale—or so It seems to me, in the dark. He mustn’t be From here, he doesn’t know his way through the woods . . . Well, should I let him in? (Aloud.) Listen! Tell me, Where are you from? Where are you going? Just what Do you want here? Do answer me! How can I let a total stranger into the house! What’s wrong with you? Has the cat got your tongue? If you’re planning to keep silent, then— Adieu, you’ve seen the last of me! Stay there. Keep on knocking till sunrise! Nothing on earth Will make me open. (She moves away from the window.) Thinks he’s someone grand! Some prince or other! Doesn’t want to talk, Well, then, get drenched. (Silence. Knocking at the gate.) Good heavens! He won’t give Me any peace all night long. Or he’ll die On my doorstep—that would be the last straw! A city boy in fancy clothes, got lost While walking, spied the house—and now won’t leave. Afraid of wolves in the forest. The cursed nuisance! What can you do with him? (She goes to the window once again.)

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Look here—what’s wrong with you? Passer-by prince! Be so kind as to show That you don’t have a weapon with you. Open Your overcoat! Now raise your hands, that’s right . . . Well, fine! I’m sorry for you. I’m opening up. (She runs out. Sound of a bolt being slid back. A dog barking. Enter Julia and the Wayfarer, thoroughly drenched.) julia: The dog is on the chain, don’t be afraid. Well, didn’t you get soaked! Right through! Take off Your coat and boots. There’s a lap robe on the bench— Take it, use it. Slippers are under the bench— Yes, put them on. That’s good. Now just sit down, And warm yourself, I’ll throw some wood in the stove. wayfarer: (He takes off his overcoat and boots, puts on the slippers, and wraps himself up in the lap robe. Julia tosses logs into the stove.) julia: Want a little vodka? Well, go ahead! (She brings out the bottle and pours him a small glassful.) wayfarer: (He nods his head as a sign of appreciation and drinks.) julia: But there’s nothing to eat, not even any bread. wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively, indicating that he is not hungry.) julia: Well, listen to me. For the night I’ll give You this room here. The sofa’s comfortable, Lie down, and sleep until tomorrow morning. And I will go to bed behind that partition. I’ve got a gun there, and if you come near The doorway, I shall instantly and with Unerring aim put a bullet through your head. And Polka will not let me be abused! You understand? Well then, we’re friends for now. wayfarer: (He nods his head.) julia: But why don’t you say anything? Answer me! wayfarer: (He makes a sign with his hand.) julia: What does that mean? wayfarer: (He makes the same sign again.) julia: I do not understand. Or are you mute? wayfarer: (He makes a sign that is neither affirmative nor negative.) julia: I don’t believe it. That’s

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Your way of trying to make fun of me! Hey, watch out! I won’t let you abuse me! wayfarer: (He grabs Julia’s hand and kisses it respectfully.) julia: Well, that’s enough, I didn’t do a thing. So then you’re mute? Now it’s all clear to me. That’s why you kept so silent all the while. But you’re not deaf ? wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively.) julia: You understand me, don’t you? wayfarer: (He nods his head affirmatively.) julia: Oh, oh, poor boy, poor boy! Come now, forgive me. You see: my father left for town this morning; Tomorrow he’ll come back. The miller’s two Miles off, the village beyond the river, and no one In the whole house. Just me and Polka. It’s obvious Why I was afraid to let a man in. But you’re completely different, dear. Why, you’re So pale and thin, and weak and sickly-looking. You must be quite unhappy. wayfarer: (He nods affirmatively.) julia: But then, tell me: Are you really from town? Do you live there? wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively.) julia: Not in the town? Then where? Far, far away? wayfarer: (He nods his head affirmatively.) julia: And what’s your name? Sergei? Ivan? or Peter? Nikita? Nikolai? or Alexander? wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively.) julia: Well, what does it matter! I am Julia. I’ll call you Robert. That’s a name that I Have always liked a lot. So tell me, Robert, Where were you going? To the mill? Or further, To Otradnoye village? Or to the estate, To the Voznitsins’? Or even further still? wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively and covers his face with his hands.) julia: Don’t want to tell me? What is it—a secret? wayfarer: (He nods his head affirmatively.)

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julia: A secret? Oh, that’s what! Like in a novel? I’ve read quite a few. Two years ago There was a lady living in Otradnoye Who used to give me books. I still have two Of them now: The Scullery-Maid Who Became Countess And The Black Prince. Have you read them? wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively.) julia: Too bad. I’ve read them eight times each at least, and still Whenever I come to the touching scenes, Right off I start to cry—I can’t help it! A Gypsy stole the countess’s baby daughter, She didn’t know she was herself a countess, Grew up like a poor beggar, had to work, And suddenly . . . But then, I won’t describe it all . . . Sometimes The idea suddenly strikes me: what if Instead of being a forester’s daughter, I too am a countess! Just don’t laugh. That’s all Pure nonsense. Well, if you want to, drink some vodka. (She offers him a glass.) wayfarer: (He shakes his head negatively.) (Silence.) julia: Robert, you know, I am very unhappy! I’ve spent all of my life here in the forest. My mother died long ago. My father’s surly, Always tramping through the woods, for days On end, out hunting, or on business. Guests Come here but rarely—and then who? The sexton, The gardener from the Voznitsins’, and the miller . . . It’s only in summer that ladies and gentlemen visit Otradnoye—but how can I go up to them? I’m so ashamed; I don’t know how to speak Their language; they laugh at me; I’m not at all Well educated . . . But I simply cannot Live this life any more! I’m bored, I’m bored! I feel the need of something else. I like Nice clothes and luxury. I want to go To theaters and to balls. I want to chat In drawing rooms. I’m sure I would know how

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To seem no sillier than any countess. Really, I am quite beautiful! My eyes Are large, my ears are small, and I have legs That are elegant and a body smooth as marble! I’d hold my own with any other countess With all her airs and ingratiating ways! I’d quickly learn to play the pianoforte And dance all of the latest dances. I’ve An innate sense of elegance. But here Who is there to see me? Pine trees, birds, My father, and the peasants! And what do I hear? Barking, swearing, shooting, and the howling of wolves As they come running toward us through the snow . . . I’d like to lean back in an easy chair And, with a tea cup casually in hand, Listen to amorous whisperings in French . . . But no—I have to sweep the floors, prepare The dinner, do the wash, and bring the water For our horse, and to think that for all eternity There is nothing else I’ll ever know! (The charcoal in the stove goes out.) Well, I’ll get married soon. To whom? A forester Of course! Or even worse, it may well be A miller! And then I shall put on weight, Count bags of meal, and all night long hear The wheels creak as the water makes them turn . . . My unloved husband will kiss me on the cheeks And lips—with his gross, over-heavy lips; Sometimes he’ll pet me roughly, with a sneer, Sometimes, when he’s half-drunk, he’ll pull my braids! Once children come, I’ll wash their hands and cut their hair, Cook them porridge, whip them with willow switches . . . And slowly I’ll forget my girlish dreams Like the ends of candles that have burned out! Oh, no! I’ve not the strength to think of it! (Silence.) Robert! You think that, living in the forest, Like all the country wenches, I did not Preserve my virtue? Now by all that’s holy, I swear to you: until this moment no one Has ever kissed me, and there is no one To whom I’ve spoken words of love. I am Pure, as the summer sky, as water from the spring, I would not shame the royal bed of a king.

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The most malicious slanderer could not Speak ill of me! . . . What am I waiting for? I do not know. Perhaps I am waiting to Find out that I’m the daughter of a count, Waiting for some prince to come to my country And tell me: I have been looking for you throughout The world, and now I have found you, come with me To my sumptuous palace and be the tsarina! I am waiting, the years pass, I am alone, There is no joy, nor will there be, that’s clear! And, if I tell the truth, yes, there are times I am ashamed that I have been so chaste! (Silence. It grows darker and darker in the room.) But perhaps I am complaining without cause, And the day that I was waiting for has come, And Robert, you’re the one who has been sent To me to answer all my prayers! I did Expect the prince to come in a golden coach, With throngs of servants, followed by his retinue, But he came on foot, alone. I did expect He would be wearing velvet and brocade, And he appeared in a jacket and overcoat! I had imagined that on bended knee He would express his love for me eloquently In a long speech, full of passionate compliments, But he is mute! . . . Well, still! Isn’t it clear That he’s the one! How odd! Robert, answer! Did You know that you were sent to me by Fate? You are the one that I was waiting for! You are the one the Lord ordained for me! My betrothed! My beloved! My sweetheart! Yes! I recognize your eyes, your sad And wistful look, the slender, delicately Bent fingers of your beautiful hands! Robert! Robert! Tell me that I’m the one! wayfarer: (He makes no response at all.) julia: Well, no matter, listen! Whoever you are, The one or not the one, what matter to us? I won’t find something better, and where will you Ever meet another girl like me? You think I’m beautiful? And young? Till now I’ve never kissed a man! All of the strength Of my virginal tenderness I’ll give to you!

(Once again she bends over the Wayfarer sitting immobile in the armchair, then in fright rushes to the window.) He’s dead! Who’s there! You people! Help me! Help! end

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To you I’ll give my innocence, as if You were my fiancé, my husband, my master! I’m going to believe that you’re some prince, Traveling in disguise, who has lost his throne, And must in the meantime conceal his name! I shall serve you like a faithful servant, And, like a tsarina, caress and care For you! Believe in me! Stay here with me! You’ll spend this night as in a fairy tale! And even you’ll believe we live in a castle, That above our bed there hangs a canopy Of gold brocade, and that hundreds of servants Wait zealously outside the door, that all We do is say the word—the hall will blaze With fire, and a chorus of musicians burst out! Oh, how I am going to adore you, And fondle and caress you! Your every wish I shall fulfill! I will be passionate, Submissive, tender, whatever you want me to be! Upon awaking in the morning, you Will see the daughter of a forester, Bustling about the house. She’ll offer you Some milk. And you will think you dreamed a strange Dream. You’ll say thanks, put on your overcoat, And go away, leaving these parts forever, And, if you want to, you’ll forget about me . . . Robert! My prince! My lord and master! Take Me, as though I were some precious pearl Cast at your feet from the depths of the sea! Take me, as the gift of a nameless fairy, Who caught sight of you in the thick of the forest! Take me! Possess me! I am yours, all yours! (She throws herself at the Wayfarer.) Let me squeeze against you! Give me your lips, To press mine against yours! Give me your hands, To put them around my waist! . . . Why don’t you want to? (She stares fixedly at him and suddenly recoils in horror.) Robert! Robert! It cannot be! He’s dead!

Against Naturalism in the Theater Valery Briusov

It is three years now that the Art Theater has been with us in Moscow. Somehow it was an immediate success with everyone—the public, the press, the partisans of the new art and the defenders of the old. Not long ago, it was the custom to cite the Maly Theater as the model of the Russian stage; these days people only laugh at its routine. And this same Maly Theater and another Moscow theater—Korsh’s—have begun to adopt the new methods. For Muscovites the Art Theater has become a kind of idol; they are proud of it, and it is the first thing they hasten to show off to the visitor. When the Art Theater visited Petersburg, it performed here to packed houses, arousing universal interest. The Art Theater ventured to stage plays that had failed in other theaters—Chekhov’s Seagull, for example—and was successful. Most surprising of all, it was the Art Theater’s experimental spirit, its innovations in decor and acting, its daring choice of plays, that won the sympathy of the crowd. What is the Art Theater, then? Is it really the theater of the future, as some have called it? Has it made a step toward the spiritualization of art, toward the overcoming of the fatal contradictions between the essence and the surface of art? Simple probability says no. If the Art Theater has set itself such tasks, it would hardly have won universal acclaim so quickly. Success attests that what the Art Theater offers its audience is not the genuinely new, but the old refurbished, that it offers no threat to the deep-rooted habits of the theatergoer. It has only achieved with greater perfection what other theaters, including its rival the Maly, have aimed at. Together with the entire European theater, with insignificant exceptions, it is on a false path. Reprinted from ‘‘Unnecessary Truth,’’ in The Russian Symbolist Theatre: An Anthology of Plays and Critical Texts, ed. Michael Green (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Ardis, 1986), 25–30.

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Modern theaters aim at the utmost verisimilitude in their depiction of life. They think that if everything on the stage is as it is in reality, then they have worthily fulfilled their function. Actors endeavor to speak as they would in a drawing room, scene painters copy views from nature, costume designers work in accordance with archaeological data. In spite of all this, however, there remains much that the theater has not succeeded in counterfeiting. The Art Theater has set itself the aim of reducing this ‘‘much.’’ The actors there have begun to sit with their backs to the audience without constraint; they have begun to talk to each other instead of ‘‘out’’ to the audience. In place of the usual box set has appeared the room placed at an oblique angle: other rooms are visible through the open doors, so that an entire apartment is presented to the viewer’s gaze. The furniture is arranged as it usually is in people’s homes. If a forest or a garden is to be represented, several trees are placed on the forestage. If the play requires rain to fall, the audience is made to listen to the sound of water. If the play is set in winter, snow can be seen falling outside the windows. If it is windy, curtains flutter, and so on. First of all, one has to say that these innovations are very timid. They are concerned with secondary matters and leave the essential traditions of the theater undisturbed. And until these traditions, which comprise the essence of any stage production, are changed, no alteration of detail will bring the theater closer to reality. All theaters, including the Art Theater, try to make everything on stage visible and audible. Stages are lit by footlights and strip lights, but in real life light either falls from the sky or pours in through windows or is cast by a lamp or a candle. If there is a night scene, the Art Theater has ventured to leave the stage in greater darkness than is customary, although it has not dared to extinguish all the lights in the theater; however, if it were really night on stage, the audience would obviously be unable to see anything. Similarly, the Art Theater is at pains to ensure that all stage conversation is audible to the auditorium. Even if a large gathering is represented, only one actor speaks at a time. When a new group begins to speak, the previous one ‘‘moves upstage’’ and begins gesticulating energetically— and this a quarter of a century after Villiers de l’Isle Adam in his drama Le nouveau monde bracketed two pages of dialogue with the direction ‘‘Everybody speaks at once!’’ But even if the Art Theater were more daring, it would still fall short of its purpose. To reproduce life faithfully on the stage is impossible. The stage is conventional by its very nature. One set of conventions may be replaced by another, that is all. In Shakespeare’s day a board would be set up with the inscription ‘‘forest.’’ Not so long ago we used to be content with a backdrop of a forest with side wings depicting trees with branches incomprehensibly intertwined against the sky. In time to come, forests will be constructed from artificial three-dimensional trees with foliage and rounded trunks, or even from living trees with roots hidden in tubs under the stage. . . And all this, the last word in stage technique, will, like the Shakespearean inscription, be for

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the audience no more than a reminder, no more than a symbol of a forest. The modern theatergoer is not in the least taken in by a painted tree—he knows that a particular piece of lathe and canvas is intended to stand for a tree. In much the same way, a signboard meant ‘‘forest’’ to an Elizabethan audience and a stage sapling will mean a tree growing naturally to the audience of the future. The set is no more than a pointer to the imagination. In the Greek theater, an actor playing someone who had just returned from foreign parts would enter from the left. At the Art Theater, the actor is admitted to a small vestibule where he divests himself of sheepskin and galoshes as a sign that he has come from afar. But who among the audience is likely to forget that he arrived from the wings? In what way is the convention by which an actor removes his sheepskin more subtle than the one by which it is understood that if he enters from the left he is coming from foreign parts? Not only the art of the theater, but art of any kind cannot avoid formal convention, cannot be transformed into a re-creation of reality. Never, in looking at a picture by one of the great realist painters, will we be deceived like the birds of Zeuxis into thinking that before us are fruits or an open window through which we may glimpse a distant horizon. By infinitesimal gradations of light and shade, by the most elusive signals, the eye is able to distinguish reality from representation. Never will we bow to the marble bust of an acquaintance. It is unheard of that someone, on reading a story in which the author recounts in the first person how he came to commit suicide, should order a mass to be sung for the repose of his soul. And if there do exist reproductions of people and things that deceive the eye, such, for example, as bridges in a painted panorama or wax figures so convincing that they frighten children, we have difficulty in recognizing these creations as works of art. Not a single one of the spectators sitting in the orchestra and paying three or four rubles for his seat is going to believe that he is really looking at Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, and that in the final scene the prince lies dead. Each new technical device in art, be it that of the theater or another, arouses only curiosity and suspicion in the spectator. A certain contemporary artist has, it is said, painted a new series of pictures in which the effect of moonlight is strikingly conveyed. When we see them, our first thought will be: How did he manage to do that? And then we will captiously seek out every discrepancy with reality. Only when we have satisfied our curiosity will we start looking at the picture as a work of art. When an avalanche of wadding descends on the stage, the members of the audience ask each other: How was that done? If Rubek and Irene simply walked off into the wings [in Ibsen’s When We Dead Awaken], the audience would believe more readily in their destruction than it does now, when before their eyes two straw-stuffed dummies and armfuls of wadding go rolling over the boards. ‘‘It faded on the crowing of the cock,’’ someone says of the Ghost in Hamlet, and this is enough for the audience to imagine the crowing of the cock. But in Uncle

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Vanya the Art Theater has a cricket chirping. No one in the audience will imagine that the cricket is real, and the more lifelike the sound, the less convincing the illusion. In time, audiences will become used to the devices they now find so novel and will cease to notice them. But this will not come about because the audience will take wadding for snow in real earnest, or the rope that tugs at the curtains for wind, but because these devices will simply be numbered among the usual theatrical conventions. Would it not then be better to abandon the fruitless battle against the invincible conventions of the theater, which only spring up with renewed strength, and rather than seeking to eradicate them, attempt to subjugate, to tame, to harness, to saddle them? There are two kinds of convention. One kind arises from the inability to create successfully. A bad poet says of a beautiful woman: ‘‘She is as fresh as a rose.’’ It may be that the poet really understood the vernal freshness of the woman’s soul, but he was unable to express his feelings, substituting cliché for genuine expression. In the same way, people want to speak on the stage as they do in life but are unable to, stressing words unnaturally, pronouncing endings too emphatically and so on. But there is another kind of convention—that which is deliberately applied. It is a convention that statues of marble and bronze are left unpainted. They could be painted—at one time they even were—but it is unnecessary, since sculpture is concerned with form, not color. An engraving in which leaves are black and the sky striped observes certain conventions, but it nevertheless affords pure aesthetic enjoyment. Wherever there is art, there is convention. To oppose this is as absurd as to demand that science would dispense with logic and explain phenomena other than by their causal relationship. It is time that the theater stopped counterfeiting reality. A cloud depicted in a painting is flat, it does not move or change its form or luminiscence—but there is something about it that gives us the same feeling as a real cloud. The stage must provide everything that can most effectively help the spectator to re-create the setting demanded by the play in his imagination. If a battle is to be represented, it is absurd to send on stage a couple of dozen—or even a thousand—extras waving wooden swords: perhaps the audience will be better served by a musical picture from the orchestra. If a wind is called for, there is no need to blow a whistle and tug at the curtain with a rope: the actors themselves must convey the storm by behaving as people do in a strong wind. There is no need to do away with the setting, but it must be deliberately conventionalized. The setting must be, as it were, stylized. Types of setting must be devised that will be comprehensible to everyone, as a received language is comprehensible, as white statues, flat paintings, and black engravings are comprehensible. Simplicity of setting will not be equivalent to banality and monotony. The principle will be changed, and there will be ample scope in particulars for the imagination of Messrs. the set designers and technicians. Dramatists too must in some degree perfect their artistic method. They

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are sovereign artists only when their work is read; on the stage their plays are only forms into which the actors pour their own content. Dramatists must renounce all superfluous, unnecessary, and ultimately futile copying of life. Everything external in their work must be reduced to a minimum because it has little to do with the conduct of the drama. The drama can convey the external only through an intermediary—through the souls of the dramatis personae. The sculptor cannot take soul and emotion in his hands; he has to give the spirit bodily incarnation. The dramatist, on the contrary, should make it possible for the actor to express the physical in the spiritual. Something has already been achieved in the creation of a new drama. The most interesting attempts of this kind are the plays of Maeterlinck and the latest dramas of Ibsen. It is noteworthy that it is in the staging of these plays that the modern theater has shown itself to be particularly ineffectual. The ancient theater had a single permanent set—the palace. With slight alterations it was made to represent the interior of a house, a square, the seashore. Actors wore masks and buskins, which forced them to put aside any thought of imitating everyday life. The chorus sang sacred hymns around the altar and also intervened in the action. Everything was at once thoroughly conventionalized and utterly alive; the audience devoted its attention to the action and not to the setting, ‘‘for tragedy,’’ says Aristotle, ‘‘is the imitation not of men, but of action.’’ In our day, such simplicity of setting has been preserved in the folk theater. I chanced to see a performance of [Aleksei Remizov’s] Tsar Maximilian given by factory workers. The scenery and props consisted of two chairs, the tsar’s paper crown and the paper chains of his rebellious son Adolph. Watching this performance, I understood what powerful resources the theater has at its disposal and how misguided it is in seeking the aid of painters and technicians. The creative urge is the only reality that exists on earth. Everything external is, in the poet’s words, ‘‘only a dream, a fleeting dream.’’ Grant that in the theater we may be partakers of the highest truth, the profoundest reality. Grant the actor his rightful place, set him upon the pedestal of the stage that he may rule it as an artist. By his art he will give content to the dramatic performance. Let your setting aim not at truth, but at the suggestion of truth. I summon you away from the unnecessary truth of the modern stage to the deliberate conventionalization of the ancient theater.

part two Pataphysical Theater

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rench playwright, poet, and novelist Alfred Jarry (1873–1907) was only fifteen years old when he began writing what would develop into his most influential play. He collaborated with classmates Henri and Charles Morin on the forerunner to his five-act farce King Ubu, performing early versions with marionettes and devoting eight years to revisions. A vicious satire of their despised physics teacher, King Ubu (1896) parodied not only Shakespearean tragedy, most obviously Macbeth, but also many of the turn-of-the-century thematic expectations and stylistic conventions of serious drama. King Ubu is a withering attack on the fundamental beliefs of Western civilization, as embodied in bourgeois aims, attitudes, and practices. Grossly fat and repugnant, Ubu personifies humans’ basest instincts and antisocial qualities—greed, cruelty, stupidity, gluttony, and cowardice, among a long list—all of which seem to infect the people who surround him, even those who are revered as honorable or heroic. Yet despite their crimes against the monarchy and the people, the Ubus ultimately survive and sail off to comfortable exile in France. As the assistant to Aurélien Lugné-Poë, director of the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre in Paris, Jarry convinced Lugné-Poë to produce King Ubu, with sets designed by renowned painters such as Pierre Bonnard, Jean-Édouard Vuillard, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, in 1896. On opening night, the audience rioted over his characters’ unalloyed greed and profanity. The creation of a character such as Ubu, a grotesque creature essentially spawned by the bourgeoisie, at the dawn of the apocalyptic twentieth century was gruesomely prophetic. Ubu’s savagery, which many at the time saw as the product of a deranged mind, seems tame in comparison with the massacres and genocides of subsequent generations. Jarry championed the use of puppets in place of actors long before Gordon Craig proposed the Übermarionette; the use of masks, which Jarry requested for the first production of King Ubu but did not secure, would have been the first step toward the depersonalization of the performer that he sought. He thus

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shared Maurice Maeterlinck’s preference for a theater more abstract than realistic. The violent, absurd vision of Jarry’s theatrical world and his invented field of ‘‘pataphysics’’—‘‘the science of imaginary solutions’’—influenced the Surrealists and Dadaists of the 1920s, Antonin Artaud, and the Theater of the Absurd, and Jarry later found a broad range of influential admirers, including Eugène Ionesco, Joan Miró, Man Ray, the Marx Brothers, and Marcel Duchamp. Although Jarry wrote two sequels to King Ubu—Ubu Cuckolded (1888) and Ubu Bound (1900)—neither play was published or performed until after his death. In the last years of his life, he lived as his character Ubu, giving in to his addictions to absinthe and ether.

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bu Roi stands at a turning point in the evolution of the modern theatre. In an age in which the traditional distinction between poetry and prose was breaking down (with the invention of the vers libre) and painting was taking its first steps in the direction of abstraction, it was only natural that the theatre should attempt to follow a similar path of self-examination and redefinition. Jarry himself was in the forefront of such developments (all the more so as he was himself fully abreast of similar movements in the fields of poetry and painting and had close personal links with many of those most responsible for them): his work in the theatre sets out to revolutionize that genre in respect of its language, of its forms of expression, and of the underlying purpose and function of the theatre itself. The starting point of Jarry and of a host of subsequent playwrights is an effort to break once and for all with the principles and traditions of the Realist and Naturalist theatre, with its attempt to create on the stage an illusion of the ‘‘real’’ world (or what its practitioners took to be the ‘‘real’’ world) outside the theatre. The first significant parallel lies therefore in the efforts to create, in opposition to such conventions, a theatre based on the principles of deliberate stylization and simplification, and on the adoption of purely ‘‘schematic’’ modes of representation. Jarry’s endeavours in this domain were echoed to some extent by those of the Symbolist theatre, and by the ideas of theatrical reformers and visionaries of his own time and of the early years of this century such as Adolphe Appia and Edward Gordon Craig. Today, of course, an element of simplification and stylization is an accepted part of production methods in the modern theatre even in relation to plays written in a traditional Realist or Naturalist mode. But the real revolution in our time has been widespread total abandonment of this mode by a string of major playwrights, who see the true force of the theatre as lying in the adoption of conventions diametrically opposed to those of Realism. The second feature of the theatre of his time rejected by Jarry in which he can again be seen as a precursor is its essentially narrative and psychological function. The theatre, he argues, is not the proper place for ‘‘telling a story’’ or for the portrayal and analysis of psychological conflicts, which belong more properly to the novel. Nor is it the place for dealing with social issues or problems. Whether or not there is a necessary relationship between a theatre which, thematically, is oriented towards the expression of social issues and problems and the Realist mode of expression, the fact remains that historically the two have been closely linked. The inevitable corollary is the desire to create a theatre which will be concerned with a portrayal of ‘‘situations’’ and ‘‘types,’’ or more exactly archetypes, and with the expression of the universal and eternal rather than purely with historically limited social issues and themes. Jarry thus Excerpted from Keith Beaumont, ‘‘Jarry and the Modern Theatre,’’ ‘‘Ubu Roi’’: A Critical Guide (London: Grant and Cutler, 1987), 86–95.

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implicitly looks forward to the call of Artaud for a ‘‘metaphysical’’ theatre which will be concerned with the portrayal of aspects of an unchanging ‘‘human condition,’’ a conception fully realized in the work of playwrights such as Beckett, Ionesco, or (in his early plays) Adamov. He also implicitly anticipates Artaud’s call for a theatre of ‘‘myth,’’ in the sense of a creation of universal and archetypal images. What after all is Ubu but a ‘‘myth’’ in this sense, an archetypal image of mankind as seen by Jarry? The creation of such a theatre has profound implications for the portrayal of character on the stage, and here a further parallel can be found. To reject the portrayal of psychological conflicts is also to reject psychological complexity, and implicitly to advocate a deliberately simplified and schematic presentation of human character—a presentation which, at its most extreme point of development, finds its outward expression in the use of masks or the portrayal of human beings in terms of mere puppets. And this too is not only a central feature of the work of Jarry but has been a significant (though certainly not universal) trend in the theatre of the twentieth century, most strikingly in evidence in the work of Ionesco, particularly in his early one-act plays or in a highly stylized later work such as Macbett. With this simplification of character goes also on occasion an abandonment of psychological coherence and motivation, which in turn can have a profound effect upon the plot and action of the play. The unpredictability of Ubu’s behaviour—his sudden and unexpected changes from resolution to cowardice or his apparently gratuitous acts of cruelty—indicates in such instances an absence of coherence and logical motivation which looks forward in embryonic form to the topsy-turvy world of, for example, those same early plays of Ionesco. A similar absence of logic in the relationship between events can be found in certain plays of Arrabal, whilst discontinuity is a fundamental feature of the theatre of Beckett. Such a portrayal of character points also to the sources of inspiration of the above playwrights and others, which indicate a further parallel between Jarry and his successors. In all intended revolutions, whether political or artistic, men tend to turn back, in order to create something radically different from the present or from that which immediately preceded it, to a more distant past for inspiration. Jarry’s attempt to revitalize the theatre of his time by a return to the ‘‘simpler’’ and more ‘‘naïve’’ art of the mime and the puppet theatre has been echoed by many since. Directors and theoreticians of an earlier generation such as Craig and Gaston Baty have exalted the expressive possibilities of marionettes, and playwrights such as Ghelderode, Ionesco, and Arrabal have spoken of their childhood delight in the guignol, which has been a source of inspiration in their own work. In the work of Jarry as of these and other playwrights, moreover, the figure of the puppet provides more than simply a source of inspiration but takes on a functional significance also, providing an image of man himself and his situation in the world and forming an essential part of the playwright’s own vision. ‘‘Simplification,’’ in both characterization and themes, does not, however, as Jarry understood it, mean mere simplicity, but rather a condensation or synthesis of complexity. Thus the figure of Ubu is simple only in the sense that he synthesizes and implicitly embodies a multiplicity of different potential meanings.

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Hence Jarry’s invitation to the audience at the première of Ubu Roi to place its own interpretation upon the play, a statement that looks forward to the concept of the ‘‘openness’’ of the work of art. Such a concept is central to Jarry’s whole literary aesthetic and underlies his reflections on the possibility of an ‘‘abstract’’ theatre, in which the play would constitute no more than a kind of abstract framework into which the members of the audience would be invited to project their own meaning—thereby participating actively, he maintains, through the exercise of the imagination, in the process of creation itself. It is this urge towards abstraction which explains the nature of the setting of Ubu Roi—its Nowhere/Everywhere achieved by a canceling out of mutually contradictory elements—and to which there corresponds a similar imprecision in the work of such playwrights as Ionesco (anonymous but archetypal provincial town), Vian (block of flats in an unnamed town), Arrabal (mythical desert island), or Beckett (deserted country road). A sixth parallel, of a quite different nature, can be found in the deliberate provocation of Jarry’s flouting of the linguistic and theatrical conventions of his time, in his calculated attack upon both the moral and aesthetic susceptibilities of his audience. The original production of Ubu Roi provides in this respect an outstanding example of theatrical aggression which has been followed by many directors and playwrights since, from Artaud to Peter Brook and Charles Marowitz, and from the Dadist and Surrealist theatre to certain of the works of Weingarten (the first performance of whose Akara in 1948 was likened by critics to the opening night of Ubu Roi), Genêt, Ionesco (whose first play was provocatively subtitled ‘‘Anti-pièce’’), Vauthier, and Arrabal. Where, however, it was the linguistic and moral aspect of that aggressiveness which had most impact on Jarry’s contemporaries, from our point of view today its most significant feature was its artistic subversiveness, Jarry’s creation of forms of deliberate incoherence and logical contradiction which can be seen implicitly to call into question the very nature and existence of the work of art itself. There is in fact present in Jarry a dual impulse, a desire to create radically new artistic forms which exists alongside and simultaneously with a secret wish to subvert all forms of art from within. The tension resulting from these two conflicting impulses was in fact never resolved in his work, and can be seen in his theatre, in much of his poetry, and in such novels as Messaline and Le surmâle, where the apparent reality of the narrative is secretly undermined from within. This subversive intention is not, however, restricted to Jarry (though he was among the first of modern writers to manifest it), but it is shared with a number of modern playwrights and novelists and is in fact characteristic of the intensely self-conscious and introspective age in which we live. It expresses itself at times, as in Jarry, in the inclusion within a work of deliberately contradictory details, and at times also, in the theatre, through the presence within the play itself of elements of dialogue or action whose function is to remind us that what we are watching is a ‘‘fiction,’’ a ‘‘play’’ in the primary sense of the word. No modern playwright so fully exemplifies this conception of what has been called ‘‘the selfconscious stage’’ as Beckett, in whose plays the affirmation of the essentially ‘‘fictional’’ and ‘‘theatrical’’ nature of what we are watching is a recurrent feature.

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Jarry can also be seen as a precursor in his creation and exploitation of a form of humor to which contemporary audiences totally failed to respond (or responded with bewilderment and hostility) but which has become widespread in our own time, a humour based on the deliberate exploitation of incongruity or of outright logical contradiction in both action and word—a form of humour which can legitimately be described as ‘‘absurd’’ humour. The clash of conflicting elements in the set for Ubu Roi in 1896, no less than the clock of Ionesco’s La cantatrice chauve which strikes successively seven, three, naught, five, and two times in the course of the first scene, or Ubu’s statement that ‘‘I am going to light a fire while I’m waiting for him to bring some firewood,’’ Ionesco’s demonstration in the same play that when a doorbell rings it means that ‘‘sometimes there is somebody, at other times there is nobody,’’ and Clov’s statement in Fin de partie that ‘‘If I don’t kill that rat, it is going to die,’’ all provide examples of a form of humour which deliberately flies in the face of the laws of logic or causality. Not only, moreover, is this form of humour widely accepted and exploited in our own age, but it seems to have a particular appeal to those of an intellectual bent, through the provision of a much-needed liberation from the constraints of logic and the processes of reasoning. It is also, finally, a decidedly subversive and destructive form of humour, sweeping all before it in a total derision of rational values, anticipating and responding to Artaud’s call for a rediscovery of ‘‘the anarchic power of dissociation in laughter,’’ which, along with a true sense of the tragic, Western civilization had lost. Lastly, Jarry in Ubu Roi brought to the theatre—or more exactly restored to it—the spirit of childhood which had been a part of the medieval theatre, but which had been proscribed by the dominant rationalism of the intervening centuries. The vision which presided at the creation of Ubu Roi, with its crude exaggeration, its violence, its frequent absence of logical relationships and coherent motivation of action, is that of a child’s conception of the world; and the character of Ubu himself is nothing more than that of an overgrown child, displaying a primeval innocence, but one which is no less terrifying and brutal for all that. It was a vision which Jarry alone among his school fellows had the insight and the artistic sense to preserve, but which looks forward to playwrights such as Ionesco, Vian, and Arrabal, whose work at times either focuses on similarly childlike figures or portrays in other ways an equally terrifying or disturbing innocence. Even more important than this vision itself, however, is the spirit which informs Jarry’s play, and which expresses itself in a spontaneous and innocent love of nonsense, of wordplay and linguistic distortion, and of sheer absurdity. To laugh at such ‘‘absurd’’ forms of humour requires a willingness to suspend the normal habits of rational thinking characteristic of the adult mind, and to enter once again, at least momentarily, into the spirit of childhood. And insofar as we are able to do this today, we are all heirs of Jarry. In all of these ways, then, Jarry can be seen as a precursor of the modern theatre, or at least of one major current in it. That current is a sufficiently important and widespread one to make of Jarry, as result of the extensive parallels outlined above, a major figure in the emergence of modern culture, and to make of Ubu Roi an archetype for our own time.

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See also Braun; Innes, Avant Garde Theatre; Schumacher, Alfred Jarry and Guillaume Apollinaire; and Shattuck, in the General Bibliography.

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Beaumont, Keith. Alfred Jarry: A Critical and Biographical Study, 86–119. Leicester, England: Leicester University Press, 1984. New York: St. Martin’s, 1984. Brotchie, Alastair. Alfred Jarry: A Pataphysical Life. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2011. Church, Dan M. ‘‘Père Ubu: The Creation of a Literary Type.’’ Drama Survey 4.3 (1965): 233–43. Fell, Jill. Alfred Jarry: An Imagination in Revolt. Madison, N.J.: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2005. Fell, Jill. Alfred Jarry. London: Reaktion Books, 2010. Hartigan, Ryan. ‘‘ ‘They Watch Me as They Watch This’—Alfred Jarry, Symbolism and Self-as-Performance,’’ Australasian Drama Studies 52 (April 2008): 165–79. LaBelle, Maurice Marc. Alfred Jarry: Nihilism and the Theatre of the Absurd. New York: New York University Press, 1980. Lamont, Rosette C. ‘‘Ubu Roi: A Collage.’’ Dada 4 (1974): 17–26. Lobert, Patrick. ‘‘Ubu Roi, Jarry’s Satire of Naturalism.’’ French Literature Series 14 (1987): 124–32.

Pataphysical Theater

Select Bibliography on Jarry

King Ubu Alfred Jarry this play is dedicated to marcel schwob

Then Father Ubu shakes his peare, who was afterwards yclept SHAKESPEARE by the Englishe, and you have from him in his own hand manie lovely tragedies under this name.

characters and costumes father ubu: Casual gray suit, a cane always stuffed in his right-hand pocket, bowler hat. A crown over his hat at the beginning of Act II, Scene 2. Bareheaded at the beginning of Act II, Scene 6. Act III, Scene 2, crown and white hood, flaring to a royal cape. Act III, Scene 4, cloak, cap pulled down over his ears; same outfit, but with bare head in Scene 7. Scene 8, hood, helmet, a sword stuck in his belt, a hook, chisels, a knife, a cane still in his right-hand pocket. A bottle bounces at his side. Act IV, Scene 5, cloak and cap but without above weapons or stick. In the sailing scene a small suitcase is in Father Ubu’s hand. mother ubu: Concierge’s clothes or a toiletries saleswoman’s ensemble. Pink bonnet or a hat with flowers and feathers and a veil. An apron in the feasting scene. Royal cloak at the opening of Act II, Scene 6. captain bordure: Hungarian musician’s costume, very close-fitting, red. Big mantle, large sword, crenelated boots, feathery hat. Reprinted from Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada, and Surrealism; An Anthology of Plays, ed. Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth; trans. Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth (New York: Dutton, 1964), 1–54.

* Jarry did not include suggestions for the costuming of these two characters in these notes, which were published from manuscript by the Collège de ’Pataphysique in 1951.

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king wenceslas: Royal mantle and the crown Ubu wears after murdering him. queen rosemonde: The mantle and crown Mother Ubu later wears. boleslas, ladislas (sons of King Wenceslas and Queen Rosemonde): Gray Polish costumes, heavily frogged; short pants. bougrelas (the youngest son): Dressed as a child in a little skirt and bonnet. general lascy: Polish costume, with an admiral’s hat with white plumes, and a sword. stanislas leczinsky: Polish costume. White beard. john sobieski, nicholas rensky: Polish costume. the tsar, emperor alexis: Black clothing, enormous yellow sword, dagger, numerous military decorations, big boots. Huge frill at the throat. Hat in the form of a black cone. the palotins (giron, pile, cotice): Long beards, fur-trimmed greatcoats, shitr-colored; or red or green if necessary; tights beneath. crowd: Polish costume. michael federovitch: Same. Fur hat. nobles: Polish costume, with cloaks edged with fur or embroidery. advisers, financiers: Swathed in black, with astrologers’ hats, eyeglasses, pointed noses. phynancial flunkies: The Palotins. peasants: Polish costume. the polish army: In gray, with frogging and fur trimmings: three men with rifles. the russian army: Two horsemen: uniform like that of the Poles, but green, with fur headgear. They carry cardboard horses’ heads. a russian footsoldier: In green, with headgear. mother ubu’s guards: Polish costume, with halberds. a captain: General Lascy. the bear: Bordure in bearskin. the phynancial horse: Large wooden rocking horse on casters, or else cardboard horse’s head, as required. the crew: Two men in sailor suits, in blue, collars turned down, and so on. the captain of the ship: In a French naval officer’s uniform. jailer * messenger *

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composition of the orchestra Oboes Pipes Blutwurst Large Bass Flageolets Transverse Flutes Flute Little Bassoon Big Bassoon Triple Bassoon Little Black Cornets Shrill White Cornets Horns Sackbuts Trombones Green Hunting Horns Reeds Bagpipes Bombardons Timbals Drum Bass Drum Grand Organs ACT I scene 1 Father Ubu, Mother Ubu. father ubu: Shitr! mother ubu: Well, that’s a fine way to talk, Father Ubu. What a pigheaded ass you are! father ubu: I don’t know what keeps me from bouncing your head off the wall, Mother Ubu! mother ubu: It’s not my head you ought to be cracking, Father Ubu. father ubu: By my green candle, I don’t know what you’re talking about. mother ubu: What’s this, Father Ubu, you mean to tell me you’re satisfied with the way things are? father ubu: By my green candle, shitr, madam, certainly I’m satisfied with the way things are. After all, aren’t I Captain of the Dragoons, confidential adviser to King Wenceslas, decorated with the order of the Red Eagle of Poland, and ex-King of Aragon—what more do you want? mother ubu: What’s this! After having been King of Aragon you’re satisfied with leading fifty-odd flunkies armed with cabbage-cutters to parades? When you could just as well have the crown of Poland replace the crown of Aragon on your big fat nut? father ubu: Ah! Mother Ubu I don’t know what you’re talking about. mother ubu: You’re so stupid!

scene 2 A room in Father Ubu’s house, with a splendidly laid table. Father Ubu, Mother Ubu. mother ubu: So! Our guests are very late.

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father ubu: By my green candle, King Wenceslas is still very much alive; and even if he does die he’s still got hordes of children, hasn’t he? mother ubu: What’s stopping you from chopping up his whole family and putting yourself in their place? father ubu: Ah! Mother Ubu, you’re doing me an injustice, and I’ll stick you in your stewpot in a minute. mother ubu: Ha! Poor wretch, if I were stuck in the pot who’d sew up the seat of your pants? father ubu: Oh, really! And what of it? Don’t I have an ass like everyone else? mother ubu: If I were you, I’d want to install that ass on a throne. You could get any amount of money, eat sausages all the time, and roll around the streets in a carriage. father ubu: If I were king I’d have them build me a big helmet just like the one I had in Aragon which those Spanish swine had the nerve to steal from me. mother ubu: You could also get yourself an umbrella and a big cape which would reach to your heels. father ubu: Ah! that does it! I succumb to temptation. That crock of shitr, that shitr of crock, if I ever run into him in a dark alley, I’ll give him a bad fifteen minutes. mother ubu: Ah! Fine, Father Ubu, at last you’re acting like a real man. father ubu: Oh, no! Me, the Captain of the Dragoons slaughter the King of Poland! Better far to die! mother ubu (aside): Oh, shitr! (Aloud.) So, then, you want to stay as poor as a churchmouse, Father Ubu? father ubu: Zounds, by my green candle, I’d rather be as poor as a starving, good rat than as rich as a wicked, fat cat. mother ubu: And the helmet? And the umbrella? And the big cape? father ubu: And what about them, Mother Ubu? He leaves, slamming the door. mother ubu (alone): Crap, shitr, it’s hard to get him started, but, crap, shitr, I think I’ve stirred him up. With the help of God and of myself, perhaps in eight days I’ll be Queen of Poland.

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father ubu: Yes, by my green candle, I’m dying of hunger. Mother Ubu, you’re really ugly today. Is it because company’s coming? mother ubu (shrugging her shoulders): Shitr! father ubu (grabbing a roast chicken): Gad, I’m hungry; I’m going to have a piece of this bird. It’s a chicken, I think. Not bad at all. mother ubu: What are you doing, you swine? What will be left for our guests? father ubu: There will be plenty left for them. I won’t touch another thing. Mother Ubu, go to the window and see if our guests are coming. mother ubu (going): I don’t see anything. Meanwhile, Father Ubu takes a piece of veal. Ah, here come Captain Bordure and his boys. What are you eating now, Father Ubu? father ubu: Nothing, a little veal. mother ubu: Oh! the veal! the veal! The ox! He’s eaten the veal! Help, help! father ubu: By my green candle, I’ll scratch your eyes out. The door opens. scene 3 Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Captain Bordure and his followers. mother ubu: Good day, gentlemen; we’ve been anxiously awaiting you. Sit down. captain bordure: Good day, madam. Where’s Father Ubu? father ubu: Here I am, here I am! Good lord, by my green candle, I’m fat enough, aren’t I? captain bordure: Good day, Father Ubu. Sit down, boys. They all sit. father ubu: Oof, a little more, and I’d have busted my chair. captain bordure: Well, Mother Ubu! What have you got that’s good today? mother ubu: Here’s the menu. father ubu: Oh! That interests me. mother ubu: Polish soup, roast ram, veal, chicken, chopped dog’s liver, turkey’s ass, charlotte russe . . . father ubu: Hey, that’s plenty, I should think. You mean there’s more? mother ubu (continuing): Frozen pudding, salad, fruits, dessert, boiled beef, Jerusalem artichokes, cauliflower à la shitr. father ubu: Hey! Do you think I’m the Emperor of China, to give all that away? mother ubu: Don’t listen to him, he’s feeble-minded.

scene 4 Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Captain Bordure. father ubu: Well, now, Captain, have you have a good dinner? captain bordure: Very good, sir, except for the shitr. father ubu: Oh, come now, the shitr wasn’t bad at all.

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father ubu: Ah! I’ll sharpen my teeth on your shanks. mother ubu: Try this instead, Father Ubu. Here’s the Polish soup. father ubu: Crap, is that lousy! captain bordure: Hmm—it isn’t very good, at that. mother ubu: What do you want, you bunch of crooks! father ubu (striking his forehead): Wait, I’ve got an idea. I’ll be right back. He leaves. mother ubu: Let’s try the veal now, gentlemen. captain bordure: It’s very good—I’m through. mother ubu: To the turkey’s ass, next. captain bordure: Delicious, delicious! Long live Mother Ubu! all: Long live Mother Ubu! father ubu (returning): And you will soon be shouting long live Father Ubu. (He has a toilet brush in his hand, and he throws it on the festive board.) mother ubu: Miserable creature, what are you up to now? father ubu: Try a little. Several try it, and fall, poisoned. Mother Ubu, pass me the roast ram chops, so that I can serve them. mother ubu: Here they are. father ubu: Everyone out! Captain Bordure, I want to talk to you. the others: But we haven’t eaten yet. father ubu: What’s that, you haven’t eaten yet? Out, out, everyone out! Stay here, Bordure. Nobody moves. You haven’t gone yet? By my green candle, I’ll give you your ram chops. (He begins to throw them.) all: Oh! Ouch! Help! Woe! Help! Misery! I’m dead! father ubu: Shitr, shitr, shitr! Outside! I want my way! all: Everyone for himself ! Miserable Father Ubu! Traitor! Meanie! father ubu: Ah! They’ve gone. I can breathe again—but I’ve had a rotten dinner. Come on, Bordure. They go out with Mother Ubu.

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mother ubu: Chacun à son goût. father ubu: Captain Bordure, I’ve decided to make you Duke of Lithuania. captain bordure: Why, I thought you were miserably poor, Father Ubu. father ubu: If you choose, I’ll be King of Poland in a few days. captain bordure: You’re going to kill Wenceslas? father ubu: He’s not so stupid, the idiot; he’s guessed it. captain bordure: If it’s a question of killing, Wenceslas, I’m for it. I’m his mortal enemy, and I can answer for my men. father ubu (throwing his arms around him): Oh! Oh! How I love you, Bordure. captain bordure: Ugh, you stink, Father Ubu. Don’t you ever wash? father ubu: Rarely. mother ubu: Never! father ubu: I’ll stamp on your toes. mother ubu: Big shitr! father ubu: All right, Bordure, that’s all for now; but, by my green candle, I swear on Mother Ubu to make you Duke of Lithuania. mother ubu: But . . . father ubu: Be quiet, my sweet child. . . . They go out. scene 5 Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, a messenger. father ubu: Sir, what do you want? Beat it, you’re boring me. the messenger: Sir, the king summons you. He leaves. father ubu: Oh, shitr! Great Jumping Jupiter, by my green candle, I’ve been discovered; they’ll cut my head off, alas! alas! mother ubu: What a spineless clod! And just when time’s getting short. father ubu: Oh, I’ve got an idea: I’ll say that it was Mother Ubu and Bordure. mother ubu: You fat Ubu, if you do that . . . father ubu: I’m off right now. He leaves. mother ubu (running after him): Oh, Father Ubu, Father Ubu, I’ll give you some sausage! She leaves. father ubu ( from the wings): Oh, shitr! You’re a prize sausage yourself.

scene 7 Father Ubu’s house. Giron, Pile, Cotice, Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Conspirators and Soldiers, Captain Bordure. father ubu: Well, my good friends, it’s about time we discussed the plan of the conspiracy. Let each one give his advice. First of all, I’ll give mine, if you’ll permit me. captain bordure: Speak, Father Ubu. father ubu: Very well, my friends, I’m in favor of simply poisoning the king

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The palace. King Wenceslas, surrounded by his officers; Captain Bordure; the king’s sons, Boleslas, Ladislas, and Bougrelas; and Father Ubu. father ubu (entering): Oh! You know, it wasn’t me, it was Mother Ubu and Bordure. king wenceslas: What’s the matter with you, Father Ubu? captain bordure: He’s drunk. king wenceslas: So was I, this morning. father ubu: Yes, I’m potted, because I’ve drunk too much French wine. king wenceslas: Father Ubu, I desire to recompense your numerous services as Captain of the Dragoons, and I’m going to make you Count of Sandomir today. father ubu: Oh, Mr. Wenceslas, I don’t know how to thank you. king wenceslas: Don’t thank me, Father Ubu, and don’t forget to appear tomorrow morning at the big parade. father ubu: I’ll be there, but be good enough to accept this toy whistle. (He presents the king with a toy whistle.) king wenceslas: What can I do with a toy whistle at my age? I’ll give it to Bougrelas. bougrelas: What an idiot Father Ubu is! father ubu: And now I’ll scram. (He falls as he turns around.) Oh! Ouch! Help! By my green candle, I’ve split my gut and bruised my butt! king wenceslas (helping him up): Did you hurt yourself, Father Ubu? father ubu: Yes, I certainly did, and I’ll probably die soon. What will become of Mother Ubu? king wenceslas: We shall provide for her upkeep. father ubu: Your kindness is unparalleled. (He leaves.) But you’ll be slaughtered just the same, King Wenceslas.

King Ubu

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by slipping a little arsenic in his lunch. At the first nibble he’ll drop dead, and then I’ll be king. all: How base! father ubu: What’s that? You don’t like my suggestion? Let Bordure give his. captain bordure: I’m of the opinion that we should give him one good stroke of the sword and slice him in two, lengthwise. all: Hooray! How noble and valiant. father ubu: And what if he kicks you? I remember now that he always puts on iron shoes, which hurt a great deal, for parades. If I had any sense I’d go off and denounce you for dragging me into this dirty mess, and I think he’d give me plenty of money. mother ubu: Oh! The traitor, the coward, the villain, and sneak. all: Down with Father Ubu! father ubu: Gentlemen, keep calm, or I’ll get mad. In any case, I agree to stick out my neck for you. Bordure, I put you in charge of slicing the king in half. captain bordure: Wouldn’t it be better to throw ourselves on the king all together, screaming and yelling? That way we might win the troops to our side. father ubu: All right, then. I’ll attempt to tread on his toes; he’ll protest, and then I’ll say, SHITR, and at this signal you’ll all throw yourselves on him. mother ubu: Yes, and as soon as he’s dead you’ll take his scepter and crown. captain bordure: And I’ll pursue the royal family with my men. father ubu: Yes, and be extra sure that you catch young Bougrelas. They go out. (Running after them and bringing them back.) Gentlemen, we have forgotten an indispensable ceremony: we must swear to fight bravely. captain bordure: How are we going to do that? We don’t have a priest. father ubu: Mother Ubu will take his place. all: Very well, so be it. father ubu: Then you really swear to kill the king? all: Yes, we swear it. Long live Father Ubu! ACT II scene 1 The palace. King Wenceslas, Queen Rosemonde, Boleslas, Ladislas, and Bougrelas. king wenceslas: Mr. Bougrelas, you were very impertinent this morning

scene 2 The parade grounds. The Polish Army, King Wenceslas, Boleslas, Ladislas, Father Ubu, Captain Bordure and his men, Giron, Pile, Cotice. king wenceslas: Noble Father Ubu, accompany me with your companions while I inspect the troops. father ubu (to his men): On your toes, boys. (To the king.) Coming, sir, coming. Ubu’s men surround the king. king wenceslas: Ah! Here is the Dantzick Horseguard Regiment. Aren’t they magnificent!

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with Mr. Ubu, knight of my orders and Count of Sandomir. That’s why I’m forbidding you to appear at my parade. queen rosemonde: But, Wenceslas, you need your whole family around you to protect you. king wenceslas: Madam, I never retract my commands. You weary me with your chatter. bougrelas: It shall be as you desire, my father. queen rosemonde: Sire, have you definitely decided to attend this parade? king wenceslas: Why shouldn’t I, madam? queen rosemonde: For the last time, didn’t I tell you that I dreamed that I saw you being knocked down by a mob of his men and thrown into the Vistula, and an eagle just like the one in the arms of Poland placing the crown on his head? king wenceslas: On whose? queen rosemonde: On Father Ubu’s. king wenceslas: What nonsense! Count de Ubu is a very fine gentleman who would let himself be torn apart by horses in my service. queen rosemonde and bougrelas: What a delusion! king wenceslas: Be quiet, you little ape. And as for you, madam, just to show you how little I fear Mr. Ubu, I’ll go to the parade just as I am, without sword or armor. queen rosemonde: Fatal imprudence! I shall never see you alive again. king wenceslas: Come along, Ladislas, come along, Boleslas. They go out. Queen Rosemonde and Bougrelas go to the window. queen rosemonde and bougrelas: May God and holy Saint Nicholas protect you! queen rosemonde: Bougrelas, come to the chapel with me to pray for your father and your brothers.

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father ubu: You really think so? They look rotten to me. Look at this one. (To the soldier.) When did you last shave, varlet? king wenceslas: But this soldier is absolutely impeccable. What’s the matter with you, Father Ubu? father ubu: Take that! (He stamps on his foot.) king wenceslas: Wretch! father ubu: Shitr! Come on, men! captain bordure: Hooray! Charge! They all hit the king; a Palotin explodes. king wenceslas: Oh! Help! Holy Mother, I’m dead. boleslas (to Ladislas): What’s going on? Let’s draw. father ubu: Ah, I’ve got the crown! To the others, now. captain bordure: After the traitors! The princes flee, pursued by all. scene 3 Queen Rosemonde and Bougrelas. queen rosemonde: At last I can begin to relax. bougrelas: You’ve no reason to be afraid. A frightful din is heard from outside. Oh! What’s this I see? My two brothers pursued by Father Ubu and his men. queen rosemonde: Oh, my God! Holy Mother, they’re losing, they’re losing ground! bougrelas: The whole army is following Father Ubu. I don’t see the king. Horror! Help! queen rosemonde: There’s Boleslas, dead! He’s been shot. bougrelas: Hey! Defend yourself ! Hooray, Ladislas! queen rosemonde: Oh! He’s surrounded. bougrelas: He’s finished. Bordure’s just sliced him in half like a sausage. queen rosemonde: Alas! Those madmen have broken into the palace; they’re coming up the stairs. The din grows louder. queen rosemonde and bougrelas (on their knees): Oh, God, defend us! bougrelas: Oh! That Father Ubu! The swine, the wretch, if I could get my hands on him . . . scene 4 The same. The door is smashed down. Father Ubu and his rabble break through.

scene 5 A cave in the mountains. Young Bougrelas enters, followed by Queen Rosemonde. bougrelas: We’ll be safe here. queen rosemonde: Yes, I think so. Bougrelas, help me! (She falls to the snow.) bougrelas: What’s the matter, Mother? queen rosemonde: Believe me, I’m very sick, Bougrelas. I don’t have more than two hours to live. bougrelas: What do you mean? Has the cold got you? queen rosemonde: How can I bear up against so many blows? The king massacred, our family destroyed, and you, the representative of the most noble race that has ever worn a sword, forced to flee into the mountains like a common brigand. bougrelas: And by whom, O Lord, by whom? A vulgar fellow like Father Ubu, an adventurer coming from no one knows where, a vile blackguard, a shameless vagabond! And when I think that my father decorated him and made him a count and that the next day this low-bred dog had the nerve to raise his hand against him. queen rosemonde: Oh, Bougrelas! When I remember how happy we were before this Father Ubu came! But now, alas! All is changed!

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father ubu: So, Bougrelas, what’s that you want to do to me? bougrelas: Great God! I’ll defend my mother to the death! The first man to make a move dies. father ubu: Oh! Bordure, I’m scared. Let me out of here. a soldier (advancing): Give yourself up, Bougrelas! bougrelas: Here, scum, take that! (He splits his skull.) queen rosemonde: Hold your ground, Bougrelas; hold your ground! several (advancing): Bougrelas, we promise to let you go. bougrelas: Good-for-nothings, sots, turncoats! (He swings his sword and kills them all.) father ubu: I’ll win out in the end! bougrelas: Mother, escape by the secret staircase. queen rosemonde: And what about you, my son? What about you? bougrelas: I’ll follow you. father ubu: Try to catch the queen. Oh, there she goes. As for you, you little . . . (He approaches Bougrelas.) bougrelas: Great God! Here is my vengeance! (With a terrible blow of his sword he rips open Father Ubu’s paunch-protector.) Mother, I’m coming! He disappears down the secret staircase.

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bougrelas: What can we do? Let us wait in hope and never renounce our rights. queen rosemonde: May your wish be granted, my dear child, but as for me, I shall never see that happy day. bougrelas: What’s the matter with you? Ah, she pales, she falls. Help me! But I’m in a desert! Oh, my God! Her heart is stilled forever. She is dead? Can it be? Another victim for Father Ubu! (He hides his face in his hands, and weeps.) Oh, my God! How sad it is to have such a terrible vengeance to fulfill! And I’m only fourteen years old! (He falls down in the throes of a most extravagant despair.) Meanwhile, the souls of Wenceslas, Boleslas, Ladislas, and Queen Rosemonde enter the cave. Their ancestors, accompanying them, fill up the cave. The oldest goes to Bougrelas and gently awakes him. Ah! What’s this I see? My whole family, all my ancestors . . . how can this be? the shade: Know, Bougrelas, that during my life I was the Lord Mathias of Königsberg, the first king and founder of our house. I entrust our vengeance to your hands. (He gives him a large sword.) And may this sword which I have given you never rest until it has brought about the death of the usurper. All vanish, and Bougrelas remains alone, in an attitude of ecstasy. scene 6 The palace. Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Captain Bordure. father ubu: No! Never! I don’t want to! Do you want me to ruin myself for these buffroons? captain bordure: But after all, Father Ubu, don’t you see that the people are waiting for the gifts to celebrate your joyous coronation? mother ubu: If you don’t give out meat and gold, you’ll be overthrown in two hours. father ubu: Meat, yes! Gold, no! Slaughter the three oldest horses—that’ll be good enough for those apes. mother ubu: Ape, yourself ! How did I ever get stuck with an animal like you? father ubu: Once and for all, I’m trying to get rich; I’m not going to let go of a cent. mother ubu: But we’ve got the whole Polish treasury at our disposal. captain bordure: Yes, I happen to know that there’s an enormous treasure in the royal chapel; we’ll distribute it. father ubu: Just you dare, you wretch! captain bordure: But, Father Ubu, if you don’t distribute money to the people, they’ll refuse to pay the taxes.

father ubu: Is that a fact? mother ubu: Yes, of course! father ubu: Oh, well, in that case I agree to everything. Withdraw three million, roast a hundred and fifty cattle and sheep—especially since I’ll have some myself ! They go out.

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The palace courtyard full of people. Father Ubu crowned, Mother Ubu, Captain Bordure, flunkies carrying meat. people: There’s the king! Long live the king! Hooray! father ubu: (throwing gold): Here, that’s for you. It doesn’t make me very happy to give you any money; it’s Mother Ubu who wanted me to. At least promise me you’ll really pay the taxes. all: Yes! Yes! captain bordure: Look how they’re fighting over that gold, Mother Ubu. What a battle! mother ubu: It’s really awful. Ugh! There’s one just had his skull split open. father ubu: What a beautiful sight! Bring on more gold. captain bordure: How about making them race for it? father ubu: Good idea! (To the people.) My friends, take a look at this chest of gold. It contains three hundred thousand Polish coins, of the purest gold, guaranteed genuine. Let those who wish to complete for it assemble at the end of the courtyard. The race will begin when I wave my handkerchief, and the first one to get here wins the chest. As for those who don’t win, they will share this other chest as a consolation prize. all: Yes! Long live Father Ubu! What a king! We never had anything like this in the days of Wenceslas. father ubu (to Mother Ubu, with joy): Listen to them! All the people line up at the end of the courtyard. One, two, three! Ready? all: Yes! Yes! father ubu: Set! Go! They start, falling all over one another. Cries and tumult. captain bordure: They’re coming! They’re coming! father ubu: Look! The leader’s losing ground. mother ubu: No, he’s going ahead again. captain bordure: He’s losing, he’s losing! He’s lost! The other one won. all: Long live Michael Federovitch! Long live Michael Federovitch!

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michael federovitch: Sire, I don’t know how to thank your Majesty. . . . father ubu: Think nothing of it, my dear friend. Take your money home with you, Michael; and you others, share the rest—each take a piece until they’re all gone. all: Long live Michael Federovitch! Long live Father Ubu! father ubu: And you, my friends, come and eat! I open the gates of the palace to you—may you do honor to my table! people: Let’s go in, let’s go in! Long live Father Ubu! He’s the noblest monarch of them all! They go into the palace. The noise of the orgy is audible throughout the night. The curtain falls. ACT III

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scene 1 The palace. Father Ubu, Mother Ubu. father ubu: By my green candle, here I am king of this country, I’ve already got a fine case of indigestion, and they’re going to bring me my big helmet. mother ubu: What’s it made out of, Father Ubu? Even if we are sitting on the throne, we have to watch the pennies. father ubu: Madame my wife, it’s made out of sheepskin with a clasp and with laces made out of dogskin. mother ubu: That’s very extraordinary, but it’s even more extraordinary that we’re here on the throne. father ubu: How right you are, Mother Ubu. mother ubu: We owe quite a debt to the Duke of Lithuania. father ubu: Who’s that? mother ubu: Why, Captain Bordure. father ubu: If you please, Mother Ubu, don’t speak to me about that buffroon. Now that I don’t need him any more, he can go whistle for his dukedom. mother ubu: You’re making a big mistake, Father Ubu; he’s going to turn against you. father ubu: Well, now, the poor little fellow has my deepest sympathy, but I’m not going to worry about him any more than about Bougrelas. mother ubu: Ha! You think you’ve seen the last of Bougrelas, do you? father ubu: By my financial sword, of course I have! What do you think that fourteen-year-old midget is going to do to me? mother ubu: Father Ubu, pay attention to what I’m going to say to you. Believe me, you ought to be nice to Bougrelas to get him on your side.

father ubu: Do you think I’m made of money? Well, I’m not! You’ve already made me waste twenty-two million. mother ubu: Have it your own way, Father Ubu; he’ll roast you alive. father ubu: Fine! You’ll be in the pot with me. mother ubu: For the last time, listen to me: I’m sure that young Bougrelas will triumph, because he has right on his side. father ubu: Oh, crap! Doesn’t the wrong always get you more than the right? Ah, you do me an injustice, Mother Ubu, I’ll chop you into little pieces. Mother Ubu runs away, pursued by Father Ubu.

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The Great Hall of the palace. Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Officers and Soldiers; Giron, Pile, Cotice, Nobles in chains, Financiers, Magistrates, Clerks. father ubu: Bring forward the Nobles’ money box and the Nobles’ hook and the Nobles’ knife and the Nobles’ book! And then bring forward the Nobles. Nobles are brutally pushed forward. mother ubu: For goodness’ sakes, control yourself, Father Ubu. father ubu: I have the honor to announce to you that in order to enrich the kingdom I shall annihilate all the Nobles and grab their property. nobles: How awful! To the rescue, people and soldiers! father ubu: Bring forward the first Noble and hand me the Nobles’ hook. Those who are condemned to death, I will drop down the trap door. They will fall into the Pig-Pinching Cellars and the Money Vault, where they will be disembrained. (To the Noble.) Who are you, buffroon? the noble: Count of Vitebsk. father ubu: What’s your income? the noble: Three million rixthalers. father ubu: Condemned! (He seizes him with the hook and drops him down the trap door.) mother ubu: What vile savagery! father ubu: Second Noble, who are you? The Noble doesn’t reply. Answer, buffroon! the noble: Grand Duke of Posen. father ubu: Excellent! Excellent! I’ll not trouble you any longer. Down the trap. Third Noble, who are you? You’re an ugly one. the noble: Duke of Courland, and of the cities of Riga, Reval, and the Mitau. father ubu: Very good! Very good! Anything else?

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the noble: That’s all. father ubu: Well, down the trapdoor, then. Fourth Noble, who are you? the noble: The Prince of Podolia. father ubu: What’s your income? the noble: I’m bankrupt. father ubu: For that nasty word, into the trapdoor with you. Fifth Noble, who are you? the noble: Margrave of Thorn, Palatin of Polack. father ubu: That doesn’t sound like very much. Nothing else? the noble: It was enough for me. father ubu: Half a loaf is better than no loaf at all. Down the trapdoor. What’s the matter with you, Mother Ubu? mother ubu: You’re too ferocious, Father Ubu. father ubu: Please! I’m working! And now I’m going to have MY list of MY property read to me. Clerk, read MY list of MY property. the clerk: County of Sandomir. father ubu: Start with the big ones. the noble: Princedom of Podolia, Grand Duchy of Posen, Duchy of Courland, County of Sandomir, County of Vitebsk, Palatinate of Polack, Margraviate of Thorn. father ubu: Well, go on. the noble: That’s all. father ubu: What do you mean, that’s all! Oh, very well, then, bring the Nobles forward. Since I’m not finished enriching myself yet, I’m going to execute all the Nobles and seize all their estates at once. Let’s go; stick the Nobles in the trapdoor. The Nobles are pushed into the trapdoor. Hurry it up, let’s go, I want to make some laws now. several: This ought to be a good one. father ubu: First I’m going to reform the laws, and then we’ll proceed to matters of finance. magistrates: We’re opposed to any change. father ubu: Shitr! To begin with, Magistrates will not be paid any more. magistrates: What are we supposed to live on? We’re poor. father ubu: You shall have the fines which you will impose and the property of those you condemn to death. a magistrate: Horrors! a second: Infamy! a third: Scandal! a fourth: Indignity!

scene 3 A peasant house in the outskirts of Warsaw. Several peasants are assembled. a peasant (entering): Have you heard the news? The king and the dukes are all dead, and young Bougrelas has fled to the mountains with his mother. What’s more, Father Ubu has seized the throne. another: That’s nothing. I’ve just come from Cracow where I saw the bodies of more than three hundred nobles and five hundred magistrates, and I hear that the taxes are going to be doubled and that Father Ubu is coming to collect them himself. all: Great heavens! What will become of us? Father Ubu is a horrible beast, and they say his family is abominable.

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all: We refuse to act as judges under such conditions. father ubu: Down the trapdoor with the Magistrates! They struggle in vain. mother ubu: What are you doing, Father Ubu? Who will dispense justice now? father ubu: Why, me! You’ll see how smoothly it’ll go. mother ubu: I can just imagine. father ubu: That’s enough out of you, buffroonness. And now, gentlemen, we will proceed to matters of finance. financiers: No changes are needed. father ubu: I intend to change everything. First of all, I’ll keep half the taxes for myself. financiers: That’s too much. father ubu: Gentlemen, we will establish a tax of 10 percent on property, another on commerce and industry, a third on marriages and a fourth on deaths—fifteen francs each. first financier: But that’s idiotic, Father Ubu. second financier: It’s absurd. third financier: It’s impossible. father ubu: You’re trying to confuse me! Down the trapdoor with the Financiers! The Financiers are pushed in. mother ubu: But, Father Ubu, what kind of king are you? You’re murdering everybody! father ubu: Oh, shitr! mother ubu: No more justice, no more finances! father ubu: Have no fear, my sweet child; I myself will go from village to village, collecting the taxes.

a peasant: Listen! Isn’t somebody knocking at the door? a voice (outside): Hornsbuggers! Open up, by my shitr, by Saint John, Saint Peter, and Saint Nicholas! Open up, by my financial sword, by my financial horns, I’m coming to collect the taxes! The door is smashed in, and Father Ubu enters, followed by hordes of tax collectors.

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scene 4 father ubu: Which one of you is the oldest? A peasant steps forward. What’s your name? the peasant: Stanislas Leczinski. father ubu: Fine, hornsbuggers! Listen to me, since if you don’t, these gentlemen here will cut your ears off. Well, are you listening? stanislas: But your Excellency hasn’t said anything yet. father ubu: What do you mean? I’ve been speaking for an hour. Do you think I’ve come here to preach in the desert? stanislas: Far be it from my thoughts. father ubu: I’ve come to tell you, to order you, and to intimate to you that you are to produce forthwith and exhibit promptly your finances, unless you wish to be slaughtered. Let’s go, gentlemen, my financial swine, vehiculize hither the phynancial vehicle. The vehicle is brought in. stanislas: Sire, we are down on the register for a hundred and fifty-two rixthalers which we paid six weeks ago come Saint Matthew’s Day. father ubu: That’s very possible, but I’ve changed the government and run an advertisement in the paper that says you have to pay all present taxes twice and all those which I will levy later on three times. With this system, I’ll make my fortune quickly; then I’ll kill everyone and run away. peasants: Mr. Ubu, please have pity on us; we are poor, simple citizens. father ubu: Nuts! Pay up. peasants: We can’t, we’ve already paid. father ubu: Pay up! Or I’ll stick you in my pocket with torturing and beheading of the neck and head! Hornsbuggers, I’m the king, aren’t I? all: Ah! So that’s the way it is! To arms! Long live Bougrelas, by the grace of God King of Poland and Lithuania! father ubu: Forward, gentlemen of Finance, do your duty. A struggle ensues; the house is destroyed, and old Stanislas flees across the plain, alone. Father Ubu stays to collect the money.

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A dungeon in the Fortress of Thorn. Captain Bordure in chains, Father Ubu. father ubu: So, Citizen, that’s the way it is: you wanted me to pay you what I owed you; then you rebelled because I refused; you conspired and here you are retired. Horns of finance, I’ve done so well you must admire it yourself. captain bordure: Take care, Father Ubu. During the five days that you’ve been king, you’ve committed enough murders to damn all the saints in Paradise. The blood of the king and of the nobles cries for vengeance, and their cries will be heard. father ubu: Ah, my fine friend, that’s quite a tongue you’ve got there. I have no doubt that if you escaped, it would cause all sorts of complications, but I don’t think that the dungeons of Thorn have ever let even one of the honest fellows go who have been entrusted to them. Therefore I bid you a very good night and I invite you to sleep soundly, although I must say the rats dance a very pretty saraband down here. He leaves. The jailers come and bolt all the doors.

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scene 6 The Palace at Moscow. The Emperor Alexis and his court, Captain Bordure. alexis: Infamous adventurer, aren’t you the one who helped kill our cousin Wenceslas? captain bordure: Sire, forgive me, I was carried away despite myself by Father Ubu. alexis: Oh, what a big liar! Well, what can I do for you? captain bordure: Father Ubu imprisoned me on charges of conspiracy; I succeeded in escaping and I have ridden five days and five nights across the steppes to come and beg your gracious forgiveness. alexis: What have you got for me as proof of your loyalty? captain bordure: My honor as a knight, and a detailed map of the town of Thorn. (Kneels and presents his sword to Alexis.) alexis: I accept your sword, but by Saint George, burn the map. I don’t want to owe my victory to an act of treachery. captain bordure: One of the sons of Wenceslas, young Bougrelas, is still alive. I would do anything to restore him. alexis: What was your rank in the Polish Army? captain bordure: I commanded the fifth regiment of the dragoons of Vilna and a company of mercenaries in the service of Father Ubu.

alexis: Fine, I appoint you second in command of the tenth regiment of Cossacks, and woe to you if you betray me. If you fight well, you’ll be rewarded. captain bordure: I don’t lack courage, Sire. alexis: Fine, remove yourself from my sight. He leaves.

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scene 7 Ubu’s Council Chamber. Father Ubu, Mother Ubu, Phynancial Advisers. father ubu: Gentlemen, the meeting has begun, and see that you keep your ears open and your mouths shut. First of all, we’ll turn to the subject of finance; then we’ll speak about a little scheme I’ve thought up to bring good weather and prevent rain. an adviser: Very good, Mr. Ubu. mother ubu: What a stupid fool! father ubu: Take care, madam of my shitr, I’m not going to stand for your idiocies much longer. I’d like you to know, gentlemen, that the finances are proceeding satisfactorily. The streets are mobbed every morning by a crowd of the local low-life, and my men do wonders with them. In every direction you can see only burning houses, and people bent under the weight of our finances. the adviser: And are the new taxes going well, Mr. Ubu? mother ubu: Not at all. The tax on marriages has brought in only eleven cents so far, although Father Ubu chases people everywhere to convince them to marry. father ubu: By my financial sword, hornsbuggers, Madame financieress, I’ve got ears to speak with and you’ve a mouth to listen to me with. Shouts of laughter. You’re mixing me up and it’s your fault that I’m making a fool of myself ! But, horn of Ubu! . . . A messenger enters. Well, what do you have to say for yourself ? Get out of here, you little monkey, before I pocket you with beheading and twisting of the legs. mother ubu: There he goes, but he’s left a letter. father ubu: Read it. I don’t feel like it, or come to think of it perhaps I can’t read. Hurry up, buffrooness, it must be from Bordure. mother ubu: Right. He says that the tsar has received him very well, that he’s going to invade your lands to restore Bougrelas, and that you’re going to be killed.

scene 8 The camp outside Warsaw. soldiers and palotins: Long live Poland! Long live Father Ubu! father ubu: Ah, Mother Ubu, give me my breastplate and my little stick. I’ll soon be so heavy that I won’t be able to move even if I’m being chased. mother ubu: Pooh, what a coward! father ubu: Ah! Here’s the sword of shitr running away first thing and there’s the financial hook which won’t stay put!!! (Drops both.) I’ll never be ready, and the Russians are coming to kill me. a soldier: Lord Ubu, here’s your ear-pick, which you’ve dropped. father ubu: I’ll kill you with my shitr hook and my gizzard-saw. mother ubu: How handsome he is with his helmet and his breastplate! He looks just like an armed pumpkin. father ubu: Now I’ll get my horse. Gentlemen, bring forth the phynancial horse. mother ubu: Father Ubu, your horse can’t carry you—it’s had nothing to eat for five days and it’s about to die. father ubu: That’s a good one! I have to pay twelve cents a day for this sway-

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father ubu: Oh! Oh! I’m scared. I’m scared. I bet I’m going to die. Oh, poor little man that I am! What will become of me, great God? This wicked man is going to kill me. Saint Anthony and all the saints, protect me, and I’ll give you some phynance and burn some candles for you. Lord, what will become of me? (He cries and sobs.) mother ubu: There’s only one safe course to follow, Father Ubu. father ubu: What’s that, my love? mother ubu: War!!! all: Great heavens! What a noble idea! father ubu: Yes, and I’ll be the one to get hurt, as usual. first adviser: Hurry, hurry, let’s organize the army. second: And requisition the provisions. third: And set up the artillery and the fortresses. fourth: And get up the money for the troops. father ubu: That’s enough of that, now, you, or I’ll kill you on the spot. I’m not going to spend any money. That’s a good one, isn’t it! I used to be paid to wage war, and now it’s being waged at my expense. Wait—by my green candle, let’s wage war, since you’re so excited about it, but let’s not spend a penny. all: Hooray for war!

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backed nag and it can’t even carry me. You’re making fun of me, horn of Ubu, or else perhaps you’re stealing from me? Mother Ubu blushes and lowers her eyes. Now bring me another beast, because I’m not going to go on foot, hornsbuggers! An enormous horse is brought out. I’m going to get on. Oops, better sit down before I fall off. The horse starts to leave. Stop this beast. Great God, I’m going to fall off and be killed!!! mother ubu: He’s an absolute idiot. There he is up again; no, he’s down again. father ubu: Horn of Physics, I’m half dead. But never mind, I’m going to the war and I’ll kill everyone. Woe to him who doesn’t keep up with me! I’ll put him in my pocket with twisting of the nose and teeth and extraction of the tongue. mother ubu: Good luck, Mr. Ubu! father ubu: I forgot to tell you that I’m making you the regent. But I’m keeping the financial book, so you’d better not try and rob me. I’ll leave you the Palotin Giron to help you. Farewell, Mother Ubu. mother ubu: Farewell, Father Ubu. Kill the tsar thoroughly. father ubu: Of course. Twisting of the nose and teeth, extraction of the tongue and insertion of the ear-pick. The army marches away to the sound of fanfares. mother ubu (alone): Now that that big fat booby has gone, let’s look to our own affairs, kill Bougrelas, and grab the treasure. ACT IV scene 1 The Royal Crypt in the Cathedral at Warsaw. mother ubu: Where on earth is that treasure? None of these slabs sounds hollow. I’ve counted thirteen slabs beyond the tomb of Ladislas the Great along the length of the wall, and I’ve found nothing. Someone seems to have deceived me. What’s this? The stone sounds hollow here. To work, Mother Ubu. Courage, we’ll have it pried up in a minute. It’s stuck fast. The end of this financial hook will do the trick. There! There’s the gold in the middle of the royal bones. Into the sack with it. Oh! What’s that noise? Can there still be someone alive in these ancient vaults? No, it’s nothing; let’s hurry up. Let’s take everything. This money will look better in the light of day than in the middle of these graves. Back with the stone. What’s that! There’s that noise again! There’s something not quite right

about this place. I’ll get the rest of this gold some other time—I’ll come back tomorrow. a voice (coming from the tomb of John Sigismund): Never, Mother Ubu! Mother Ubu runs away terrified, through the secret door, carrying the stolen gold.

scene 3 The Polish Army marching in the Ukraine. father ubu: Hornsass, godslegs, cowsheads! We’re about to perish, because

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The Main Square in Warsaw. Bougrelas and his men, People and Soldiers. bougrelas: Forward, my friends! Long live Wenceslas and Poland! That old blackguard Father Ubu is gone; only that old witch Mother Ubu and her Palotin are left. I’m going to march at your head and restore my father’s house to the throne. all: Long live Bougrelas! bougrelas: And we’ll abolish all taxes imposed by that horrible Father Ubu. all: Hooray! Forward! To the palace, and death to the Ubus! bougrelas: Look! There’s Mother Ubu coming out on the porch with her guards! mother ubu: What can I do for you, gentlemen? Ah! It’s Bougrelas. The crowd throws stones. first guard: They’ve broken all the windows. second guard: Saint George, I’m done for. third guard: Hornsass, I’m dying. bougrelas: Throw some more stones, my friends. palotin giron: Ho! So that’s the way it is! (He draws his sword and leaps into the crowd, performing horrible slaughter.) bougrelas: Have at you! Defend yourself, you cowardly pisspot! They fight. giron: I die! bougrelas: Victory, my friends! Now for Mother Ubu! Trumpets are heard. Ah! The Nobles are arriving. Run and catch the old hag. all: She’ll do until we can strangle the old bandit himself ! Mother Ubu runs away pursued by all the Poles. Rifle shots and a hail of stones.

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we’re dying of thirst and we’re tired. Sir Soldier, be so good as to carry our financial helmet, and you, Sir Lancer, take charge of the shitr-pick and the physic-stick to unencumber our person, because, let me repeat, we are tired. The soldiers obey. pile: Ho, my Lord! It’s surprising that there are no Russians to be seen. father ubu: It’s regrettable that the state of our finances does not permit us to have a vehicle commensurate with our grandeur; for, for fear of demolishing our steed, we have gone all the way on foot, leading our horse by the bridle. When we get back to Poland, we shall devise, by means of our physical science and with the aid of the wisdom of our advisers, a way of transporting our entire army by wind. cotice: Here comes Nicholas Rensky, in a great hurry. father ubu: What’s the matter with him? rensky: All is lost. Sir, the Poles have revolted, Giron has been killed, and Mother Ubu has fled to the mountains. father ubu: Bird of night, beast of misery, owl’s underwear! Where did you hear this nonsense? What won’t you be saying next! Who’s responsible for this? Bougrelas, I’ll bet. Where’d you just come from? rensky: From Warsaw, noble Lord. father ubu: Child of my shitr, if I believed you I would retreat with the whole army. But, Sir Child, you’ve got feathers in your head instead of brains and you’ve been dreaming nonsense. Run off to the outposts, my child; the Russians can’t be far, and we’ll soon be flourishing our arms, shitr, phynancial and physical. general lascy: Father Ubu, can’t you see the Russians down there on the plain? father ubu: It’s true, the Russians! A fine mess this is. If only there were still a way to run out, but there isn’t; we’re up here on a hill and we’ll be exposed to attack on all sides. the army: The Russians! The enemy! father ubu: Let’s go, gentlemen, into our battle positions. We will remain on top of the hill and under no circumstances commit the idiocy of descending. I’ll keep myself in the middle like a living fortress, and all you others will gravitate around me. I advise you to load your guns with as many bullets as they will hold, because eight bullets can kill eight Russians and that will be eight Russians the less. We will station the infantry at the foot of the hill to receive the Russians and kill them a little, the cavalry in back of them so that they can throw themselves into the confusion, and the artillery around this windmill here so that they can fire into the whole mess. As for us, we will take up our position inside the windmill and fire through the window with the phynancial pistol, and

The same, a Captain and the Russian Army. a captain (entering): Lord Ubu, the Russians are attacking. father ubu: All right, all right, what do you want me to do about it? I didn’t tell them to attack. Nevertheless, gentlemen of Finance, let us prepare ourselves for battle. general lascy: Another cannonball! father ubu: Ah! That’s enough of that! It’s raining lead and steel around here, and it might put a dent in our precious person. Down we go. They all run away. The battle has just begun. They disappear into the clouds of smoke at the foot of the hill. a russian (thrusting): For God and the tsar! rensky: Ah! I’m dead. father ubu: Forward! As for you, sir, I’ll get you because you’ve hurt me, do you hear? You drunken sot, with your popless little popgun. the russian: Ah! I’ll show you! (He fires.) father ubu: Ah! Oh! I’m wounded, I’m shot full of holes, I’m perforated, I’m done for, I’m buried. And now I’ve got you! (He tears him to pieces). Just try that again. general lascy: Forward, charge, across the trench! Victory is ours! father ubu: Do you really think so? So far my brow has felt more lumps than laurels. russian knights: Hooray! Make way for the tsar! Enter the tsar, accompanied by Captain Bordure, in disguise.

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bar the door with the physical stick, and if anyone still tries to get in, let him beware of the shitr-hook!!! officers: Your orders, Lord Ubu, shall be executed. father ubu: Fine, we’ll win, then. What time is it? general lascy: It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. father ubu: In that case, let’s have lunch, because the Russians won’t attack before midday. Tell the soldiers, my lord General, to take a crap and strike up the Financial Song. Lascy withdraws. soldiers and palotins: Long live Father Ubu, our great Financier! Ting, ting, ting; ting, ting, ting; ting, ting, ta-ting! father ubu: Oh, how noble—I adore gallantry! A Russian cannonball breaks one of the arms of the windmill. Aaaaah! I’m frightened. Lord God, I’m dead! No, no, I’m not.

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a pole: Great God! Every man for himself, there’s the tsar! another: Oh, my God, he’s crossed the trench. another: Bing! Bang! Four more chopped up by that big ox of a lieutenant. captain bordure: So! The rest of you won’t surrender, eh? All right, your time has come, John Sobiesky! (He chops him up.) Now for the others! (He massacres Poles.) father ubu: Forward, my friends! Capture that rat! Make mincemeat of the Muscovites! Victory is ours! Long live the Red Eagle! all: Charge! Hooray! Godslegs! Capture the big ox. captain bordure: By Saint George, they’ve got me. father ubu: Ah! it’s you, Bordure! How are you, my friend? I, and all the company, are very happy to welcome you again. I’m going to broil you over a slow fire. Gentlemen of the Finances, light the fire. Oh! Ah! Oh! I’m dead. I must have been hit with a cannonball at least. Oh! My God, forgive my sins. Yes, it’s definitely a cannonball. captain bordure: It was a pistol with a blank cartridge. father ubu: Oh, you’re making fun of me! All right, into the pocket you go! (He flings himself upon him and tears him to pieces.) general lascy: Father Ubu, we’re advancing on all fronts. father ubu: I can see that. But I can’t go on any more, because everyone’s been stepping on my toes. I absolutely have to sit down. Oh, where’s my bottle? general lascy: Go get the tsar’s bottle, Father Ubu! father ubu: Ah! Just what I had in mind. Let’s go. Sword of Shitr, do your duty, and you, financial hook, don’t lag behind! As for you, physical stick, see that you work just as hard and share with the little bit of wood the honor of massacring, scooping out, and imposing upon the Muscovite emperor. Forward, my Phynancial Horse! (He throws himself on the tsar.) a russian officer: Look out, Your Majesty! father ubu: Take that! Oh! Ow! Ah! Goodness me. Ah! Oh, sir, excuse me, leave me alone. I didn’t do it on purpose! (He runs away, pursued by the tsar.) Holy Mother, that madman is coming after me! Great God, what shall I do? Ah, I’ve got that trench ahead of me again. I’ve got him behind me and the trench in front of me! Courage! I’m going to close my eyes! (He jumps the trench. The tsar falls in.) the tsar: God, I’ve fallen in! the poles: Hooray! The tsar has fallen in! father ubu: I’m afraid to turn around. Ah! He fell in. That’s fine; they’ve jumped on him. Let’s go, you Poles; swing away; he’s a tough one, that swine! As for me, I can’t look. But our prediction has been completely fulfilled: the physical stick has performed wonders, and without doubt I

scene 5 A cave in Lithuania. It is snowing. Father Ubu, Pile, Cotice. father ubu: Oh, what a bitch of a day! It’s cold enough to make the rocks crack open, and the person of the Master of Phynances finds itself severely damaged. pile: Ho! Mr. Ubu, have you recovered from your fright and from your flight? father ubu: Well, I’m not frightened any more, but, believe me, I’m still running. cotice (aside): What a turd! father ubu: Well, Sire Cotice, how’s your ear feeling? cotice: As well as can be expected, sir, considering how bad it is. I can’t get the bullet out, and consequently the lead is making me tilt. father ubu: Well, serves you right! You’re always looking for a fight. As for me, I’ve always demonstrated the greatest valor, and without in any way exposing myself I massacred four enemies with my own hand, not counting, of course, those who were already dead and whom we dispatched. cotice: Do you know what happened to little Rensky, Pile? pile: A bullet in his head.

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would have been about to have killed him completely, had not an inexplicable fear come to combat and annul in us the fruits of our courage. But we suddenly had to turn tail, and we owe our salvation only to our skill in the saddle as well as to the sturdy hocks of our Phynancial Horse, whose rapidity is equaled only by its solidity and whose levitation makes its reputation, as well as the depth of the trench which located itself so appropriately under the enemy of us, the presently-before-you Master of Phynances. That was very nice, but nobody was listening. Oops, there they go again! The Russian dragoons charge and rescue the tsar. general lascy: It looks like it’s turning into a rout. father ubu: Now’s the time to make tracks. Now then, gentlemen of Poland, forward! Or rather, backward! poles: Every man for himself ! father ubu: Come on! Let’s go! What a big crowd, what a stampede, what a mob! How am I ever going to get out of this mess? (He is jostled.) You there, watch your step, or you will sample the boiling rage of the Master of Phynances. Ha! There he goes. Now let’s get out of here fast, while Lascy’s looking the other way. He runs off; the tsar and the Russian Army go by, chasing Poles.

father ubu: As the poppy and the dandelion are scythed in the flower of their age by the pitiless scythe of the pitiless scyther who scythes pitilessly their pitiful parts—just so, little Rensky has played the poppy’s part: he fought well, but there were just too many Russians around. pile and cotice: Hey! Sir Ubu! an echo: Grrrrr! pile: What’s that? On guard! father ubu: Oh, no! Not the Russians again! I’ve had enough of them. And, anyway, it’s very simple: if they catch me I’ll just put them all in my pocket.

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scene 6 The same. Enter a bear. cotice: Ho! Master of Phynances! father ubu: Oh! What a sweet little doggie! Isn’t he cute? pile: Watch out! What a huge bear! Hand me my gun! father ubu: A bear! What a horrible beast! Oh, poor me, I’m going to be eaten alive. May God protect me! He’s coming this way. No, he’s got Cotice. I can breathe again! The bear jumps on Cotice. Pile attacks him with his sword. Ubu takes refuge on a high rock. cotice: Save me, Pile! Save me! Help, Sir Ubu! father ubu: Fat chance! Get out of it yourself, my friend; right now I’m going to recite my Pater Noster. Everyone will be eaten in his turn. pile: I’ve got him, I’m holding him. cotice: Hold him tight, my friend, he’s starting to let me go. father ubu: Sanctificetur nomen tuum. cotice: Cowardly lout! pile: Oh! It’s biting me! O Lord, save us, I’m dead. father ubu: Fiat voluntas tua! cotice: I’ve wounded it! pile: Hooray! It’s bleeding now. While the Palotins shout, the bear bellows with pain and Ubu continues to mumble. cotice: Hang on, while I find my exploding brass knuckles. father ubu: Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. pile: Haven’t you got it yet? I can’t hold on any longer. father ubu: Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. cotice: Ah! I’ve got it. A resounding explosion; the bear falls dead.

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pile and cotice: Victory! father ubu: Sed libera nos a malo. Amen. Is he really dead? Can I come down now? pile (with disgust ): Just as you like. father ubu (coming down): You may be assured that if you are still alive and if you tread once more the Lithuanian snow, you owe it to the lofty virtue of the Master of Phynances, who has struggled, broken his back, and shouted himself hoarse reciting paternosters for your safety, and who has wielded the spiritual sword of prayer with just as much courage as you have wielded with dexterity the temporal one of the here-attendant Palotin Cotice’s exploding brass knuckles. We have even pushed our devotion further, for we did not hesitate to climb to the top of a very high rock, so that our prayers had less far to travel to reach heaven. pile: Disgusting pig! father ubu: Oh, you beast! Thanks to me, you’ve got something to eat. What a belly he has, gentlemen! The Greeks would have been more comfortable in there than in their wooden horse, and we very barely escaped, my dear friends, being able to satisfy ourselves of his interior capacity with our own eyes. pile: I’m dying of hunger. What can we eat? cotice: The bear! father ubu: My poor friends, are you going to eat it completely raw? We don’t have anything to make a fire with. pile: What about our flintstones? father ubu: Ah, that’s true. And it seems to me that not far from here there is a little wood where dry branches may be found. Sire Cotice, go and fetch some. Cotice runs off across the snow. pile: And now, Sir Ubu, you can go and carve up the bear. father ubu: Oh, no. It may not be completely dead yet. Since it has already half-eaten you, and chewed upon all your members, you’re obviously the man to take care of that. I’ll go and light the fire while we’re waiting for him to bring the wood. Pile starts to carve up the bear. Oh! Watch out! It just moved. pile: But Sir Ubu, it’s stone cold already. father ubu: That’s a pity. It would have been much better to have had him hot. We’re running the risk of giving the Master of Phynances an attack of indigestion. pile (aside): Disgusting fellow! (Aloud.) Give me a hand, Mr. Ubu; I can’t do everything myself.

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father ubu: No, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m really excessively fatigued. cotice (re-entering): What a lot of snow, my friends; anyone would think this was Castile or the North Pole. Night is beginning to fall. In an hour it’ll be dark. Let’s make haste while we can still see. father ubu: Did you hear that, Pile? Get a move on. In fact, get a move on, both of you! Skewer the beast, cook the beast—I’m hungry! pile: Well, that does it! You’ll work or you’ll get nothing, do you hear me, you big hog? father ubu: Oh! It’s all the same to me; I’d just as soon eat it raw; you’re the ones whose stomachs it won’t agree with. Anyway, I’m sleepy. cotice: What can we expect from him, Pile? Let’s cook dinner ourselves. We just won’t give him any, that’s all. Or at most we’ll throw him a few bones. pile: Good enough. Ah, the fire’s catching. father ubu: Oh, that’s very nice. It’s getting warm now. But I see Russians everywhere. My God, what a retreat! Ah! (He falls asleep.) cotice: I wonder if Rensky was telling the truth about Mother Ubu being dethroned. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. pile: Let’s finish cooking supper. cotice: No, we’ve got more important problems. I think it would be a good idea to inquire into the truth of the news. pile: You’re right. Should we desert Father Ubu or stay with him? cotice: Let’s sleep on it; we’ll decide tomorrow. pile: No—let’s sneak off under cover of darkness. cotice: Let’s go, then. They go. scene 7 father ubu (talking in his sleep): Ah, Sir Russian Dragoon, watch out, don’t shoot in this direction; there’s someone here. Oh, there’s Bordure; he looks mean, like a bear. And there’s Bougrelas coming at me! The bear, the bear! He’s right below me; he looks fierce. My God! No, I’m sorry I can’t help you! Go away, Bougrelas! Don’t you hear me, you clown? There’s Rensky now, and the tsar. Oh, they’re going to beat me up. And Mother Ubu. Where did you get all that gold? You’ve stolen my gold, you miserable witch; you’ve been ransacking my tomb in Warsaw Cathedral, under the moon. I’ve been dead a long time; Bougrelas has killed me and I’ve been buried in Warsaw next to Ladislas the Great, and also at Cracow next to John Sigismund, and also at Thorn in the dungeon with Bordure. There it is again. Get out of here, you nasty bear! You look like Bordure. Do you hear, you devilish beast? No, he can’t hear me, the Salopins have

cut his ears off. Disembrain them, devitalize them, cut off their ears, confiscate their money and drink yourself to death, that’s the life of a Salopin, that’s happiness for the Master of Phynances. (He falls silent and sleeps.) ACT V

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It is night. Father Ubu is asleep. Enter Mother Ubu, without seeing him. The stage is in total darkness. mother ubu: Shelter at last. I’m alone here, which is fine, but what an awful journey: crossing all Poland in four days! And even before that, everything happened to me at once! As soon as that fat fool left, I went to the crypt to grab what I could. And right after that, I was almost stoned to death by that Bougrelas and his madmen. I lost the Palotin Giron, my knight, who was so stricken by my beauty that he swooned whenever he saw me, and even, I’ve been told, when he didn’t see me, which is the height of passion. He would have let himself be cut in two for my sake, the poor boy. The proof is that he was cut in four, by Bougrelas. Snip, snap, snop! I thought I’d die. Right after that, I took to flight, pursued by the maddened mob. I flee the palace, reach the Vistula, and find all the bridges guarded. I swim across the river, hoping to escape my persecutors. Nobles come from every direction and chase me. I die a thousand deaths, surrounded by a ring of Poles, screaming for my blood. Finally I wriggle out of their clutches, and after four days of running across the snow of my former kingdom, I reach my refuge here. I haven’t had a thing to eat or drink for four days. Bougrelas was right behind me. . . . And here I am, safe at last. Oh, I’m nearly dead of cold and exhaustion. But I’d really like to know what’s become of my big buffroon—I mean my honored spouse. Have I fleeced him! Have I taken his rixthalers! Have I pulled the wool over his eyes! And his starving phynancial horse: he’s not going to see any oats very soon, either, the poor devil. Oh, what a joke! But alas! My treasure is lost! It’s in Warsaw, and let anybody who wants it go and get it. father ubu (starting to wake up): Capture Mother Ubu! Cut off her ears! mother ubu: Oh, my God! Where am I? I’m losing my mind. Good Lord, no! God be praised I think I can see Mr. Ubu Sleeping near me. Let’s show a little sweetness. Well, my fat fellow, did you have a good sleep?

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father ubu: A very bad one! That was a tough bear! A fight of hunger against toughness, but hunger has completely eaten and devoured the toughness, as you will see when it gets light in here. Do you hear, my noble Palotins? mother ubu: What’s he babbling about? He seems even stupider than when he left. What’s the matter with him? father ubu: Cotice, Pile, answer me, by my bag of shitr! Where are you? Oh, I’m afraid. Somebody did speak. Who spoke? Not the bear, I suppose. Shitr! Where are my matches? Ah! I lost them in the battle. mother ubu (aside): Let’s take advantage of the situation and the darkness and pretend to be a ghost. We’ll make him promise to forgive us our little pilfering. father ubu: By Saint Anthony, somebody is speaking! Godslegs! I’ll be damned! mother ubu (deepening her voice): Yes, Mr. Ubu, somebody is indeed speaking, and the trumpet of the archangel which will call the dead from dust and ashes on Judgment Day would not speak otherwise! Listen to my stern voice. It is that of Saint Gabriel who cannot help but give good advice. father ubu: To be sure! mother ubu: Don’t interrupt me or I’ll fall silent, and that will settle your hash! father ubu: Oh, buggers! I’ll be quiet, I won’t say another word. Please go on, Madame Apparition! mother ubu: We were saying, Mr. Ubu, that you are a big fat fellow. father ubu: Very fat, that’s true. mother ubu: Shut up, Goddammit! father ubu: Oh my! Angels aren’t supposed to curse! mother ubu (aside): Shitr! (Continuing.) You are married, Mr. Ubu? father ubu: Absolutely. To the Queen of Witches. mother ubu: What you mean to say is that she is a charming woman. father ubu: A perfect horror. She has claws all over her; you don’t know where to grab her. mother ubu: You should grab her with sweetness, Sir Ubu, and if you grab her thus you will see that Venus herself couldn’t be as nice. father ubu: Who did you say has lice? mother ubu: You’re not listening, Mr. Ubu. Try and keep your ears open now. (Aside.) We’d better get a move on; it’s getting light in here. Mr. Ubu, your wife is adorable and delicious; she doesn’t have a single fault. father ubu: Ah, you’re wrong there: there isn’t a single fault that she doesn’t have. mother ubu: That’s enough now. Your wife is not unfaithful to you!

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father ubu: I’d like to see someone who could stand making her unfaithful. She’s an absolute harpy! mother ubu: She doesn’t drink! father ubu: Only since I’ve taken the key to the cellar away from her. Before that, she was drunk by seven in the morning and perfumed herself with brandy. Now that she perfumes herself with heliotrope, she doesn’t smell so bad any more. Not that I care about that. But now I’m the only one that can get drunk! mother ubu: Stupid idiot! Your wife doesn’t steal your gold. father ubu: No, that’s peculiar. mother ubu: She doesn’t pinch a cent! father ubu: As witness our noble and unfortunate Phynancial Horse, who, not having been fed for three months, has had to undergo the entire campaign being dragged by the bridle across the Ukraine. He died on the job, poor beast! mother ubu: That’s all a bunch of lies—you’ve got a model wife, and you’re a monster. father ubu: That’s all a bunch of truth. My wife’s a slut, and you’re a sausage. mother ubu: Take care, Father Ubu! father ubu: Oh, that’s right, I forgot whom I was talking to. I take it all back. mother ubu: You killed Wenceslas. father ubu: That wasn’t my fault, actually. Mother Ubu wanted it. mother ubu: You had Boleslas and Ladislas killed. father ubu: Too bad for them. They wanted to do me in. mother ubu: You didn’t keep your promise to Bordure, and moreover, you killed him. father ubu: I’d rather I ruled Lithuania than he. For the moment, neither of us is doing it. Certainly you can see that I’m not. mother ubu: There’s only one way you can make up for all your sins. father ubu: What’s that? I’m all ready to become a holy man; I’d like to be a bishop and have my name on the calendar. mother ubu: You must forgive Mother Ubu for having sidetracked some of the funds. father ubu: What do you think of this: I’ll pardon her when she’s given everything back, when she’s been soundly thrashed, and when she’s revived my phynancial horse. mother ubu: He’s got that horse on the brain. Ah, I’m lost, day is breaking! father ubu: Well, I’m happy to know at last for sure that my dear wife steals from me. Now I have it on the highest authority. Omnis a Deo scientia, which is to say: omnis, all; a Deo, knowledge; scientia, comes from God.

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That explains this marvel. But Madame Apparition is so silent now! What can I offer her to revive her? What she said was very entertaining. But, look, it’s daybreak! Ah! Good Lord, by my Phynancial Horse, it’s Mother Ubu! mother ubu (brazenly): That’s not true, and I’m going to excommunicate you. father ubu: Ah, you old slut! mother ubu: Such impiety! father ubu: That’s too much! I can see very well that it’s you, you half-witted hag! What the devil are you doing here? mother ubu: Giron is dead and the Poles chased me. father ubu: And the Russians chased me. So two great souls meet again. mother ubu: Say rather than a great soul has met an ass! father ubu: Fine, and now it’s going to meet this little monster. (He throws the bear at her.) mother ubu ( falling down crushed beneath the weight of the bear): Oh, great God! How horrible! I’m dying! I’m suffocating! It’s chewing on me! It’s swallowing me! I’m being digested! father ubu: He’s dead, you gargoyle! Oh, wait, perhaps he’s not. Lord, he’s not dead, save us. (Climbing back onto his rock.) Pater noster qui es . . . mother ubu (disentangling herself ): Where did he go? father ubu: Oh, Lord, there she is again. Stupid creature, there’s no way of getting rid of her. Is that bear dead? mother ubu: Of course, you stupid ass, he’s stone cold. How did he get here? father ubu (bewildered): I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do know. He wanted to eat Pile and Cotice, and I killed him with one swipe of a Pater Noster. mother ubu: Pile, Cotice, Pater Noster? What’s that all about? He’s out of his mind, my finance! father ubu: It happened exactly the way I said. And you’re an idiot, you stinkpot! mother ubu: Describe your campaign to me, Father Ubu. father ubu: Holy Mother, no! It would take too long. All I know is that despite my incontestable valor, everybody beat me up. mother ubu: What, even the Poles? father ubu: They were shouting: Long live Wenceslas and Bougrelas! I thought they were going to chop me up. Oh, those madmen! And then they killed Rensky! mother ubu: I don’t care about that! Did you know that Bougrelas killed Palotin Giron? father ubu: I don’t care about that! And then they killed poor Lascy!

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mother ubu: I don’t care about that! father ubu: Oh, well, in that case, come over here, you old slut! Get down on your knees before your master. (He grabs her and throws her on her knees.) You’re about to suffer the extreme penalty. mother ubu: Ho, ho, Mr. Ubu! father ubu: Oh! Oh! Oh! Are you all through now? I’m just about to begin: twisting of the nose, tearing out of the hair, penetration of the little bit of wood into the ears; extraction of the brain by the heels, laceration of the posterior, partial or perhaps even total suppression of the spinal marrow (assuming that would make her character less spiny), not forgetting the puncturing of the swimming bladder and finally the grand re-enacted decollation of John the Baptist, the whole taken from the very Holy Scriptures, from the Old as well as the New Testament, as edited, corrected, and perfected by the here-attendant Master of Phynances! How does that suit you, you sausage? (He begins to tear her to pieces.) mother ubu: Mercy, Mr. Ubu! A loud noise at the entrance to the cave.

The same, and Bougrelas, who rushes into the cave with his soldiers. bougrelas: Forward, my friends. Long live Poland! father ubu: Oh! Oh! Wait a moment, Mr. Pole. Wait until I’ve finished with madam my other half ! bougrelas (hitting him): Take that, coward, tramp, braggart, laggard, Mussulman! father ubu (countering): Take that! Polack, drunkard, bastard, hussar, tartar, pisspot, inkblot, sneak, freak, anarchist! mother ubu (hitting out also): Take that, prig, pig, rake, fake, snake, mistake, mercenary! The soldiers throw themselves on the Ubus, who defend themselves as best they can. father ubu: Gods! What a battle! mother ubu: Watch out for our feet, Gentlemen of Poland. father ubu: By my green candle, when will this endlessness be ended? Another one! Ah, if only I had my Phynancial Horse here! bougrelas: Hit them, keep hitting them! voices from without: Long live Father Ubu, our Great Financier! father ubu: Ah! There they are. Hooray! There are the Father Ubuists. Forward, come on, you’re desperately needed, Gentlemen of Finance. Enter the Palotins, who throw themselves into the fight.

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cotice: All out, you Poles! pile: Ho! We meet again, my Financial sir. Forward, push as hard as you can, get to the exit; once outside, we’ll run away. father ubu: Oh! He’s my best man. Look the way he hits them! bougrelas: Good God! I’m wounded! stanislas leczinski: It’s nothing, Sire. bougrelas: No, I’m just a little stunned. john sobieski: Fight, keep fighting—they’re getting to the door, the knaves. cotice: We’re getting there; follow me, everybody. By couseyquence of the whiche, the sky becomes visible. pile: Courage, Sire Ubu! father ubu: Oh! I just crapped in my pants. Forward, hornsbuggers! Killem, bleedem, skinnem, massacrem, by Ubu’s horn! Ah! It’s quieting down. cotice: There are only two of them guarding the exit! father ubu (knocking them down with the bear): And one, and two! Oof ! Here I am outside! Let’s run now! Follow, you others, and don’t stop for anything! scene 3 The scene represents the Province of Livonia covered with snow. The Ubus and their followers are in flight. father ubu: Ah! I think they’ve stopped trying to catch us. mother ubu: Yes, Bougrelas has gone to get himself crowned. father ubu: I don’t envy him that crown, either. mother ubu: You’re quite right, Father Ubu. They disappear into the distance. scene 4 The bridge of a close-hauled schooner on the Baltic. Father Ubu and his entire gang are on the bridge. the captain: What a lovely breeze! father ubu: We are indeed sailing with a rapidity which borders on the miraculous. We must be making at least a million knots an hour, and these knots have been tied so well that once tied they cannot be untied. It’s true that we have the wind behind us. pile: What a pathetic imbecile! A squall arises, the ship rolls, the sea foams. father ubu: Oh! Ah! My God, we’re going to capsize. The ship is leaning over too far, it’ll fall!

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the captain: Everyone to leeward, furl the foresail! father ubu: Oh, no, don’t put everybody on the same side! That’s imprudent. What if the wind changed direction—everybody would sink to the bottom of the sea and the fish would eat us. the captain: Don’t rush, line up and close ranks! father ubu: Yes, yes, rush! I’m in a hurry! Rush, do you hear! It’s your fault that we aren’t getting there, brute of a captain. We should have been there already. I’m going to take charge of this myself. Get ready to tack about. Drop anchor, tack with the wind, tack against the wind. Run up the sails, sun down the sails, tiller up, tiller down, tiller to the side. You see, everything’s going fine. Come broadside to the waves now and everything will be perfect. All are convulsed with laugher; the wind rises. the captain: Haul over the jibsail, reef over the topsail! father ubu: That’s not bad, it’s even good! Swab out the steward and jump in the crow’s-nest. Several chose with laughter. A wave is shipped. Oh, what a deluge! All this is the result of the maneuvers which we just ordered. mother ubu and pile: What a wonderful thing navigation is! A second wave is shipped. pile (drenched): But watch out for Satan, his pomps and pumps. father ubu: Sir boy, get us something to drink. They all sit down to drink. mother ubu: What a pleasure it will be to see our sweet France again, our old friends and our castle of Mondragon! father ubu: We’ll be there soon. At the moment we’ve passed below the castle of Elsinore. pile: I feel cheerful at the thought of seeing my dear Spain again. cotice: Yes, and we’ll amaze our countrymen with the stories of our wonderful adventures. father ubu: Oh, certainly! And I’m going to get myself appointed Minister of Finances in Paris. mother ubu: Oh, that’s right! Oops, what a bump that was! cotice: That’s nothing, we’re just doubling the point of Elsinore. pile: And now our noble ship plows at full speed through the somber waves of the North Sea. father ubu: A fierce and inhospitable sea, which bathes the shores of the land called Germany, so named because the inhabitants of this land are all cousins-german.

mother ubu: That’s what I call true learning. They say that this country is very beautiful. father ubu: Ah! Gentlemen! Beautiful as it may be, it cannot compare with Poland. For if there were no Poland, there would be no Poles!

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Theater Questions Alfred Jarry

What conditions are indispensable to the theater? I do not think we need give any more thought to the question of whether the three unities are necessary or whether the unity of action alone will suffice, and if everything revolves around a single character, then the unity of action has had its due. Nor do I think that we can argue either from Aristophanes or Shakespeare if it is the public’s susceptibilities that we are supposed to respect, since many editions of Aristophanes have footnotes on every page stating: ‘‘The whole of this passage is full of obscene allusions,’’ and, as for Shakespeare, one only has to reread certain of Ophelia’s remarks, or the famous scene (nearly always cut) in which a Queen is taking French lessons. The alternative would appear to be to model ourselves on Messieurs Augier, Dumas fils, Labiche, etc., whom we have had the misfortune to read, and with profound tedium: it is more than likely that the members of the younger generation, though they may have read these gentlemen, have not the slightest recollection of having done so. I do not think there is the slightest reason to give a work dramatic form unless one has invented a character whom one finds it more convenient to let loose on a stage than to analyze in a book. And anyway, why should the public, which is illiterate by definition, attempt quotations and comparisons? It criticized Ubu Roi for being a vulgar imitation of Shakespeare and Rabelais, because ‘‘its sets are economically replaced by a placard’’ and a certain word is repeated. People ought not to be unaware of the fact that it is now more or less certain that never, at least never Reprinted from Ubu Roi, Selected Works of Alfred Jarry, ed. Roger Shattuck and Simon Watson Taylor; trans. Barbara Wright (New York: Grove, 1965), 82–85, ∫ 1961, by permission of New Directions.

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since Shakespeare’s day, have his plays been acted in any other way than with sets and on a relatively perfected stage. Furthermore, people saw Ubu as a work written in ‘‘old French’’ because we amused ourselves by printing it in old-style type, and they thought ‘‘phynance’’ was sixteenth-century spelling. I find so much more accurate the remark of one of the Poles in the crowd scenes, who said that in his opinion ‘‘it’s just like Musset, because the set changes so frequently.’’ It would have been easy to alter Ubu to suit the taste of the Paris public by making the following minor changes: the opening word would have been Blast (or Blasttr), the unspeakable brush would have turned into a pretty girl going to bed, the army uniforms would have been First-Empire style, Ubu would have knighted the Czar, and various spouses would have been cuckolded—but in that case it would have been filthier. I intended that when the curtain went up, the scene should confront the public like the exaggerating mirror in the stories of Mme Leprince de Beaumont, in which the depraved saw themselves with dragons’ bodies, or bulls’ horns, or whatever corresponded to their particular vice. It is not surprising that the public should have been aghast at the sight of its ignoble other self, which it had never before been shown completely. This other self, as M. Catulle Mendès has excellently said, is composed ‘‘of eternal human imbecility, eternal lust, eternal gluttony, the vileness of instinct magnified into tyranny; of the sense of decency, the virtues, the patriotism and the ideals peculiar to those who have just eaten their fill.’’ Really, these are hardly the constituents for an amusing play, and the masks demonstrate that the comedy must at the most be the macabre comedy of an English clown, or of a Dance of Death. Before Gémier agreed to play the part, Lugné-Poë had learned Ubu’s lines and wanted to rehearse the play as a tragedy. And what no one seems to have understood—it was made clear enough, though, and constantly recalled by Ma Ubu’s continually repeated: ‘‘What an idiotic man! . . . What a sorry imbecile!’’—is that Ubu’s speeches were not meant to be full of witticisms, as various little ubuists claimed, but of stupid remarks, uttered with all the authority of the Ape. And in any case the public, which protests with bogus scorn that it contains ‘‘not a scrap of wit from beginning to end,’’ is still less capable of understanding anything profound. We know, from our four years’ observation of the public at the Théâtre de l’Œuvre, that if you are absolutely determined to give the public an inkling of something, you must explain it . . . beforehand. The public does not understand Peer Gynt, which is one of the most lucid plays imaginable, any more than it understands Baudelaire’s prose or Mallarmé’s precise syntax. [People] know nothing of Rimbaud, they only heard of Verlaine’s existence after he was dead, and they are terrified when they hear Les Flaireurs or Pelléas et Mélisande. They pretend to think writers and artists a lot of crackpots, and some of them would like to purge all works of art of everything spontaneous and quintessential, of every sign of superiority, and to bowdlerize them so that they could have been written by the

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public in collaboration. That is their point of view, and that of certain plagiarists, conscious and unconscious. Have we no right to consider the public from our point of view?—the public that claims that we are madmen suffering from a surfeit of what it regards as hallucinatory sensations produced in us by our exacerbated senses. From our point of view it is they who are the madmen, but of the opposite sort—what scientists would call idiots. They are suffering from a dearth of sensations, for their senses have remained so rudimentary that they can perceive nothing but immediate impressions. Does progress for them consist in drawing nearer to the brute beast or in gradually developing their embryonic cerebral convolutions? Since Art and the public’s Understanding are so incompatible, we may well have been mistaken in making a direct attack on the public in Ubu Roi; [audiences] resented it because they understood it only too well, whatever they may say. Ibsen’s onslaught on crooked society was almost unnoticed. It is because the public is [such] a mass—inert, obtuse, and passive—that it needs to be shaken up from time to time so that we can tell from [its members’] bearlike grunts where they are—and also where they stand. They are pretty harmless, in spite of their numbers, because they are fighting against intelligence. Ubu did not debrain all the nobles. They are like Cyrano de Bergerac’s Icicle-Animal, which does battle with the Fire-Beast—in any case they would melt before they won, but even if they did win they would be only too honored to hang the corpse of the sun-beast up against their mantelpieces and to allow its rays to illuminate their adipose tissue. It is a being so different from them that its relation to them is like an exterior soul to their bodies. Light is active and shade is passive, and light is not detached from shade but, given sufficient time, penetrates it. Reviews which used to publish Loti’s novels are now printing a dozen pages of Verhaeren and several of Ibsen’s plays. Time is necessary because people who are older than we—and whom we respect for that reason—have lived among certain works which have the charm of habitual objects for them, and they were born with the souls that match these works, guaranteed to last until eighteen-ninety . . . odd. We shall not try to push them out of our way—we are no longer in the seventeenth century; we shall wait until their souls, which made sense in relation to themselves and to the false values which surrounded them throughout their lives, have come to a full stop (even though we have not waited). We too shall become solemn, fat, and Ubu-like and shall publish extremely classical books which will probably lead to our becoming mayors of small towns where, when we become academicians, the blockheads constituting the local intelligentsia will present us with Sèvres vases, while they present their mustaches on velvet cushions to our children. And another lot of young people will appear and consider us completely out of date, and they will write ballads to express their loathing of us, and that is just the way things should always be.

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part three

Intimate Theater/ Chamber Drama

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ugust Strindberg (1849–1912) worked as a teacher, librarian, journalist, and actor before turning to playwriting. Prolific, he wrote more than sixty plays in four decades, and his extensive theoretical writings on drama show he was deeply invested in his role as a dramatic and theatrical innovator. His plays are traditionally divided into two major stages: his Naturalist period of the late 1880s and early 1890s, and his predominantly Expressionist period (which also includes some Swedish history plays) from 1898 onward, though his focus on the psychology of his characters remained one of his hallmarks. Of the Naturalist plays, The Father (1887) and Miss Julie (1888) are the most frequently produced. A reaction against the elaborate plots of melodrama and the well-made play, these works pay scrupulous attention to the Aristotelian unities and explore heredity, setting, and circumstances as sources for the portrayal of complex, modern characters. From 1894 to 1896, Strindberg experienced a series of psychotic episodes, commonly called his ‘‘inferno crisis,’’ prompting him to investigate alchemy and the occult and to write plays that display a preoccupation with distorted inner states of mind. The fragmentation of personality so characteristic of his Expressionism first appeared in To Damascus (Part I, 1898), a play with biblical overtones that also projects the problems of the dramatist’s second marriage. (Because Strindberg was one of the most subjective of writers, his three marriages provided rich source material for much of his drama and fiction.) The full-blown Expressionism that followed is evident in Dance of Death (1900) but represented chiefly by A Dream Play (1901)—which did so much to free the stage from the time-and-space-bound assumptions of Naturalism. Echoing many of discoveries in psychology and psychoanalysis by his contemporaries, these latter plays disregarded the classical unities in favor of the unpredictable structure of dreams, exploiting the individual, subjective mind for their overall shape.

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In The Ghost Sonata, the third in a series of four ‘‘chamber plays’’ he wrote in 1907, Strindberg attempted to find the theatrical equivalent to chamber music and explore the disparity between appearance and reality. He wrote all the chamber plays for the 161-seat Intimate Theater in Stockholm (just as chamber music is written to be performed in a room rather than a concert hall), which he founded and operated with August Falck from 1907 to 1910. Although they enjoyed only limited success in Sweden during his own lifetime, Strindberg’s Naturalistic and Expressionistic plays quickly gained appreciation abroad, especially in Germany. His work has influenced an extraordinarily wide range of movements in modern as well as avant-garde drama, including Naturalism, Expressionism, Surrealism, and the Theater of the Absurd.

Strindberg as Dramatist

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he Ghost Sonata seethes with indignation as Strindberg’s scorn and contempt for the world find expression in some of the most grotesque and theatrically stunning scenes in modern drama. To say what he felt, Strindberg had to invent a new dramatic language that has been called, by turns, Surrealistic, Expressionistic, or even Symbolist, a language in which metaphors assume life. To say ‘‘time hangs heavy’’ is one thing; to picture, as Dali has done, a watch hanging heavily is another. To say that the sweet young thing you once knew now looks like an old mummy is one thing; to have this woman imagine herself a mummy and comport herself like one, as Strindberg has her do, is another. The artistic originality of The Ghost Sonata and the visionary intensity of its best scenes have made this by far the best known of the Chamber Plays. But critics seem reluctant to declare that the play possesses any great coherence. The stumbling block to most interpretations is the last scene, which can easily appear redundant. The plot peters out after the ‘‘ghost supper’’ of the second scene, and the third scene comes as an anticlimax. After the unmasker Hummel has been unmasked, what more is there to hold our attention? The answer lies in what Strindberg was trying to say. ‘‘No predetermined form is binding on the author because the subject matter determines the form’’ (SS, 50:12): that was the principle behind the Chamber Plays. He wanted the theatergoer to respond to this new kind of theater music in the same way that a listener responds to chamber music in the recital hall. The ordinary listener cannot do what the music student does when he pores over the score and sees how the parts are related to each other and how the themes are intertwined. But the listener will be able to follow the music all the same, just as the sensitive theatergoer will be able to catch the drift of Strindberg’s play without understanding what is going on at every moment. In fact, absolute clarity would dispel meaning because a major concern of the play is our inability to know exactly what is going on in life. As in life, so in science. The modern physicist has found that the more precisely he determines the position of a subatomic particle, the less he knows about its momentum, and the more he knows about its momentum, the less he knows about its position. This vexing situation, which led Heisenberg in 1923 to formulate his indeterminacy principle, has its counterpart in the macrocosm. The more narrowly we focus our attention on a particular human crisis, the less we know about the general tendency of our lives; and the more clearly we delineate the general tendency, the less able we are to isolate the specific cause of an event. Nothing is easier to prove or disprove than why a person acted as he did. Yet just as the physicist, though ignorant of the behavior of a specific particle, can predict statistically what the aggregate of particles will do, so Strindberg believed that human activity in its entirety was governed by some law. Excerpted from Evert Sprinchorn, Strindberg as Dramatist (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), 259–70.

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Long before Heisenberg discovered the indeterminacy principle, Strindberg made use of something like it in this drama. Hummel’s explanation to the Student of the relationship of the people of the house to one another is hopelessly complicated. In an ordinary play, this explanation, which explains nothing and confuses everybody, would be exposition of the worst sort. Here it establishes the confusing entanglements that constitute the subject. Strindberg’s aim was to create a network of allusions, of interrelated images, that would be the theatrical counterpart of the infinitely complicated cosmic web woven by inner and outer forces. In the naturalistic view of man, causes and effects can be isolated; in the Buddhist view, the strands that go into the making of our lives are so numerous and so entangled with strands from other lives in the making that all one can perceive, at best, is a general pattern. Just how the little curlicues that are continuously being woven into the fabric of our lives come to form this particular pattern can be observed only occasionally. It is this sense of complexity, this growing awareness that things are somehow related without our knowing exactly how, that Strindberg wanted to convey. The problem was one of organizing the myriad allusions and references into a scheme that would guide the half-conscious thoughts of the viewer. In dramatic terms, it was a question of finding a through-line. Eliot and Joyce faced the same problem, in The Waste Land and Ulysses, respectively, where they had to sacrifice narrative development for inner revelation in order to express a view of life that had less to do with time and space and progress than with stillness and spirit and regeneration. While picturing the fragmentation of life in modern times, Eliot brought order into his poem by making the various sections of it represent the search for the Holy Grail. He found his through-line in Jessie L. Weston’s Frazerinspired examination of medieval legend. Strindberg found his in the mysticreligious philosopher Emanuel Swedenborg. The view in this play is not from a point near the end of life, as in The Burned House, but from a point on the other side of the grave. In this, his most extravagant work, Strindberg takes us on a journey into death, lets us leave the body and enter the world of spirits. The steamship bells at the beginning signal the start of the journey, which will end at the Isle of the Dead. Like the people in the play, we hardly know that we have left the natural world because the life of the body is continued into the other world. ‘‘The first state of man after death,’’ says Swedenborg, resembles his state in the world, for he is then likewise in externals, having a like face, like speech, and a like disposition, thus a like moral and civil life; and in consequence he is made aware that he is not still in the world only by giving attention to what he encounters (Heaven and Hell, n. 493). What we encounter is a spectral milkmaid, a dead consul who appears in his winding sheet to count his mourners, and a young student who tells a strange story about saving a child from a collapsing building only to have the child disappear from his arms. By this time, it should dawn on us that the child disappeared because she was saved and remained in the natural world. Before us is the facade of an elegant apartment house. This set represents exteriors, the first state of man after death, the state that corresponds to the

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world of social accommodation and legal inhibition. The second scene takes us into the house, into the Round Room, where the Mummy appears. This represents the state of interiors, where the spirits become, to quote Swedenborg, ‘‘visibly just what they had been in themselves while in the world, what they then did and said secretly being now made manifest’’ (Heaven and Hell, n. 507). Here Swedenborg provided the inspiration for the graphic and theatrical disrobing scene in which Hummel strips the Colonel of his decorations and exposes him as a social sham, only to be unmasked himself by the Mummy as a criminal and a stealer of souls. The Round Room is what Strindberg elsewhere calls ‘‘the undressing room into which the deceased are led immediately after death. There they remove the vesture they were compelled to put on in society and with friends and family; and the angels soon see them for what they are’’ (SS, 46:49– 50). The hymn to the sun, intoned by the Student, provides a fitting conclusion to the scene both because of what it says about kindness and guilelessness and because of its source. Strindberg freely adapted it from some stanzas of the Icelandic Sólarljó®, a visionary poem, Catholic in inspiration, containing a description of the moment of death—‘‘I saw the sun’’—and of hell and heaven by a man who from the other side of the grave is able to communicate with his living son. The third and last scene, the Hyacinth Room, represents in the Swedenborgian plan the third state of man after death, a place of instruction and preparation for those who may merit a place in heaven. The essentially good spirit, like the Hyacinth Girl, must be vastated and purged of evils and falsities acquired on earth. The Student functions here as a vastating spirit, confronting her with the ugly truths of life and removing evils and falsities from her in order that she may receive the influx of goods and truths from heaven. As he speaks to her, she pines and withers away. The three sets of the play also correspond approximately to what the theosophists, following the cabalists, call the three dwellings of the soul: Earth for the physical man, or the animal Soul; Kâma-Loka (Hades, the Limbo) for the disembodied man, or his Shell; Devachan for the higher Triad. The shell is the astral form of the soul; it is the body that is left behind when the highest aspect of the soul, the mind, departs for Devachan or nirvana, that condition of the soul in which passion, hatred, and delusion are no more. The Buddhist and Christian hints dropped at the beginning of the play continue to ripple through it and to intermingle, especially in the latter half. The room in which the unmasking of the Colonel and the old man takes place is both Kâma-Loka and hell. In the last scene, the Student speaks of Christ’s sufferings on earth, while a small statue of Buddha expresses purity of will and the patience to endure. The shallot in its lap symbolizes the relation of matter to spirit (Swedenborg’s correspondences) and man’s striving to raise earth to heaven. In the final moments, what is seen and what is heard fuse together into a sublime poetic image of radiant theatricality: the harp bursting into sound, the Student’s solemn hymn to the sun, the white refulgent light burning away the reality that is only an illusion, and the emergence in the distance of the Isle of the Dead (via a back projection of Böcklin’s painting). The light that floods the room and causes

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it to disappear is the light of death, of nirvana, and of divine wisdom and love. In the Sólarljó®, the dying man sees the sun and knows the truth about life as he passes over the threshold. In Swedenborg, the sun is the symbol of God’s love, and when the angels draw the film from the eyes of a dying person, he sees a bright white light that represents eternal life. In Mahayana Buddhism, the Buddha is the pure light that banishes the darkness of ghosts, of the animal world, of hell; it is the light of the great mind and power that lights the way to the land of happiness; it is the light of truth, purity, and mercy. On the cover of the manuscript of the play, Strindberg drew a picture of Buddha’s shallot. He gave the play the subtitle ‘‘Kâma-Loka’’; he thought of calling it ‘‘The Ghost Supper’’; but he finally settled on The Ghost Sonata, which suggests both the extraterrestrial setting of the play and its musical structure. The Sonata title is certainly the most fitting, for unless one treats the play as a kind of musical composition, it is impossible to appreciate its artistic wholeness and the way in which all the pieces fit together. Although it is often faulted for lacking coherence, especially in the last scene, the play is, in fact, a miracle of artistic organization, a work of Wagnerian intricacy and contrivance composed with Mozartean ease in which everything seems casual and improvised and yet nothing in it is adventitious. In an ideal production, the perfect Strindbergite would quickly forget about character analysis and conventional plot development and would respond to symbols and elusive harmonies and thematic development. He would quickly understand that the plot is not designed to reveal what Hummel once in his dark past did to the Milkmaid. He would sense immediately that Hummel and the Milkmaid are thematic opposites, the bloodsucker versus the nourishernurturer, and nod at the recognition of Hummel and the Cook as thematic companions. When Hummel is described as a man who tears down houses, sneaks in through windows, and ravages human lives, the Strindbergite would remember that the Student saves the life of a baby caught in a collapsing house and that the Milkmaid offers aid to the Student. He would hear character answering character, but he would sense theme answering theme. He would know that it is both musically and morally right that after Hummel exposes the Colonel as a valet who used to flirt with the maids in order to scrounge in the kitchen, Hummel himself should be exposed as being exactly what he accused the Colonel of being. And he would experience aesthetic delight in seeing the evil Cook in the last scene suddenly emerge from the kitchen in which Hummel and the Colonel had their beginnings. But instead of perfect Strindbergites, we have critics who shake their heads grumpily at the Cook and reproach Strindberg for putting his petty domestic problems into a play. Being distinct from one another in setting, tempo, and mood, the three scenes must be regarded as corresponding to the three movements of a sonata (Strindberg himself alluded to Beethoven’s piano Sonata in D minor, opus 31, no. 2), even though the themes set forth at the beginning are developed through the whole work. The first and longest scene, unsurpassed in modern drama for sheer dramaturgical virtuosity, is a brisk allegro, its mood sustained by the youthful buoyancy of the Student and by the grasping eagerness of the Old Man

Strindberg, August. Samlade skrifter. Ed. John Landquist. 55 vols. Stockholm, Sweden, 1912–1920. Cited as SS. Swedenborg, Emanuel. Heaven and Its Wonders and Hell. Trans. John C. Ager. New York: Swedenborg Foundation, 1949. Cited as Heaven and Hell.

Select Bibliography on Strindberg Ekman, Hans. ‘‘The Chamber Plays: The Ghost Sonata.’’ In Strindberg and the Five Senses Studies: Studies in Strindberg’s Chamber Plays. London: Athlone Press, 2000: 110–48. Jarvi, Raymond. ‘‘Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata and Sonata Form.’’ Mosaic 5.4 (1972): 69–84. Johnson, Walter. August Strindberg. Boston: Twayne, 1976. Marker, Frederick J. and Lise-Lone Marker. ‘‘Chamber Theatre: The Ghost Sonata.’’ In Strindberg and Modernist Theatre: Post-Inferno Drama on the Stage. Cambridge University Press, 2002: 117–63. Meyer, Michael. August Strindberg: A Life. New York: Random House, 1985. Mitchell, Christopher J. ‘‘Adding Some ‘PEP’ (‘Proto Expressionistic Props’) to the Swedish Stage: Strindberg’s Property Usage and His Intima Teater.’’ Theatre Symposium 18 (2010): 48–55. Prideaux, Sue. Strindberg: A Life. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2012. Stockenström, Göran, ed. Strindberg’s Dramaturgy. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988. Szalczer, Eszter. August Strindberg. New York: Routledge, 2011. ———. ‘‘ ‘The Journey from the Isle of Life to the Isle of Death’: The Idea of Reconciliation in The Ghost Sonata.’’ Scandinavian Studies 50 (1978): 133–49. Törnqvist, Egil. Strindbergian Drama: Themes and Structure. Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1982. ———. Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata from Text to Performance. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2000. See also Bergman; Lambert; McFarlane; Nicoll; and Swerling, in the General Bibliography.

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as they lay their plans for entering the house of elegance. In sharp contrast is the second scene or movement, the largo. To its slow tempo and its long silences the ghost supper is eaten, the masks removed, the interiors revealed. The final scene is a quiet andante, which stresses the principal theme of the whole sonata and brings it to a close with a brilliant coda that restates all the themes: the world is a sham composed of lies, deceits, and illusions; to live is to be guilty; and death represents a settling of accounts. When the Student describes his father’s disastrous dinner party at which all the guests were told off and their true natures were revealed, we are reminded not only of the ghost supper of the second scene but also of what is happening at this moment as the Student speaks to the girl and destroys her. The Student’s strength is now being sucked from him and only the death of the Hyacinth Girl saves him. Freed at last from the Three Poisons that Buddha speaks of—the poison of desiring individual existence, the poison of ignorance, and the poison of sensual longing—the Student faces nirvana, the state of perfect calm, the extinction of aversion, confusion, and passion, as the Isle of the Dead looms in the distance.

The Ghost Sonata August Strindberg

characters the old man, Director Hummel the student, Arkenholz the milkmaid, an apparition the superintendent’s wife the superintendent the dead man, a Consul the lady in black, daughter of the Dead Man and the Superintendent’s wife the colonel the mummy, the Colonel’s wife the young lady, the Colonel’s daughter, but actually the Old Man’s daughter baron skanskorg, engaged to the Lady in Black johansson, Hummel’s servant bengtsson, The Colonel’s footman the fiancée, a white-haired old woman, formerly engaged to Hummel the cook beggars a maid Reprinted from Strindberg: Five Plays, trans. Harry G. Carlson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 535–54.

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(Outside a fashionable apartment building. Only a corner and the first two floors are visible. The ground floor ends in the Round Room; the floor above ends in a balcony with a flagpole. When the curtains are drawn up in the Round Room, a white marble statue of a young woman can be seen, surrounded by palms and lit brightly by the sun. In the window to the left are potted hyacinths in blue, white, and pink. Hanging on the railing of the balcony are a blue silk quilt and two white pillows. The windows to the left are draped with white sheets [in Sweden the indication that someone has died]. It is a clear Sunday morning. Standing in front of the house downstage is a green bench. Downstage right is a public fountain, downstage left a freestanding column covered with posters and announcements. In the house façade upstage left is the entrance. The steps leading up to the door are of white marble, the railings of mahogany with brass fittings. Flanking the steps on the sidewalk are laurels in tubs. The corner of the house with the Round Room faces a side street which runs upstage. To the left of the entrance door a mirror is mounted outside a window [enabling the occupant of that apartment to observe, without being seen, what is happening in the street]. As the curtain rises, church bells can be heard in the distance. All the doors visible in the house are open. A woman dressed in black stands motionless on the steps. The superintendent’s wife in turn sweeps the vestibule, polishes the brass on the front door, and waters the laurels. The old man sits reading a newspaper in a wheelchair near the poster column. He has white hair and a beard and wears glasses. The milkmaid enters from around the corner carrying bottles in a wire basket. She is wearing a summer dress, with brown shoes, black stockings, and a white cap. She takes off her cap and hangs it on the fountain, wipes the sweat from her brow, takes a drink from a dipper in the fountain, washes her hands, and arranges her hair, using the water as a mirror. A steamboat’s bell can be heard, and from time to time the bass notes of an organ in a nearby church penetrate the silence. The silence continues for a few moments after the milkmaid has finished her toilet. Then the student enters left, sleepless and unshaven, and crosses directly to the fountain. Pause) student: Can I borrow the dipper? (The milkmaid hugs the dipper to her.) Aren’t you through using it? (She stares at him in terror.) old man (to himself ): Who is he talking to?—I don’t see anyone!—Is he crazy? (continues to stare at them in amazement ) student (to the milkmaid): Why are you staring? Do I look so frightening?—

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Well, I didn’t sleep last night and I guess you think I’ve been out carousing . . . (the milkmaid as before) Think I’ve been drinking, huh?—Do I smell of whiskey? (the milkmaid as before) I didn’t shave, I know that . . . Give me a drink of water, girl, I’ve earned it! (pause) All right, I suppose I have to tell you. All night I’ve been bandaging wounds and tending injured people. I was there, you see, when the house collapsed last night . . . Now you know. (The milkmaid rinses the dipper and gives him a drink.) Thanks! (The milkmaid stands motionless. The student continues slowly.) Would you do me a big favor? (pause) The thing is, my eyes are inflamed, as you can see. Since my hands have been touching the injured and the dead, I don’t dare bring them near my eyes . . . Would you take my clean handkerchief, moisten it in fresh water, and bathe my poor eyes?—Would you?—Would you be a good Samaritan? (The milkmaid hesitates but does as he asks.) Thank you, friend! (He takes out his wallet. She makes a gesture of refusal.) Forgive me, that was thoughtless, but I’m not really awake . . . old man (to the student): Excuse me, but I heard you say that you were at the accident last night . . . I was just reading about it in the paper . . . student: Is it already in the paper? old man: Yes, the whole story. And your picture too. But they regret they couldn’t learn the name of the very able student . . . student (looking at the paper): Really? Yes, that’s me! Well! old man: Whom were you talking to just now? student: Didn’t you see? (pause) old man: Would you think me rude if I . . . asked your name? student: What for? I don’t want any publicity.—First comes praise, then criticism.—Slandering people has become a fine art nowadays.—Besides, I didn’t ask for any reward . . . old man: You’re wealthy, eh? student: Not at all . . . on the contrary. I’m penniless. old man: You know . . . there’s something familiar about your voice. I’ve only met one other person who pronounces things the way you do. Are you possibly related to a wholesale merchant by the name of Arkenholz? student: He was my father. old man: Strange are the ways of fate . . . I saw you when you were little, under very painful circumstances . . . student: Yes, they say I came into the world in the middle of bankruptcy proceedings . . . old man: That’s right. student: Can I ask what your name is? old man: My name is Hummel.

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student: Are you . . .? Yes, I remember . . . old man: You’ve heard my name mentioned often in your family? student: Yes! old man: And probably mentioned with a certain ill will? (The student remains silent.) Yes, I can imagine!—I suppose you heard that I was the one who ruined your father?—People who ruin themselves through stupid speculation always blame the one person they couldn’t fool for their ruin. (pause) The truth is that your father swindled me out of seventeen thousand crowns—my whole life savings at the time. student: It’s amazing how a story can be told in two such different ways. old man: You don’t think I’m lying, do you? student: What else can I think? My father never lied! old man: That’s very true. A father never lies . . . but I too am a father, and consequently . . . student: What are you trying to say? old man: I saved your father from disaster, and he repaid me with all the terrible hatred of a man who feels obliged to be grateful. He taught his family to speak ill of me. student: Maybe you made him ungrateful by poisoning your charity with unnecessary humiliations. old man: All charity is humiliating, young man. student: What do you want of me? old man: I’m not asking for money. If you would perform a few services for me, I’d be well repaid. As you can see, I’m a cripple. Some people say it’s my own fault; others blame my parents. Personally, I believe life itself is to blame, waiting in ambush for us, and if you avoid one trap, you walk straight into another. However—I can’t run up and down stairs or ring doorbells. And so, I’m asking you: help me! student: What can I do? old man: First of all, push my chair so that I can read those posters. I want to see what’s playing tonight . . . student (pushing the wheelchair): Don’t you have a man to help you? old man: Yes, but he’s away on an errand . . . be back soon . . . Are you a medical student? student: No, I’m studying languages. But I really don’t know what I want to be . . . old man: Aha.—How are you at mathematics? student: Fairly good. old man: Fine.—Would you like a job? student: Sure, why not?

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old man: Good! (reading the posters) They’re giving a matinée of The Valkyrie . . . That means the Colonel and his daughter will be there. And since he always sits on the aisle in the sixth row, I’ll put you next to them. Would you go into that telephone booth and reserve a ticket for seat number eighty-two in the sixth row? student: You want me to go to the opera in the middle of the day? old man: Yes. You do as I tell you, and you’ll be well rewarded. I want you to be happy, rich, and respected. Your debut yesterday as a courageous rescuer will make you famous overnight. Your name will be really worth something. student (crossing to the booth): What an amusing adventure . . . old man: Are you a gambler? student: Yes, unfortunately . . . old man: We’ll make that ‘‘fortunately’’!—Make the call! (He reads his newspaper. The lady in black has come out on the sidewalk to speak to the superintendent’s wife; the old man listens to them, but the audience hears nothing. The student returns.) Is it all arranged? student: It’s all arranged. old man: Have you ever seen this house before? student: I certainly have! . . . I walked by here yesterday when the sun was blazing on its windows—and could picture all the beauty and luxury there must be inside. I said to my friend: ‘‘Imagine owning an apartment there, four flights up, a beautiful young wife, two lovely little children, and an independent income of 20,000 crowns a year . . .’’ old man: Did you say that? Did you say that? Well! I too love that house . . . student: You speculate in houses? old man: Mmm, yes. But not in the way you think . . . student: Do you know the people who live here? old man: All of them. At my age you know everyone, their fathers and forefathers before them, and we’re all kin, in some way or another.—I just turned eighty—but no one knows me, not really.—I take an interest in people’s destinies . . . (The curtains in the Round Room are drawn up. The colonel can be seen inside, dressed in civilian clothes. After looking at the thermometer, he crosses away from the window to stand in front of the statue.) Look, there’s the Colonel you’ll sit next to this afternoon . . . student: Is that—the Colonel? I don’t understand any of this. It’s like a fairy tale . . . old man: My whole life is like a book of fairy tales, young man. But although the tales are different, a single thread joins them together, and the same theme, the leitmotif, returns again and again, like clockwork. student: Is that statue of someone?

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old man: It’s his wife, of course . . . student: Was she that wonderful? old man: Uh, yes. Yes! student: Tell me, really! old man: It’s not for us to judge other people, my boy!—If I were to tell you that she left him, that he beat her, that she returned and remarried him and now sits in there like a mummy, worshipping her own statue, you’d think I was crazy. student: What? I don’t understand! old man: I can well believe it.—Then we have the hyacinth window. That’s his daughter’s room . . . She’s out riding, but she’ll be home soon . . . student: Who’s the dark lady talking to the caretaker? old man: Well, you see, that’s a little complicated. It has to do with the dead man, up there, where you see the white sheets hanging . . . student: Who was he? old man: He was a human being, like the rest of us. But the most conspicuous thing about him was his vanity . . . If you were a Sunday child, you’d soon see him come out the front door to look at the consulate flag flying at half-mast in his honor.—He was a consul, you see, and adored coronets, lions, plumed hats, and colored ribbons. student: You mentioned a Sunday child—I’m told I was born on a Sunday . . . old man: No! Were you . . .? I might have known it . . . I saw it in the color of your eyes . . . but then you can see what others can’t see. Have you ever noticed that? student: I don’t know what others see, but sometimes . . . Well, things like that you don’t talk about. old man: I was almost certain of it! But you can talk about them with me . . . because I—understand such things . . . student: Yesterday, for example . . . I was drawn to that secluded street where the house later collapsed . . . I walked down it and stopped in front of a building I’d never seen before . . . Then I noticed a crack in the wall, and heard the floorboards breaking. I ran forward and snatched up a child who was walking under the wall . . . The next moment the house collapsed . . . I was rescued, but in my arms, where I thought I held the child, there was nothing . . . old man: Amazing . . . And I thought that . . . Tell me something: why were you gesturing just now by the fountain? And why were you talking to yourself ? student: Didn’t you see the milkmaid I was talking to? old man (terrified): Milkmaid? student: Yes, certainly. The girl who handed me the dipper.

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old man: Is that right? So, that’s what it was . . . Well, even if I can’t see, there are other things I can do . . . (A white-haired woman sits down at the window with the mirror.) Look at that old woman in the window! Do you see her?—Good! She was once my fiancée, sixty years ago . . . I was twenty then.—Don’t be alarmed, she doesn’t recognize me. We see each other every day, but I feel nothing, despite that we swore to be true to each other then—forever! student: How indiscreet your generation was! Young people don’t talk like that nowadays. old man: Forgive us, young man. We didn’t know any better!—But can you see that that old woman was once young and beautiful? student: It doesn’t show. Though I like the way she looks around, I can’t see her eyes. (The superintendent’s wife comes out of the house and hangs a funeral wreath on the front door.) old man: That’s the Superintendent’s Wife.—The Lady in Black over there is her daughter by the dead man upstairs. That’s why her husband got the job as superintendent . . . but the Lady in Black has a lover, an aristocrat with grand expectations. He’s in the process of getting a divorce, and his wife is giving him a mansion to get rid of him. This aristocratic lover is son-in-law to the dead man whose bedclothes you see being aired up there on the balcony . . . As I said, it’s all very complicated. student: It’s damned complicated! old man: Yes, but that’s the way it is, internally and externally. Though it looks simple. student: Yes, but then who was the dead man? old man: You just asked me and I told you. If you could see around the corner, by the service entrance, you’d notice a crowd of poor people, whom he used to help . . . when he felt like it . . . student: So he was a kind man, then? old man: Yes . . . sometimes. student: Not always? old man: No! . . . That’s the way people are. Oh, young man, push my wheelchair a little, into the sun! I’m so terribly cold. When you never get to move around, the blood congeals.—I’m going to die soon, I know that. But before I do, I have a few things to take care of.—Take my hand and feel how cold I am. student: Yes, incredibly! (He tries in vain to free his hand.) old man: Don’t leave me. I’m tired, I’m lonely, but I haven’t always been like this, you know. I have an infinitely long life behind me—infinitely.— I’ve made people unhappy, but they’ve made me unhappy. The one cancels out the other. Before I die, I want to see you happy . . . Our destinies are intertwined through your father—and in other ways too . . .

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student: But let go of my hand! You’re draining my strength, you’re freezing me. What do you want of me? old man: Patience, and you’ll see and understand . . . Here comes the young lady . . . student: The Colonel’s daughter? old man: Yes! ‘‘His daughter’’! Look at her!—Have you ever seen such a masterpiece? student: She’s like the marble statue in there . . . old man: Well, that is her mother! student: You’re right.—Never have I seen such a woman of woman born.— Happy the man who leads her to the altar and his home. old man: You can see it!—Not everyone recognizes her beauty . . . Well, so it is written. (The young lady enters left, wearing an English riding habit. She crosses slowly, without looking at anyone, to the front door, where she stops and says a few words to the superintendent’s wife. She then enters the house. The student covers his eyes with his hand.) Are you crying? student: In the face of what’s hopeless there can be only despair! old man: But I can open doors and hearts if I but find a hand to do my will . . . Serve me and you shall prevail! student: Is this some kind of pact? Do I have to sell my soul? old man: Sell nothing!—You see, all my life I have taken. Now I have a desperate longing to be able to give! give! But no one will accept . . . I am rich, very rich, but I have no heirs, except for a good-for-nothing who plagues the life out of me . . . Be like a son to me. Be my heir while I’m still alive. Enjoy life while I’m here to see it, even if just from a distance. student: What am I to do? old man: First, go and listen to The Valkyrie. student: As good as done. What else? old man: Tonight you shall sit in there, in the Round Room. student: How do I get there? old man: By way of The Valkyrie! student: Why have you chosen me as your medium? Did you know me before? old man: Yes, of course! I’ve had my eyes on you for a long time . . . But look, up on the balcony. The maid is raising the flag to half-mast for the Consul . . . and she’s turning the bedclothes . . . Do you see that blue quilt?—Once two people slept under it, but now only one . . . (The young lady, her clothes changed, appears at the window to water the hyacinths.) Ah, there’s my little girl. Look at her, look!—She’s talking to the flowers. Isn’t she like a blue hyacinth herself ? . . . She’s giving them drink, just ordinary water, and they transform the water into color and fragrance . . .

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Here comes the Colonel with a newspaper!—He’s showing her the story about the house collapsing . . . He’s pointing out your picture! She’s interested . . . she’s reading about your bravery . . . I think it’s getting cloudy. What if it should rain? I’ll be in fine fix if Johansson doesn’t come back soon . . . (It grows cloudy and dark. The old woman at the mirror closes her window.) My fiancée is closing her window . . . seventy-nine years old. . . . That mirror is the only mirror she uses, because she can’t see herself in it, just the outside world in two different directions. But the world can see her, and that she didn’t think of . . . A beautiful little old lady though . . . (The dead man, in his winding-sheet, comes out the front door.) student: Oh my God! old man: What’s the matter? student: Don’t you see? There, in the doorway, the dead man! old man: I see nothing, but I expected this! Go on . . . student: He’s going out into the street . . . (pause) Now he’s turning his head to look at the flag. old man: What did I tell you? Now he’ll count the funeral wreaths and read the names on the cards . . . God help those who are missing! student: Now he’s turning the corner . . . old man: He’s gone to count the poor people at the service entrance . . . They’ll add a nice touch to his obituary: ‘‘Accompanied to his grave by the blessings of ordinary citizens.’’ Well, he won’t have my blessing!—Just between us, he was a great scoundrel . . . student: But charitable . . . old man: A charitable scoundrel, who always dreamed of a beautiful funeral . . . When he felt that the end was near, he fleeced the government of fifty thousand crowns! . . . Now his daughter is having an affair with another woman’s husband and wondering if she’s in his will . . . The scoundrel can hear every word we say, and he deserves it!—Ah, here’s Johansson! (johansson enters from left.) Report! (johansson speaks but the audience cannot hear.) Not at home, eh? You’re an ass!—Any telegrams?—Nothing at all! . . . Go on, go on! . . . Six o’clock this evening? That’s fine!—An extra edition?—And his name in full! Arkenholz, student, born . . . parents . . . splendid . . . I think it’s starting to rain . . . What did he have to say? . . . Is that right?—He doesn’t want to?—Well, he’ll just have to!—Here comes the aristocratic lover!—Push me around the corner, Johansson, I want to hear what the poor people are saying . . . Arkenholz, you wait for me here . . . do you understand?—Hurry up, hurry up! (johansson pushes the chair around the corner. The student remains behind, watching the young lady, who is loosening the soil around the flowers. baron skanskorg enters, wearing mourning, and speaks to the lady in black, who has been walking up and down the sidewalk.)

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baron skanskorg: Well, what can we do about it?—We’ll simply have to wait! lady in black: But I can’t wait! baron skanskorg: Really? Better leave town then! lady in black: I don’t want to. baron skanskorg: Come over here, otherwise they’ll hear what we’re saying. (They cross to the poster column and continue their conversation, unheard by the audience. johansson enters right and crosses to the student.) johansson: My master asks you not to forget the other matter, sir. student (carefully): Listen—first tell me: who is your master? johansson: Oh, he’s a lot of things, and he’s been everything. student: Is he sane? johansson: Yes, and what is that, eh?—He says all his life he’s been looking for a Sunday child, but maybe it’s not true . . . student: What does he want? Money? johansson: He wants power . . . All day long he rides around in his chariot, like the great god Thor . . . He looks at houses, tears them down, widens streets, builds over public squares. But he also breaks into houses, crawls through windows, destroys people’s lives, kills his enemies, and forgives nothing.—Can you imagine that that little cripple was once a Don Juan? Although he always lost his women. student: That doesn’t make sense. johansson: Well, you see, he was so cunning that he got the women to leave once he tired of them . . . However, now he’s like a horse thief, only with people. He steals them, in all kinds of ways . . . He literally stole me out of the hands of justice . . . I had committed a . . . blunder that only he knew about. Instead of turning me in, he made me his slave, which is what I do, just for my food, which is nothing to brag about . . . student: What does he want to do in this house? johansson: Well, I wouldn’t want to say. It’s so complicated. student: I think I’d better get out of here . . . (The young lady drops her bracelet through the window.) johansson: Look, the young lady’s dropped her bracelet through the window . . . (The student crosses slowly to the bracelet, picks it up, and hands it to the young lady, who thanks him stiffly. The student crosses back to johansson.) So, you were thinking about leaving, eh? . . . It’s not as easy as you think, once the old man’s dropped his net over your head . . . And he’s afraid of nothing between heaven and earth . . . well, except for one thing, or rather one person . . . student: Wait, I think I know who!

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johansson: How could you know that? student: I’m guessing!—Is it . . . a little milkmaid that he’s afraid of ? johansson: He always turns away when he sees a milk wagon . . . and then he talks in his sleep. You see, he was once in Hamburg . . . student: Can anyone believe this man? johansson: You can believe him—capable of anything! student: What is he doing around the corner? johansson: Listening to the poor people . . . Planting ideas here and there, pulling out bricks, one at a time, until the house collapses . . . metaphorically speaking . . . You see, I’m an educated man; I was once a bookseller . . . Are you going to leave now? student: I don’t want to seem ungrateful . . . The man saved my father once, and now he’s only asking a small favor in return . . . johansson: What’s that? student: I’m going to see The Valkyrie . . . johannson: That’s beyond me . . . He’s always coming up with a new idea . . . Look, now he’s talking to the police. He’s always close with the police. He uses them, involves them in his schemes, binds them hand and foot with false hopes and promises. All the while he pumps them for information.—You’ll see—before the day is over he’ll be received in the Round Room. student: What does he want there? What is there between him and the Colonel? johansson: Well, I have my suspicions, but I’m not sure. You’ll just have to see for yourself when you get there . . . student: I’ll never get in there . . . johansson: That depends on you.—Go to The Valkyrie . . . student: Is that the way? johansson: If he said it was.—Look, look at him, in his war chariot, drawn in triumph by beggars who get nothing for their pains but the vague promise of a handout at his funeral! (The old man enters standing in his wheelchair, drawn by one of the beggars, and followed by others.) old man: Hail the noble youth, who at the risk of his own life, rescued so many in yesterday’s accident! Hail, Arkenholz! (The beggars bare their heads but do not cheer. At the window the young lady waves her handkerchief. The colonel stares out his window. The old woman rises at her window. The maid on the balcony raises the flag to the top.) Clap your hands, my fellow citizens! It’s Sunday, it’s true, but the ass in the well and the stalk in the field give us absolution. Even though I’m not a Sunday child, I have both the spirit of prophecy and the gift of healing, for once I brought a drowned person back to life . . . Yes, it was in Hamburg on a

Sunday afternoon just like this one . . . (The milkmaid enters, seen only by the student and the old man. She reaches out with her arms, like someone drowning, and stares at the old man, who sits down and shrinks back in terror.) Johansson! Push me out of here! Quickly—Arkenholz, don’t forget The Valkyrie! student: What is all this? johansson: We’ll have to wait and see! We’ll just have to wait and see!

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(The Round Room. Upstage is a white porcelain tile stove, studded with mirrors and flanked by a pendulum clock and a candelabra. To the right the entrance hall, through which can be seen a green room with mahogany furniture. To the left a wallpaper-covered door leading to a closet. Further left the statue, shadowed by potted palms; it can be concealed by draperies. Upstage left is the door to the Hyacinth Room, where the young lady sits reading. The colonel is visible, his back to the audience, writing in the green room. bengtsson, the footman, dressed in livery, enters from the hall with johansson, who is dressed as a waiter.) bengtsson: Johansson, you’ll do the serving, and I’ll take their clothes. You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? johansson: As you know, I push that war chariot around during the day, but in the evenings I work as a waiter at receptions. Besides, it’s always been my dream to come into this house . . . They’re peculiar people, aren’t they? bengtsson: Well, yes, a little unusual, you might say. johansson: Is it going to be a musical evening, or what? bengtsson: Just the usual ghost supper, as we call it. They drink tea and never say a word, or else the Colonel does all the talking. And they nibble on cookies, all at the same time, so that it sounds like rats nibbling in an attic. johansson: Why is it called a ghost supper? bengtsson: They look like ghosts . . . And this has been going on for twenty years, always the same people, saying the same things, or else too ashamed to say anything. johansson: Isn’t there a lady of the house too? bengtsson: Oh yes, but she’s queer in the head. She sits in a closet, because her eyes can’t stand the light . . . She’s right in there . . . (points to the wallpaper-covered door) johansson: In there? bengtsson: Well, I told you they were a little unusual . . . johansson: How does she look?

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bengtsson: Like a mummy . . . Do you want to see her? (opens the door) See, there she is! johansson: Oh, Jesus . . . mummy (like a baby): Why did you open the door? Haven’t I told you to keep it shut? . . . bengtsson (using baby talk): Ta, ta, ta, ta! Sweetums must be good, then you’ll get something nice!—Pretty polly! mummy (like a parrot ): Pretty polly! Is Jacob there? Awwk! bengtsson: She thinks she’s a parrot, and who knows?, maybe she is . . . (to the mummy) Polly, whistle a little for us. (She whistles.) johansson: I’ve seen lots in my life, but this beats everything! bengtsson: You see, when a house gets old, it gets moldy. And when people sit around tormenting each other for so long, they get crazy. Now the madam here—quiet Polly!—this mummy has been sitting here for forty years—same husband, same furniture, same relatives, same friends . . . (closes the wallpaper-covered door) Even I don’t know everything that’s gone on in this house . . . Do you see this statue? . . . that’s the madam when she was young! johansson: Oh, my God!—Is that the Mummy? bengtsson: Yes!—It’s enough to make you cry!—And somehow or other— the power of imagination, maybe—she’s taken on some of the qualities of a real parrot.—For instance, she can’t stand cripples or sick people . . . That’s why she can’t stand the sight of her own daughter . . . johansson: Is the young lady sick? bengtsson: Didn’t you know that? johansson: No! . . . And the Colonel, who is he? bengtsson: You’ll have to wait and see! johansson: (looking at the statue): It’s terrible to think that . . . How old is the madam now? bengtsson: No one knows . . . but they say that when she was thirty-five, she looked nineteen, and convinced the Colonel that she was . . . In this house . . . Do you know what that black Japanese screen is for, there, next to the chaise longue?—It’s called the death screen, and when someone is dying, it’s put up around them, just like in a hospital . . . johansson: What a horrible place! . . . And the student wants to come here because he thinks it’s a paradise . . . bengtsson: What student? Oh, him! The one who’s coming here this evening . . . The Colonel and the young lady met him at the opera and were taken by him . . . Hmm! . . . Now it’s my turn to ask questions: Who is your master? the businessman in the wheelchair? johansson: Yes.—Is he coming here too?

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bengtsson: He’s not invited. johansson: If necessary, he’ll come uninvited . . . (The old man appears in the hallway, dressed in a frock coat. He steals forward on his crutches to eavesdrop.) bengtsson: I hear he’s an old crook! johansson: Full blown! bengtsson: He looks like the devil himself ! johansson: And he must be a magician too!—for he can go through locked doors . . . old man (crosses and grabs johansson by the ear): Rascal!—You watch your step! (to bengtsson) Announce me to the Colonel! bengtsson: Yes, but we’re expecting guests . . . old man: I know that! But my visit is as good as expected, if not exactly looked forward to . . . bengtsson: Is that so? And what was the name? Director Hummel! old man: Precisely! (bengtsson crosses to the hallway and enters the green room, closing the door behind him. The old man turns to johansson.) Disappear! (johansson hesitates.) Disappear! (johansson disappears into the hallway. The old man inspects the room, stopping in front of the statue in great astonishment.) Amalia! . . . It’s she! . . . She! (He wanders about the room fingering things; he straightens his wig in front of the mirror, and returns to the statue.) mummy ( from within the closet ): Pretty polly! old man (wincing): What was that? Is there a parrot in the room? I don’t see one! mummy: Is Jacob there? old man: The place is haunted! mummy: Jaaaacob! old man: I’m scared . . . So, these are the secrets they’ve been hiding in this house! (He looks at a painting, his back turned to the closet.) There he is! . . . He! (The mummy comes out of the closet, goes up to him from behind, and yanks on his wig.) mummy: Squir-rel! Is it Squir-rel? old man (badly frightened): Oh my God!—Who are you? mummy (in a normal voice): Is it you, Jacob? old man: As a matter of fact, my name is Jacob . . . mummy (moved): And my name is Amalia. old man: Oh, no, no, no . . . Lord Je . . . mummy: Yes, this is how I look!—And (pointing to the statue) that’s how I used to look! Life teaches us so much.—I stay in the closet mostly, to

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avoid both seeing people and being seen . . . But what do you want here, Jacob? old man: My child! Our child . . . mummy: She’s in there. old man: Where? mummy: There, in the hyacinth room. old man (looking at the young lady): Yes, there she is. (pause) What does her father say? The Colonel? Your husband? mummy: Once, when I was angry at him, I told him everything . . . old man: And? mummy: He didn’t believe me. He just said: ‘‘That’s what all wives say when they want to murder their husbands.’’—Even so, it was a terrible crime. Everything in his life is a forgery, his family tree too. Sometimes when I look at the List of the Nobility, I think to myself: ‘‘Why, that woman has a false birth certificate, like a common servant girl. People get sent to prison for that.’’ old man: Many people do that. I seem to remember you falsified your age . . . mummy: My mother made me . . . it wasn’t my fault! . . . But in our crime you were most responsible . . . old man: No, your husband provoked the crime when he stole my fiancée away from me!—I was born unable to forgive until I’ve punished! I saw it as a compelling duty . . . and still do! mummy: What are you looking for in this house? What do you want? How did you get in?—Is it my daughter? If you touch her, you’ll die! old man: I want what’s best for her. mummy: But you must spare her father! old man: No! mummy: Then you shall die. In this room. Behind that screen . . . old man: That may be . . . but once I sink my teeth into something, I can’t let go . . . mummy: You want to marry her off to that student. Why? He has nothing and is nothing. old man: He’ll become rich, through me! mummy: Were you invited here this evening? old man: No, but I intend to get an invitation to the ghost supper. mummy: Do you know who’s coming? old man: Not exactly. mummy: The Baron . . . who lives upstairs and whose father-in-law was buried this afternoon . . .

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old man: The one who’s getting divorced so he can marry the superintendent’s daughter . . . the one who was once your—lover! mummy: Another guest will be your former fiancée, whom my husband seduced . . . old man: What an elegant gathering . . . mummy: God, if only we could die! If only we could die! old man: Then why do you associate with each other? mummy: Crimes and secrets and guilt bind us together!—We’ve broken up and gone our separate ways an endless number of times, but we’re always drawn back together again . . . old man: I think the Colonel’s coming . . . mummy: Then I’ll go in to Adèle . . . (pause) Jacob, mind what you do! Spare him . . . (pause; she leaves.) colonel (entering; cool, reserved): Won’t you sit down? (The old man sits down slowly; pause; the colonel stares at him.) Are you the one who wrote this letter? old man: Yes. colonel: Your name is Hummel? old man: Yes. (pause) colonel: Since I know you bought up all my unpaid promissory notes, it follows that I am at your mercy. What is it you want? old man: Payment of one kind or another. colonel: What kind did you have in mind? old man: A very simple one—but let’s not talk about money.—Just tolerate me in your house as a guest. colonel: If that’s all it takes to satisfy you . . . old man: Thank you. colonel: Anything else? old man: Fire Bengtsson! colonel: Why should I do that? My trusted servant, who’s been with me for a generation—who wears the national medal for loyal and faithful service? Why should I do that? old man: All his beautiful virtues exist only in your imagination.—He’s not the man he appears to be. colonel: But who is? old man (winces): True! But Bengtsson must go! colonel: Are you trying to run my house? old man: Yes! Since I own everything here: furniture, curtains, dinner service, linen . . . and other things! colonel: What other things?

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old man: Everything! I own everything! It’s all mine! colonel: Very well, it’s all yours. But my family’s coat of arms, and my good name—they remain mine! old man: No, not even those! (pause) You’re not a nobleman. colonel: How dare you? old man (taking out a paper): If you read this extract from the Book of Noble Families, you’ll see that the name you bear died out a hundred years ago. colonel (reading): I’ve certainly heard such rumors, but the name I bear was my father’s . . . (reading) It’s true, you’re right . . . I’m not a nobleman!—Not even that remains!—Then I’ll take off my signet ring.—It too belongs to you . . . Here, take it! old man (pocketing the ring): Now we’ll continue!—You’re not a colonel either. colonel: I’m not? old man: No! You were a former temporary colonel in the American Volunteers, but when the army was reorganized after the Spanish-American War, all such ranks were abolished . . . colonel: Is that true? old man (reaching into his pocket ): Do you want to read about it? colonel: No, it’s not necessary! . . . Who are you, that you have the right to sit there and strip me naked like this? old man: We’ll see! But speaking about stripping . . . do you know who you really are? colonel: Have you no sense of shame? old man: Take off your wig and look at yourself in the mirror! Take out your false teeth too, and shave off your mustache! We’ll have Bengtsson unlace your corset, and we’ll see if a certain servant, Mr. XYZ, won’t recognize himself: a man who was once a great sponger in a certain kitchen . . . (The colonel reaches for the bell on the table but is stopped by the old man.) Don’t touch that bell! If you call Bengtsson in here, I’ll have him arrested . . . Your guests are arriving.—You keep calm and we’ll continue to play our old roles awhile longer! colonel: Who are you? I recognize that expression in your eyes and that tone in your voice . . . old man: No more questions! Just keep quiet and do as you’re told! student (enters and bows to the colonel): Good evening, sir! colonel: Welcome to my home, young man! Everyone is talking about your heroism at that terrible accident, and it’s an honor for me to greet you . . . student: Colonel, my humble origin . . . Your brilliant name and noble background . . .

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colonel: Let me introduce you: Director Hummel, Mr. Arkenholz . . . Would you go in and join the ladies? I have to finish my conversation with the director . . . (The student is shown into the Hyacinth Room, where he remains visible, engaged in shy conversation with the young lady.) A superb young man, musical, sings, writes poetry . . . If he were a nobleman and our equal socially, I would have nothing against . . . yes . . . old man: Against what? colonel: My daughter . . . old man: Your daughter?—By the way, why does she always sit in there? colonel: Whenever she’s at home, she feels compelled to sit in the Hyacinth Room. It’s a peculiar habit she has . . . Ah, here comes Miss Beate von Holsteinkrona . . . a charming old lady . . . Very active in the church and with a modest income from a trust . . . old man (to himself ): My old fiancée! (The fiancée enters; she is whitehaired and looks crazy.) colonel: Director Hummel, Miss Holsteinkrona . . . (She curtsies and sits. The baron enters, dressed in mourning and looking as if he is hiding something; he sits.) Baron Skanskorg . . . old man (to himself, without rising): If it isn’t the jewel thief . . . (to the colonel) Call in the Mummy, and the party will be complete . . . colonel (at the door to the Hyacinth Room): Polly! mummy (entering): Squir-rel! colonel: Should the young people be in here too? old man: No! Not the young people! They’ll be spared . . . (They all sit in silence in a circle.) colonel: Can we have the tea served? old man: What for? No one here likes tea, so there’s no use pretending we do. (pause) colonel: Shall we talk then? old man (slowly, with long pauses): About what: the weather, which we all know? Ask about each other’s health, which we also know? I prefer silence. Then you can hear thoughts and see into the past. In silence you can’t hide anything . . . as you can in words. The other day I read that the reason different languages developed was that primitive tribes tried to keep secrets from each other. And so languages are codes, and whoever finds the key will understand them all. But there are certain secrets that can be exposed without a key, especially when it comes to proving paternity. But proving something in a courtroom is something else. That takes two false witnesses, providing their stories agree. But on the kinds of expeditions I’m thinking of, witnesses aren’t taken along. Nature itself plants in human beings an instinct for hiding that which should be hidden. Nevertheless, we stumble into things without intending to, and

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sometimes the opportunity presents itself to reveal the deepest of secrets, to tear the mask off the imposter, to expose the villain . . . (pause; all watch each other without speaking.) How quiet it’s become! (long silence) Here, for instance, in this honorable house, in this lovely home, where beauty, culture, and wealth are united . . . (long silence) All of us know who we are . . . don’t we? . . . I don’t have to tell you . . . And you know me, although you pretend ignorance . . . In there is my daughter, mine! You know that too . . . She had lost the desire to live, without knowing why . . . because she was withering away in this atmosphere of crime, deceit, and falseness of every kind . . . That’s why I looked for a friend for her in whose company she could sense the light and warmth of a noble deed . . . (long silence) And so my mission in this house was to pull up the weeds, expose the crimes, settle all accounts, so that those young people might start anew in a home that I had given them! (long silence) Now I’m going to give you a chance to leave, under safe-conduct, each of you, in your own time. Whoever stays, I’ll have arrested! (long silence) Listen to the clock ticking, like a deathwatch beetle in the wall! Do you hear what it says? ‘‘Time’s-up! Time’s-up!— — —’’ In a few moments it’ll strike and your time will be up. Then you may go, but not before. But it sounds a threat before it strikes.—Listen! There’s the warning: ‘‘The clock-canstrike.’’— — —I too can strike . . . (He strikes the table with his crutch.) Do you hear? (silence; the mummy crosses to the clock and stops it.) mummy (clearly and seriously): But I can stop time in its course.—I can wipe out the past, undo what has been undone. Not with bribes, not with threats—but through suffering and repentance— — —(crosses to the old man) We are only wretched human beings, we know that. We have trespassed and we have sinned, like all the rest. We are not what we seem, for deep down we are better than ourselves, since we detest our faults. But that you, Jacob Hummel, with your false name, can sit here and judge us, proves that you are worse than we miserable creatures! You too are not what you seem!—You’re a thief who steals souls. You stole mine once with false promises. You murdered the Consul who was buried today; you strangled him with debts. You stole the Student by binding him to a debt you pretended was left by his father, who never owed you a penny. (During her speech, the old man has tried to rise and speak but has fallen back in his chair, crumpling up more and more as she continues.) But there’s a dark spot in your life. I’ve long suspected what it is, but I’m not sure . . . I think Bengtsson knows. (rings the bell on the table) old man: No, not Bengtsson! Not him! mummy: Ah, then he does know! (She rings again. The little milkmaid appears in the hallway door, unseen by everyone except the old man, who becomes terrified. The milkmaid disappears as bengtsson enters.) mummy: Bengtsson, do you know this man?

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bengtsson: Yes, I know him, and he knows me. Life has its ups and downs, as we all know. I was once in his service; another time he was in mine. For two whole years he was a sponger who used to flirt with the cook in my kitchen.—Because he had to get away by three o’clock, dinner was ready by two. And so we had to eat the warmed-over leavings of that ox!— And he also drank the soup stock, which the cook then filled up with water. He was like a vampire, sucking the marrow out of the house and turning us all into skeletons.—And he almost got us put in prison when we called the cook a thief. Later, I met him in Hamburg under another name. This time he was a usurer, a bloodsucker. And he was accused of having lured a girl out onto the ice to drown her, because she had witnessed a crime he was afraid would be discovered . . . (The mummy passes her hand across the old man’s face.) mummy: This is you! Now give me the notes and the will! (johansson appears in the hallway door and watches the proceedings with great interest, knowing that he will shortly be freed from his slavery. The old man takes out a bundle of papers and throws them on the table. The mummy strokes him on the back.) Polly! Is Jacob there? old man (like a parrot ): Ja-cob is there!—Kakadora! Dora! mummy: Can the clock strike? old man (clucking): The clock can strike! (imitating a cuckoo clock) Cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo! . . . mummy (opens the closet door): Now the clock has struck!—Get up and go into that closet, where I’ve spent twenty years grieving for our mistake.— There’s a rope hanging in there. Let it stand for the one you used to strangle the Consul upstairs, and with which you intended to strangle your benefactor . . . Go! (The old man goes into the closet. The mummy closes the door.) Bengtsson! Put out the screen! The death screen! (bengtsson puts the screen out in front of the door.) It is finished!—May God have mercy on his soul! all: Amen! (long silence; in the Hyacinth Room the young lady can be seen accompanying the student on the harp as he recites.) student: (after a prelude): I saw the sun, and thought I saw what was hidden. You cannot heal with evil deeds done in anger. Man reaps as he sows; blessed is the doer of good. Comfort him you have grieved with your goodness, and you will have healed. No fear has he who has done no ill; goodness is innocence.

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scene 3 (The Hyacinth Room. The style of the décor is somewhat bizarre, with oriental motifs. Hyacinths of every color everywhere. On top of the porcelain tiled stove is a large statue of a seated Buddha. In his lap is a bulb, out of which the stalk of a shallot has shot up, bearing its globe-shaped cluster of white, starlike flowers. Upstage right the door to the Round Room, where the colonel and the mummy sit silently, doing nothing. A portion of the death screen is also visible. To the left the door to the pantry and the kitchen. The student and the young lady, Adéle, are near a table, she with the harp, he standing.) young lady: Sing for my flowers! student: Is the hyacinth the flower of your soul? young lady: The one and only. Do you love the hyacinth? student: I love it above all others—its virginal figure rising so slim and straight from the bulb, floating on the water and sending its pure white roots down into the colorless fluid. I love its colors: the snow-white of innocence, the honey-gold of sweetness and pleasure, the rosy pink of youth, the scarlet of maturity, but above all the blue, the blue of deep eyes, of dew, of faithfulness . . . I love its colors more than gold and pearls, have loved them since I was a child, have worshipped them because they possess all the virtues I lack . . . And yet . . . young lady: What? student: My love is not returned, for these lovely blossoms hate me . . . young lady: How do you mean? student: Their fragrance—strong and pure as the early winds of spring that have passed over melting snow—it confuses my senses, deafens me, crowds me out of the room, dazzles me, shoots me with poisoned arrows that wound my heart and set my head on fire. Don’t you know the legend of this flower? young lady: Tell me. student: But first its meaning. The bulb, whether floating on water or buried in soil, is our earth. The stalk shoots up, straight as the axis of the world, and above, with its six-pointed star flowers, is the globe of heaven. young lady: Above the earth—the stars! How wonderful! Where did you learn to see things this way? student: Let me think!—In your eyes!—And so this flower is a replica of the universe . . . That’s why the Buddha sits brooding over the bulb of the earth in his lap, watching it grow outwards and upwards, transforming itself into a heaven.—This wretched earth aspires to become heaven! That’s what the Buddha is waiting for! young lady: Now I see—aren’t snowflakes also six-pointed, like hyacinth lilies?

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student: You’re right!—Then snowflakes are falling stars . . . young lady: And the snowdrop is a snow star . . . rising from the snow. student: And the largest and most beautiful of all the stars in the firmament, the red and gold Sirius, is the narcissus, with its red and gold chalice and six white rays . . . young lady: Have you ever seen the shallot in bloom? student: I certainly have!—It too bears its flowers in a ball, a sphere like the globe of heaven, strewn with white stars . . . young lady: Yes! God, how magnificent! Whose idea was this? student: Yours! young lady: Yours! student: Ours!—Together we have given birth to something. We are wed . . . young lady: Not yet . . . student: What else remains? young lady: The waiting, the trials, the patience! student: Fine! Try me! (pause) Tell me, why do your parents sit so silently in there, without saying a word? young lady: Because they have nothing to say to each other, because neither believes what the other says. As my father puts it: ‘‘What’s the point of talking, when we can’t fool each other?’’ student: What a terrible thing to believe . . . young lady: Here comes the Cook . . . Oh, look at her, she’s so big and fat . . . student: What does she want? young lady: She wants to ask me about dinner. I run the house, you see, while my mother is ill . . . student: Why should we bother about the kitchen? young lady: We have to eat . . . You look at her, I can’t bear to . . . student: Who is this monstrous woman? young lady: She belongs to the Hummel family of vampires. She’s devouring us . . . student: Why don’t you get rid of her? young lady: She won’t go! We have no control over her. She is punishment for our sins . . . Can’t you see that we’re wasting away, withering? . . . student: You mean you don’t get enough to eat? young lady: Oh yes, we get lots to eat, but nothing nourishing. She boils the meat until there’s nothing left but gristle and water, while she drinks the stock herself. And when there’s a roast, she first cooks out all the goodness and drinks the gravy and broth. Everything she touches shrivels up and dries out. It’s as if she can drain you with her eyes. She drinks the coffee

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and we get the grounds. She drinks from the wine and fills the bottles with water . . . student: Drive her out of the house! young lady: We can’t! student: Why not? young lady: We don’t know! She won’t go! No one has any control over her!—She’s taken all our strength! student: May I send her away? young lady: No! Things must be as they are!—Now she’s here. She’ll ask what we’ll have for dinner. I’ll answer this and that. She’ll object and get her own way. student: Then let her decide the meals. young lady: She won’t do that! student: This is a strange house. It’s bewitched! young lady: Yes.—Oh, she turned away when she saw you. cook (in the door): No, that wasn’t why. (She sneers, her teeth showing.) student: Get out, woman! cook: When I’m good and ready. (pause) Now I’m ready. (disappears) young lady: Don’t lose your temper!—You must be patient. She’s one of the trials we have to endure in this house. Another is the maid—we have to clean up after her. student: I feel myself sinking down! Cor in aethere! Music! young lady: Wait! student: Music! young lady: Patience!—This room is called the room of trials.—It’s beautiful to look at, but it’s full of imperfections . . . student: I can’t believe that! But we’ll have to overlook them. It is beautiful, but it feels cold. Why don’t you have a fire? young lady: Because it smokes. student: Can’t you have the chimney cleaned? young lady: It doesn’t help! . . . Do you see that writing table? student: It’s very beautiful. young lady: But it wobbles! Every day I put a piece of cork under that leg, but the maid takes it away when she sweeps, and I have to cut a new one. Every morning the penholder is covered with ink, and so is the inkstand. As sure as the sun rises, I’m always cleaning up after that woman. (pause) What chore do you hate most? student: Separating dirty laundry. Ugh! young lady: That’s what I have to do. Ugh! student: What else?

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young lady: Be awakened from a sound sleep to lock a window . . . which the maid left rattling. student: What else? young lady: Climb a ladder to fix the damper on the stove after the maid pulled the cord loose. student: What else? young lady: Sweep after her, dust after her, light the stove after her—she’ll only put the wood in! Open the damper, wipe the glasses dry, reset the table, uncork the wine bottles, open the windows to air the rooms, remake my bed, rinse the water pitcher when it gets green with algae, buy matches and soap, which we’re always out of, wipe the lamp chimneys, and trim the wicks to keep the lamps from smoking. And to be sure they won’t go out when we have company, I have to fill them myself . . . student: Music! young lady: Wait!—First, the drudgery, the drudgery of keeping the filth of life at a distance. student: But you’re well off. You’ve got two servants. young lady: It wouldn’t help if we had three. It’s so difficult just to live, and sometimes I get so tired . . . Imagine if there were a nursery too! student: The greatest joy of all . . . young lady: And the most expensive . . . Is life worth this much trouble? student: That depends on what you want in return . . . I would do anything to win your hand. young lady: Don’t talk like that!—You can never have me. student: Why not? young lady: You mustn’t ask. (pause) student: But you dropped your bracelet out of the window . . . young lady: Because my hand has grown so thin . . . (pause; the cook appears carrying a bottle of Japanese soy sauce.) It’s she, who’s devouring me, devouring us all. student: What’s she got in her hand? young lady: The Japanese bottle with the lettering like scorpions! It’s soy sauce to turn water into broth. She uses it instead of gravy when she cooks cabbage and makes mock turtle soup. student: Get out! cook: You suck the juices out of us, and we out of you. We take the blood and give you back water—with coloring. This is colored water!—I’m going now, but I’m staying in this house, as long as I want! (exits) student: Why did Bengtsson get a medal? young lady: For his great merits.

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student: Has he no faults? young lady: Oh yes, terrible ones, but you don’t get medals for them. (They smile.) student: You have many secrets in this house . . . young lady: Like everyone else . . . Let us keep ours! (pause) student: Don’t you like frankness? young lady: Yes, within reason. student: Sometimes I get a raging desire to say exactly what I think. But I know that if people were really frank and honest, the world would collapse. (pause) I was at a funeral the other day . . . in the church.—It was very solemn and beautiful. young lady: For Director Hummel? student: Yes, my false benefactor!—At the head of the coffin stood an old friend of the dead man, carrying the funeral mace. I was especially impressed by the minister because of his dignified manner and moving words.—Yes, I cried, we all cried.—Afterwards we went to a restaurant . . . There I learned that the man with the mace had been in love with the dead man’s son . . . (The young lady stares at him questioningly.) And that the dead man had borrowed money from his son’s . . . admirer . . . (pause) The next day the minister was arrested for embezzling church funds!—Pretty story, isn’t it? young lady: Oh! (pause) student: Do you know what I’m thinking now about you? young lady: Don’t tell me, or I’ll die! student: I must, or I’ll die! . . . young lady: It’s only in asylums that people say everything they think . . . student: Yes, exactly!—My father ended up in a madhouse . . . young lady: Was he ill? student: No, he was well, but he was crazy. The madness broke out one day, when things became too much for him . . . Like the rest of us, he had a circle of acquaintances, whom, for the sake of convenience, he called friends. Naturally, they were a miserable bunch, as most people are. But he needed them because he couldn’t bear to be alone. Well, he didn’t ordinarily tell people what he thought of them, any more than anyone else does. He certainly knew how false they were, what treachery they were capable of ! . . . However, he was a prudent man, and well brought up, and so he was always polite. But one day he gave a big party.—It was in the evening, and he was tired, tired after the day’s work, and tired from the strain of wanting to keep his mouth shut and having to talk nonsense with his guests . . . (The young lady shrinks back in horror.) Anyway, at the dinner table, he rapped for silence, raised his glass, and began to talk . . . Then something loosed the trigger, and in a long speech he

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stripped everybody naked, one after another, exposing all their falseness! Exhausted, he sat down in the middle of the table and told them all to go to hell! young lady: Oh! student: I was there, and I’ll never forget what happened next! . . . My father and mother fought, and the guests rushed for the door . . . My father was taken to a madhouse, where he died. (pause) When we keep silent for too long, stagnant water starts to form, and everything rots! And that’s the way it is in this house too! There’s something rotting here! And I thought this was a paradise the first time I saw you enter here . . . On that Sunday morning I stood outside and looked in. I saw a colonel who wasn’t a colonel. I had a noble benefactor who was a bandit and had to hang himself. I saw a mummy who was not a mummy, and a maiden—which reminds me: where is virginity to be found? Where is beauty? Only in Nature or in my mind when it’s dressed up in Sunday best. Where are honor and faith? In fairy tales and children’s games. Where is anything that fulfills its promise? . . . In my imagination!—Do you see? Your flowers have poisoned me, and now I’ve given the poison back to you.—I begged you to be my wife and share our home. We made poetry, sang, and played, and then in came the Cook . . . Sursum corda! Try once more to strike fire and splendor from the golden harp . . . try, I beg you, I command you on my knees! . . . Very well, then I’ll do it myself ! (takes the harp and plucks the strings, but there is no sound) It’s deaf and dumb! Why is it that the most beautiful flowers are so poisonous, the most poisonous? Damnation hangs over the whole of creation . . . Why wouldn’t you be my bride? Because you’re sick at the very source of life . . . I can feel that vampire in the kitchen beginning to drain me. I think she’s a lamia who sucks the blood of children. It’s always in the kitchen that a child’s seed leaves are nipped, its growth stunted, if it hasn’t already happened in the bedroom . . . There are poisons that blind you, and poisons that open your eyes.—I must have been born with the second kind in my veins, for I can’t see beauty in ugliness or call evil good, I can’t! Jesus Christ descended into hell. That was his pilgrimage on this earth: to this madhouse, this dungeon, this morgue of a world. And the madmen killed him when he tried to set them free, but they let the bandit go. It’s always the bandit who gets the sympathy!—Alas! Alas for us all! Savior of the World, save us, we are perishing! (The young lady, apparently dying, lies crumpled in her chair. She rings and bengtsson enters.) young lady: Bring the screen! Quickly—I’m dying! (bengtsson exits and returns with the screen, which he unfolds and sets up around the young lady.) student: He’s coming to set you free! Welcome, you pale and gentle deliverer!—Sleep, my beautiful one, lost and innocent, blameless in your

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suffering. Sleep without dreaming. And when you awaken again . . . may you be greeted by a sun that does not burn, in a home without dust, by friends who cause no pain, by a love without flaw . . . You wise and gentle Buddha, sitting there waiting for a heaven to rise up out of the earth, grant us patience in the time of testing, and purity of will, so that your hope may not be in vain! (The strings of the harp make a murmuring sound. The room is filled with white light.) I saw the sun, and thought I saw what was hidden. You cannot heal with evil deeds done in anger. Man reaps as he sows; blessed is the doer of good. Comfort him you have grieved with your goodness, and you will have healed. No fear has he who has done no ill; goodness is innocence. (A whimpering can be heard from behind the screen.) You poor little child, child of this world of illusion, guilt, suffering, and death; this world of endless change, disappointment, and pain. The Lord of Heaven be merciful to you on your journey . . . (The room disappears. Böcklin’s painting, ‘‘The Island of the Dead,’’ appears in the background, and from the island comes music, soft, calm, and gently melancholy.)

Zones of the Spirit August Strindberg

Through Faith to Knowledge.—The pupil asked: ‘‘How shall I know that I believe rightly?’’ ‘‘I will tell you. Doubt the regular denials of your everyday intelligence. Go out of yourself if you can, and place yourself at the believer’s standpoint. Act as though you believed, and then test the belief, and see whether it agrees with your experiences. If it does, then you have gained in wisdom, and no one can shake your belief. When I for the first time obtained Swedenborg’s Arcana Cœlestia, and looked through the ten thousand pages, it appeared to me all nonsense. And yet I could not help wondering, since the man was so extraordinarily learned in all the natural sciences, as well as in mathematics, philosophy, and political economy. Amid the apparent foolishness of the book were some details which remained riveted in my memory. ‘‘Some time later, in my ordinary life, there happened something inexplicable. Subsequently light was thrown upon this by an experience which Swedenborg refers to as his so-called heaven and his so-called angels. Then I began to search and to compare, to make experiments and to find explanations. I come to the conclusion that Swedenborg has had experiences which resemble those of earthly life, but are not the same. This he brings out in his theory of correspondences and agreements. The theosophists have expressed it thus: parallel with the earth-life we live another life on the astral plane, but unconsciously to ourselves.’’ The Enchanted Room.—The pupil became curious and asked: ‘‘What opened your eyes as regards Swedenborg?’’ Excerpt reprinted from August Strindberg, Zones of the Spirit, trans. Claud Field (New York: Putnam, 1913), 28–43.

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‘‘It is difficult to say, but I will try to do so. In my lonely dwelling there was a room which I considered the most beautiful in the world. It had not been so beautiful at first, but great and important events had taken place there. A child had been born in it, and in it a man had died. Finally I fitted it up as a temple of memory, and never showed it to anyone. ‘‘One day, however, the demon of pride and ostentation took possession of me, and I took a guest into it. He happened to be a ‘black man,’ a hopeless despairer, who only believed in physical force and in wickedness and called himself ‘a load of earth.’ As I admitted him I said, ‘Now you will see the most beautiful room in the country. I turned on the electric light, which generally poured down from the ceiling such a blaze that not a dark corner was left in the room. The man stood in the middle of the room, looked round, grumbled to himself, and said ‘I can’t see that.’ ‘‘As he spoke, the room darkened, the walls contracted, the floor shrank in size. My splendid temple was metamorphosed before my eyes. It seemed to me like a room in a hospital, with coarse wallpaper; the beautiful flowered curtains looked dirty; the white surface of the little writing-table showed spots; the gilding was blackened; the brass fittings of the tiled oven were tarnished. The whole room was altered, and I was ashamed. It has been enchanted.’’ Concerning Correspondences.—‘‘Now comes Swedenborg, but his explanation is somewhat difficult. I must make a prefatory remark, in order that you may not think I regard myself as an angel. By ‘angel’ Swedenborg means a deceased mortal, who by death has been released from the prison of the body, and by suffering in faith has recovered the highest faculties of his soul. It is necessary to bear this definition of Swedenborg’s in mind, and to remember that it does not apply to my guest or myself. ‘‘Swedenborg further remarks regarding these dematerialised beings: ‘All which appears and exists around them seems to be produced and created by them. The fact that their surroundings are, as it were, produced and created by them is evident, because when they are no longer there, the surroundings are altered. A change in the surroundings is also apparent, when other beings come in their place. Elysian plains change into their trees and fruits; gardens change into their roses and plants, and fields into their herbs and grasses. The reason for the appearance and alteration of such objects is that they are produced by the wishes of these angel beings and the currents of thought set in motion thereby.’ ‘‘Is not this a subtle observation of Swedenborg’s, and have not the facts he alleges something corresponding to them in our lower sphere? Does it not resemble my adventure in the ‘enchanted room?’ Perhaps you have had a similar experience?’’ The Green Island.—The pupil answered: ‘‘I have certainly had strange experiences, but did not understand them because I thought with the flesh. As I just heard you say that our experiences can receive a symbolical inter-

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pretation, I remembered an incident which resembled that which you have just related and compared with an observation of Swedenborg’s. After a youth spent under intolerable pressure and too much work, a friend gave me a sum of money that I might spend the summer on the sea in literary recreation. When I saw the ‘Green Island’ with its carpets of flowers, beds of reeds, banks of willows, oak coppices, and hazel woods, I thought that I beheld Paradise. Together with three other young poets I passed the summer in a state of happiness which I have never experienced since. We were fairly religious, although we did not literally believe in the gods of the state, and we lived, as a rule, innocently enough, with simple pleasures such as bathing, sailing, and fishing. ‘‘But there was an evil man among us. He was overbearing, and regarded mankind as his enemies, denied all goodness, spied after others’ faults, rejoiced in others’ misfortunes. Every time he left us to go to the town, the island seemed to me more beautiful; it seemed like Sunday. I was always the object of his gibes, but did not understand his malice. My friends wondered that I was not angry with him, as I was generally so passionate. I do not myself understand it, but I was as though protected, and noticed nothing, whatever the cause may have been. Perhaps you ask whether the island really was so wonderful. I answer: I found it so, but perhaps the beauty was in my way of looking at it.’’ Swedenborg’s Hell.—The pupil continued: ‘‘The next summer I came again, but this time with other companions, and I was another man. The bitterness of life, the spirit of the time, new teachings, evil companionship made me doubt the beneficence of Providence and finally deny its existence. We led a dreadful life together. We slandered each other, suspected each other even of theft. All wished to dominate, nobody would follow another to the best bathing-place, but each went to his own. We could not sail, for everyone wished to steer. We quarrelled from morning till night. We drank also, and half of us were treating ourselves for incurable diseases. My ‘Green Island,’ the first paradise of my youth, became ugly and repulsive to me. I could see no more beauty in nature, although at that time I worshipped nature. But wait a minute, and see how it agreed with what Swedenborg says! The beautiful weed-fringed bay began to exhale such miasmas that I got malarial fever. The gnats plagued us the whole night and stung through the thickest veil. If I wandered in the wood and wished to pluck a flower, I saw an adder rear its head. One day, when I took some moss from a rock, I saw immediately a black snake zigzagging away. It was inexplicable. The peaceable inhabitants must have been infected by our wickedness, for they became malicious, ugly, quarrelsome, and enacted domestic tragedies. It was hell! When I became ill, my companions scoffed at me, and were angry, because I had to have a room to myself. They borrowed money from me which was not my own, and behaved brutally. When I wanted a doctor, they would not fetch him.’’

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The teacher broke in: ‘‘That is how Swedenborg describes hell.’’ Preliminary Knowledge Necessary.—The pupil asked: ‘‘Is there a hell?’’ ‘‘You ask that, when you have been in it?’’ ‘‘I mean, another one.’’ ‘‘What do you mean by another one? Has your experience not sufficed to convince you that there is one?’’ ‘‘But what does Swedenborg think?’’ ‘‘I don’t know. It is possible that he means not a place, but a condition of mind. But as his descriptions of another side agree with our experiences on this side in this point, that whenever a man breaks the connection with the higher sphere, which is Love and Wisdom, a hell ensues—it does not matter whether it is here or there. He uses parables and allegories, as Christ did in order to be understood. ‘‘Emerson in his Representative Men regards Swedenborg’s genius as the greatest among modern thinkers, but he warns us against stereotyping his forms of thought. True as transitional forms, they are false if one tries to fix them fast. He calls these descriptions a transitory embodiment of the truth, not the truth itself.’’ ‘‘But I do not yet understand Swedenborg.’’ ‘‘No, because you have not the necessary preliminary knowledge. Just like the peasant who came to a chemical lecture and only heard about letters and numbers. He considered it the most stupid stuff he had ever heard: ‘They could only spell, but could not put the letters together.’ He lacked the necessary preliminary knowledge. Still, when you read Swedenborg, read Emerson along with him.’’ Perverse Science.—The teacher continued: ‘‘Swedenborg never found a contradiction between science and religion, because he beheld the harmony in all, correspondences in the higher sphere to the lower, and the unity underlying opposites. Like Pythagoras, he saw the Law-giver in His laws, the Creator in His work, God in nature, history, and the life of men. Modern degenerate science sees nothing, although it has obtained the telescope and microscope. ‘‘Newton, Leibnitz, Kepler, Swedenborg, Linnæus—the greatest scientists were religious, God-fearing men. Newton wrote also an exposition of the Apocalypse. Kepler was a mystic in the truest sense of the word. It was his mysticism which led to his discovery of the laws regulating the courses of the planets. Humble and pure-hearted, those men could see God, while our decadents only see an ape infested by vermin. ‘‘The fact that our science has fallen into disharmony with God shows that it is perverse, and derives its light from the Lord of Dung.’’ Truth in Error.—The teacher continued: ‘‘Let us return for a moment to your green island. There you discovered that the world is a reflection of your interior state, and of the interior state of others. It is therefore probable that each carries his own heaven and hell within him. Thus we come to the

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conclusion that religion is something subjective, and therefore outside the reach of discussion. ‘‘The believer is therefore right when he receives spiritual edification from the consecrated bread and wine. And the unbeliever is also not wrong when he maintains that for him it is only bread and wine. But if he asserts that it is the same with the believer, he is wrong. One ought not to punish him for it; one must only lament his want of intelligence. By calling religion subjective, I have not thereby diminished its power. The subjective is the highest for personality, which is an end in itself, inasmuch as the education of man to superman is the meaning of existence. ‘‘But when many individuals combine in one belief, there results an objective force of tremendous intensity, which can move mountains and overthrow the walls of Jericho.’’ Accumulators.—‘‘When a race of wild men begins to worship a meteoric stone and this stone is subsequently venerated by a nation for centuries, it accumulates psychic force, i.e., becomes a sacred object which can bestow strength on those who possess the receptive apparatus of faith. It can accordingly work miracles which are quite incomprehensible to unbelievers. ‘‘Such a sacred object is called an amulet, and is not really more remarkable than an electric pocket-lamp. But the lamp gives light only on two conditions—that it is charged with electricity and that one presses the knob. Amulets also only operate under certain conditions. ‘‘The same holds true of sacred places, sacred pictures and objects, and also of sacred rites, which are called sacraments. ‘‘But it may be dangerous for an unbeliever to approach too near to an accumulator. The faith-batteries of others can produce an effect on them, and they may be killed thereby, if they possess not the earth-circuit to carry off the coarser earthly elements. ‘‘The electric car proceeds securely and evenly as long as it is in contact with the overhead wire and also connected with the earth. If the former contact is interrupted, the car stands still. If the earth-circuit is blocked, an electric storm is the result, as was the case with St. Paul on the way to Damascus.’’ Eternal Punishment.—The pupil asked: ‘‘What is your belief regarding eternal punishments?’’ ‘‘Let me answer evasively, so to speak: since wickedness is its own punishment and a wicked man cannot be happy and the will is free, an evil man may be perpetually tormented with his own wickedness, and his punishment accordingly have no end. ‘‘But we will hope that the wicked man will not adhere to his evil will for ever. A wicked man often experiences a change of nature when he sees something good. Therefore, it is our duty to show him what is good. The consciousness of fatality and being damned comes to everyone, even to the incredulous. That proves that there is an inborn sense of justice, a need to

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punish oneself, and that quite independent of dogmas. Moreover, it is a gross falsehood that the doctrine of hell was invented by Christianity. Greeks and Romans knew Hades and Tartarus with their refined tortures; the Jews had their Sheol and Gehenna; the cheerful Japanese rival Dante with their Inferno. It is therefore thoughtless nonsense to make Christian theology solely responsible for the doctrine of hell. It would be just as fair to trace it to the cheerful view of life of the Greeks and Romans, who first came upon the idea.’’ ‘‘Desolation.’’—The teacher continued: ‘‘When this feeling of fatality strikes an unbeliever, it often appears as the so-called persecution mania. He believes himself, for example, persecuted by men who wish to poison him. Since his intelligence is so low that he cannot rise to the idea of God, his evil conscience makes him conjure up evil men as his persecutors. Thus he does not understand that it is God who is pursuing him, and therefore he dies or goes mad. ‘‘But he who has strength enough to bow himself, or intelligence enough to guess at a method in this madness, cries to God for help and grace, and escapes the madhouse. After a season of self-chastisement, life begins to grow lighter; peace returns; he succeeds in his undertakings; his ‘Green Island’ again blooms with spring. This feeling of woebegoneness often occurs about the fortieth or fiftieth year. It is the balancing of books at the solstice. The whole past is summed up, and the debit side shows a plus which makes one despair. Scenes of earlier life pass by like a panorama, seen in a new light; long-forgotten incidents reappear even in their smallest details. The opening of the sealed Book of Life, spoken of in the Revelation, is a veritable reality. It is the day of judgment. The children of the Lord of Dung who have lost their intelligence understand nothing, but buy bromide at the chemist’s and take sick-leave because of ‘neurasthenia.’ That is a Greek word, which serves them as an amulet. ‘‘Swedenborg calls this natural process the desolation of the wicked. The pietists call it the awakening before conversion.’’ A World of Delusion.—‘‘Swedenborg writes: ‘The angels are troubled concerning the darkness on earth. They say that they can see hardly any light anywhere, that men live and strengthen themselves in lying and deceit and so heap up falsity upon falsity. In order to ratify these, they manage to extract, by way of inference, such true propositions from false premises, as from the darknesses which conceal the true sources, and, because the real state of the case is unknown, cannot be refuted.’ ‘‘This agrees with what every thinking man observes: that lying and deceit are universal. The whole of life—politics, society, marriage, the family—is counterfeit. Views which universally prevail are based upon false history; scientific theories are founded on error; the truth of today is discovered to be a lie tomorrow; the hero turns out to be a coward, the martyr a hypocrite. Te Deums are sung over a silver wedding, and the wedded pair,

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still secretly leading immoral lives, thank God that they have lived together happily for five-and-twenty years. The whole populace assembles once in a year to celebrate the memory of the ‘Destroyer of the Country.’ He who says the most foolish thing possible receives a prize in money and a gold medal. At the annual asses’ festival, the worst is crowned the asses’ king. ‘‘A mad world, my masters! If Hamlet plays the madman, he sees how mad the world is. But the spectator believes himself to be the only reasonable person; therefore, he gives Hamlet his sympathy.’’

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part four Correspondences

w

assily Kandinsky (1866–1944) taught law at Moscow University until 1896, when he decided to study painting in Munich—a move that allowed him to associate with young experimental artists at the turn of the twentieth century. In 1908, he began to create Expressionist landscapes and move steadily in his painting toward more abstract visual forms. With Franz Marc, he founded Der Blaue Reiter (The Blue Rider) in 1911, a group that embraced a wide range of art devoted to the exploration of spirituality and the relationship between music and color. In 1912, Kandinsky and Marc edited Der Blaue Reiter Almanach, which included the first publication of Kandinsky’s Der Gelbe Klang (The Yellow Sound, a.k.a. The Yellow Chord), with ‘‘On Stage Composition’’ as its introduction. Written in 1909, this play occupies a significant place in the history of theater as one of the first abstract dramas (itself barely anticipated by the ideas explored in the Russian composer Scriabin’s ‘‘light symphony,’’ Prometheus [1909–10]). It is also one of the earliest modern light-and-sound ‘‘events,’’ investigating the synesthetic relationship among color, movement, and sound independent of traditional narrative. (Its music score, by the Russian composer Thomas von Hartmann, was unfortunately lost during the Russian Revolution.) About the same time as he was writing The Yellow Sound together with The Green Sound (1909), Black and White (1909), and Violet (1911), Kandinsky produced his main theoretical tract on modern art, Über das Geistige in der Kunst (Concerning the Spiritual in Art, 1911), in which he advocated the creation of increasingly nonobjective art, free from the confines of physical representation, and theorized about the inherent warmth or coolness and movement of particular colors. As a member of and teacher at the Bauhaus beginning in 1922, Kandinsky continued to influence the development of this movement—whose

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primary goals, like his, were to reunite the arts, break down the barriers between artists and craftsmen, and make artistic products available to the common people as an integral part of daily life—until the Nazis forced it to shut down in 1933. He moved to France, where he continued to paint until the end of his life.

The Yellow Sound as a Total Work of Art

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nspired by the Wagnerian notion of Gesamtkunstwerk, Kandinsky aimed at creating a synthetic genre—the total work of art. Arguing, however, that the Wagnerian concept is based exclusively on the principles of representational art, in which all connections between and within different arts are artificial and external, Kandinsky offered his own model of the Gesamtkunstwerk. He named his new model a stage composition, a form centered on the principle of internal spiritual connections between sound, movement, and color. Kandinsky first presented his concept of purely theatrical, synthetic form and its relationship to the Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk in his theoretical manifesto ‘‘On Stage Composition’’ (1912). Kandinsky’s own stage compositions The Yellow Sound, Daphnis and Chloe, Black and White, Violet, and The Green Sound were written in the early 1900s, simultaneously with his first attempts to break away from naturalism in art and create abstract painting. By renouncing the material object and the human figure in abstract painting, Kandinsky established a new relationship between form and color. Similarly, by renouncing individualized character and psychological motivation in stage composition, Kandinsky introduced a purely theatrical, ecstatically spectacular form that would have an exclusively spiritual, even regenerative relation with its audience. Unlike Wagner, Kandinsky contended that the three elements of his Gesamtkunstwerk—sound, movement, and color—should not have external or narrative connections with each other. Kandinsky rejected the governing triad of realistic drama—psychology, causality, and morality or providentiality—and created his own formula in which the causal-motivational relationships among characters and events were replaced by the internal or subjective causality contained in sound, movement, and color. In Kandinsky’s triad, the function of psychology was taken over by different colors and their psychological effect on the audience. And even though Kandinsky argued for the independence of all three elements in his triad, color actually dictated the action. Color, in its relation to music and dance and vice versa, replaced not only psychology in the triad, but also causeand-effect relationships, for changes in color programmed the movements of the other elements in Kandinsky’s composition. While completely repudiating representational, realistic art in The Yellow Sound, Kandinsky embraced some models of avant-garde drama and prefigured others. Influenced by the principles of Gesamtkunstwerk and the Symbolist theory of ‘‘correspondences’’—the idea that there exists an inner, spiritual reciprocity among the arts, whose different forms can potentially affect the same senses—Kandinsky also explored some of the themes of Expressionistic drama, such as the eternal contradiction between Dionysian frenzy (yellow) and Apollonian ‘‘classicism’’ (blue) and the never-ending battle between the spiritual and the physical. In emphasizing the importance of collage and the juxtaposition of different arts within a total work of art, he also anticipated the Dadaist theories By Julia Listengarten. Published here for the first time.

of automatic writing, chance collages, and random stage compositions. Finally, however, The Yellow Sound in its pure form cannot be identified with any particular avant-garde movement: instead, it is sui generis, presenting its own form and perhaps its own movement.

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Select Bibliography on Kandinsky Berghaus, Gunter. ‘‘A Theatre of Image, Sound, and Motion.’’ Maske und Kothurn 32.1–2 (1986): 7–28. Golding, John. ‘‘Kandinsky and the Sound of Color.’’ In Paths to the Absolute: Mondrian, Malevich, Kandinsky, Pollock, Newman, Rothko, and Still. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000: 81–112. Grohmann, Will. Wassily Kandinsky: Life and Work. Trans. Norbert Guterman. New York: Abrams, 1958. Jacobsen, Thomas. ‘‘Kandinsky’s Color-Form Correspondence and the Bauhaus Colors: An Empirical View.’’ Leonardo 37.2 (2004): 135–36. Kobialka, Michal. ‘‘Theatre of Celebration/Disruption: Time and Space/Timespace in Kandinsky’s Theatre Experiments.’’ Theatre Annual 44 (1989–90): 71–96. Sheppard, R. W. ‘‘Kandinsky’s Abstract Drama Der Gelbe Klang: An Interpretation.’’ Forum for Modern Language Studies 14 (1975): 165–76. Swoope, Charles. ‘‘Kandinsky and Kokoschka: Two Episodes in the Genesis of Total Theatre.’’ Yale/Theatre 3.1 (Fall 1970): 11–18.

The Yellow Sound A Stage Composition Wassily Kandinsky

participants five giants indistinct beings tenor (behind the stage) a child a man people in flowing garb people in tights chorus (behind the stage) [Thomas von Hartmann was responsible for the music] introduction Some indeterminate chords from the orchestra. Curtain. Over the stage, dark-blue twilight, which at first has a pale tinge and later becomes a more intense dark blue. After a time, a small light becomes visible in the center, increasing in brightness as the color becomes deeper. After a time, music from the orchestra. Pause. Behind the stage, a chorus is heard, which must be so arranged that the source of the singing is unrecognizable. The bass voices predominate. The singing is even, without expression, with pauses indicated by dots. Reprinted from Arnold Schoenberg, Wassily Kandinsky: Letters, Pictures, and Documents, ed. Jelena Hahl-Koch; trans. John C. Crawford (London: Faber and Faber, 1984), 489–507.

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At first, deep voices. Stone-hard dreams. . . . And speaking rocks. . . . Clods of earth pregnant with puzzling questions. . . . The heaven turns. . . . The stones. . . . melt. . . . Growing up more invisible . . . rampart. . . . high voices: Tears and laughter. . . . Praying and cursing. . . . Joy of reconciliation and blackest slaughter. all: Murky light on the . . . sunniest . . . day (Quickly and suddenly cut off ). Brilliant shadows in darkest night!! The light disappears. It grows suddenly dark. Long pause. Then orchestral introduction. scene 1 (Right and left as seen by the spectator.) The stage must be as deep as possible. A long way back, a broad green hill. Behind the hill a smooth, matt, blue, fairly dark-toned curtain. The music begins straightaway, at first in the higher registers, then descending immediately to the lower. At the same time, the background becomes dark blue (in time with the music) and assumes broad black edges (like a picture). Behind the stage can be heard a chorus, without words, which produces an entirely wooden and mechanical sound, without feeling. After the choir has finished singing, a general pause: no movement, no sound. Then darkness. Later, the same scene is illuminated. Five bright yellow giants (as big as possible) appear from right to left (as if hovering directly above the ground). They remain standing next to one another right at the back, some with raised, others with lowered shoulders, and with strange, yellow faces which are indistinct. Very slowly, they turn their heads toward one another and make simple arm movements. The music becomes more definite. Immediately afterward, the giants’ very low singing, without words, becomes audible (pp), and the giants approach the ramp very slowly. Quickly, red, indistinct creatures, somewhat reminiscent of birds, fly from left to right, with big heads, bearing a distant resemblance to human ones. This flight is reflected in the music. The giants continue to sing more and more softly. As they do so, they become more indistinct. The hill behind grows slowly and becomes brighter and brighter, finally white. The sky becomes completely black. Behind the stage, the same wooden chorus becomes audible. The giants are no longer to be heard.

The apron stage turns blue and becomes ever more opaque. The orchestra competes with the chorus and drowns it. A dense blue mist makes the whole stage invisible.

The flowers cover all, cover all, cover all. Close your eyes! Close your eyes! We look. We look. Cover conception with innocence. Open your eyes! Open your eyes! Gone. Gone.* * Vorbei in the German; in the earlier Russian version mimo, which means ‘‘passed’’ only in the spatial sense, hence ‘‘passed by’’ or ‘‘missed.’’

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The blue mist recedes gradually before the light, which is a perfect, brilliant white. At the back of the stage, a bright green hill, completely round and as large as possible. The background violet, fairly bright. The music is shrill and tempestuous, with oft-repeated A and B and B and A-flat. These individual notes are finally swallowed up by the raging storm. Suddenly, there is complete stillness. A pause. Again is heard the plangent complaint, albeit precise and sharp, of A and B. This lasts for some time. Then, a further pause. At this point the background suddenly turns a dirty brown. The hill becomes dirty green. And right in the middle of the hill forms an indefinite black patch, which appears now distinct, now blurred. At each change in definition, the brilliant white light becomes progressively grayer. On the left side of the hill a big yellow flower suddenly becomes visible. It bears a distant resemblance to a large, bent cucumber, and its color becomes more and more intense. Its stem is long and thin. Only one narrow, prickly leaf grows sideways out of the middle of the stem. Long pause. Later, in complete silence, the flower begins to sway very slowly from right to left; still later the leaf, but not together. Still later, both begin to sway in an uneven tempo. Then again separately, whereupon a very thin B accompanies the movement of the flower, a very deep A that of the leaf. Then both sway together again, and both notes sound together. The flower trembles violently and then remains motionless. In the music, the two notes continue to sound. At the same time, many people come on from the left in long, garish, shapeless garments (one entirely blue, a second red, a third green, etc.; only yellow is missing). The people hold in their hands very large white flowers that resemble the flower on the hill. The people keep as close together as possible, pass directly in front of the hill, and remain on the right-hand side of the stage, almost huddled together. They speak with various different voices and recite:

The Yellow Sound

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At first, they all recite together, as if in ecstasy (very distinctly). Then, they repeat the same thing individually: one after the other—alto, bass and soprano voices. At ‘‘We look, we look’’ B sounds; at ‘‘Gone, gone’’ A. Occasional voices become hoarse. Some cry out as if possessed. Here and there a voice becomes nasal, sometimes slowly, sometimes with lightning rapidity. In the first instance, the stage is suddenly rendered indistinct by a dull red light. In the second, a lurid blue light alternates with total darkness. In the third, everything suddenly turns a sickly gray (all colors disappear!). Only the yellow flower continues to glow more strongly! Gradually, the orchestra strikes up and drowns the voices. The music becomes restless, jumping from ff to pp. The light brightens somewhat, and one can recognize indistinctly the colors of the people. Very slowly, tiny figures cross the hill from right to left, indistinct and having a gray color of indeterminate value. They look before them. The moment the first figure appears, the yellow flower writhes as if in pain. Later it suddenly disappears. With equal suddenness, all the white flowers turn yellow. The people walk slowly, as if in a dream, toward the apron stage, and separate more and more from one another. The music dies down, and again one hears the same recitative.* Suddenly, the people stop dead as if spellbound and turn around. All at once they notice the little figures, which are still crossing the hill in an endless line. The people turn away and take several swift paces toward the apron stage, stop once more, turn around again, and remain motionless, as if rooted to the spot.† At last they throw away the flowers as if they were filled with blood, and wrenching themselves free from their rigidity, run together toward the front of the stage. They look around frequently.‡ It turns suddenly dark. scene 3 At the back of the stage: two large rust brown rocks, one sharp, the other rounded and larger than the first. Backdrop: black. Between the rocks stand the giants (as in Scene 1) and whisper noiselessly to one another. Sometimes they whisper in pairs; sometimes all their heads come together. Their bodies remain motionless. In quick succession, brightly colored rays fall from all sides (blue, red, violet, and green alternate several times). Then all these rays meet in the center, becoming intermingled. Everything remains motionless. The giants are almost invisible. Suddenly, all colors vanish. For a moment, there is blackness. Then a dull yellow light floods the stage, which gradually becomes more intense, until the whole stage is bright lemon yellow. As the light is intensified, the music grows deeper and darker (this motion reminds one of a snail retreating into its shell). During these two movements, nothing but light * Half the sentence spoken in unison; the end of the sentence very indistinctly by one voice. Alternating frequently. † This movement must be executed as if at drill. ‡ These movements should not be in time to the music.

is to be seen on the stage: no objects. The brightest level of light is reached, the music entirely dissolved. The giants become distinguishable again, are immovable, and look before them. The rocks appear no more. Only the giants are on the stage: they now stand further apart and have grown bigger. Backdrop and background remain black. Long pause. Suddenly, one hears from behind the stage a shrill tenor voice, filled with fear, shouting entirely indistinguishable words very quickly (one hears frequently [the letter] a: e.g., ‘‘Kalasimunafakola!’’). Pause. For a moment it becomes dark.

scene 5 The stage is gradually saturated with a cold red light, which slowly grows stronger and equally slowly turns yellow. At this point, the giants behind become visible (as in Scene 3). The same rocks are also there. The giants are whispering again (as in Scene 3). At the moment their heads come together again, one hears from behind the stage the same cry, only very quick and short. It becomes dark for a moment; then the same action is repeated again.* As it grows light (white light, without shadows) the giants are still whispering but are also making feeble gestures with their hands (these gestures must be different, but feeble). Occasionally, one of them stretches out his arms (this gesture must, likewise, be the merest suggestion) and puts his head a little to one side, looking at the spectator. Twice, all the giants let their arms drop suddenly, grow somewhat taller, and stand motionless, looking at the spectator. Then their bodies are racked by a kind of spasm (as in the case of the yellow flower), and they start whispering again, occasionally stretching out an arm as if in feeble protest. The music gradually becomes shriller. The giants remain motionless. From the left appear many people, clad in tights of different colors. Their hair is covered with the corresponding color. Likewise * Naturally, the music must also be repeated each time.

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To the left of the stage a small crooked building (like a very simple chapel), with neither door nor window. On one side of the building (springing from the roof ) a narrow, crooked turret with a small, cracked bell. Hanging from the bell a rope. A small child is pulling slowly and rhythmically at the lower end of the rope, wearing a white blouse and sitting on the ground (turned toward the spectator). To the right, on the same level, stands a very fat man, dressed entirely in black. His face completely white, very indistinct. The chapel is a dirty red. The tower bright blue. The bell made of brass. Background gray, even, smooth. The black man stands with legs apart, his hands on his hips. The man (very loud, imperiously; with a beautiful voice): Silence!! The child drops the rope. It becomes dark.

The Yellow Sound

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their faces. (The people resemble marionettes.) First there appear gray, then black, then white, and finally different-colored people. The movements of each group are different; one proceeds quickly forward, another slowly, as if with difficulty; a third makes occasional merry leaps; a fourth keeps turning around; a fifth comes on with solemn, theatrical steps, arms crossed; a sixth walks on tiptoe, palm upraised, etc. All take up different positions on the stage; some sit in small, close-knit groups, others by themselves. The whole arrangement should be neither ‘‘beautiful’’ nor particularly definite. It should not, however, represent complete confusion. The people look in different directions, some with heads raised, others with lowered heads, some with heads sunk on their chests. As if overcome by exhaustion, they rarely shift their position. The light remains white. The music undergoes frequent changes of tempo; occasionally, it too subsides in exhaustion. At precisely these moments, one of the white figures on the left (fairly far back) makes indefinite but very much quicker movements, sometimes with his arms, sometimes with his legs. From time to time he continues one movement for a longer space of time and remains for several moments in the corresponding position. It is like a kind of dance, only with frequent changes of tempo, sometimes corresponding with the music, sometimes not. (This simple action must be rehearsed with extreme care, so that what follows produces an expressive and startling effect.) The other people gradually start to stare at the white figure. Many crane their necks. In the end, they are all looking at him. This dance ends, however, quite suddenly; the white figure sits down, stretches out one arm as if in ceremonious preparation and, slowly bending this arm at the elbow, brings it toward his head. The general tension is especially expressive. The white figure, however, rests his elbow on his knee and puts his head in his hand. For a moment, it becomes dark. Then one perceives again the same groupings and attitudes. Many of the groups are illuminated from above with stronger or weaker lights of different colors: one seated group is illuminated with a powerful red, a large seated group with pale blue, etc. The bright yellow light is (apart from the giants, who now become particularly distinct) concentrated exclusively upon the seated white figure. Suddenly, all the colors disappear (the giants remain yellow), and white twilight floods the stage. In the orchestra, individual colors begin to stand out. Correspondingly, individual figures stand up in different places: quickly, in haste, solemnly, slowly; and as they do so, they look up. Some remain standing. Some sit down again. Then all are once more overcome by exhaustion, and everything remains motionless. The giants whisper. But they, too, remain now motionless and erect as from behind the stage the wooden chorus, which lasts only for a short time, becomes audible. Then one hears again in the orchestra individual colors. Red light travels across the rocks, and they begin to tremble. The giants tremble in alternation with the passage of light. At different ends of the stage, movement is noticeable.

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The orchestra repeats several times B and A: on their own, together, sometimes very shrill, sometimes scarcely audible. Various people leave their places and go, some quickly, some slowly, over to other groups. The ones who stood by themselves form smaller groups of two or three people, or spread themselves among the larger groups. The big groups split up. Many people run in haste from the stage, looking behind them. In the process, all the black. gray, and white people disappear; in the end, there remain only the different-colored people on stage. Gradually, everything takes on an arhythmical movement. In the orchestra—confusion. The same shrill cry as in Scene 3 is heard. The giants tremble. Various lights cross the stage and overlap. Whole groups run from the stage. A general dance strikes up, starting at various points and gradually subsiding, carrying all the people with it. Running, jumping, running to and fro, falling down. Some, standing still, make rapid movements with their arms alone, others only with their legs, heads, or behinds. Some combine all these movements. Sometimes, there are group movements. Sometimes, whole groups make one and the same movement. At that moment, at which the greatest confusion in the orchestra, in the movement, and in the lighting occurs, it suddenly becomes dark and silent. Only the yellow giants remain visible at the back of the stage, being only slowly swallowed up by the darkness. The giants seem to go out like a lamp; i.e., the light glimmers several times before total darkness ensues.

On Stage Composition Wassily Kandinsky

Every art has its own language, i.e., those means which it alone possesses. Thus every art is something self-contained. Every art is an individual life. It is a realm of its own. For this reason, the means belonging to the different arts are externally quite different. Sound, color, words! . . . In the last essentials, these means are wholly alike: the final goal extinguishes the external dissimilarities and reveals the inner identity. This final goal (knowledge) is attained by the human soul through finer vibrations of the same. These finer vibrations, however, which are identical in their final goal, have in themselves different inner motions and are thereby distinguished from one another. This indefinable and yet definite activity of the soul (vibration) is the aim of the individual artistic means. A certain complex of vibrations—the goal of a work of art. The progressive refinement of the soul by means of the accumulation of different complexes—the aim of art. Art is for this reason indispensable and purposeful. The correct means that the artist discovers is a material form of that vibration of his soul to which he is forced to give expression. If this means is correct, it causes a virtually identical vibration in the receiving soul. This is inevitable. But this second vibration is complex. First, it can be powerful or weak, depending upon the degree of development of him who Reprinted from Arnold Schoenberg, Wassily Kandinsky: Letters, Pictures, and Documents, ed. Jelena Hahl-Koch; trans. John C. Crawford (London: Faber and Faber, 1984), 111–17.

The nineteenth century distinguished itself as a time far removed from inner creation. Concentration upon material phenomena and upon the material aspect of phenomena logically brought about the decline of creative power upon the internal plane, which apparently led to the ultimate degree of abasement. Out of this one-sidedness other biases naturally had to develop. Thus, too, on the stage: 1. There necessarily occurred here also (as in other spheres) the painstaking elaboration of individual, already existing (previously created) constituent * Among others, theater designers in particular count today upon this ‘‘collaboration,’’ which has of course always been employed by artists. Hence derived also the demand for a certain distance, which should separate the work of art from the ultimate degree of expressiveness. This not-sayingthe-ultimate was called for by, e.g., Lessing and Delacroix, among others. This distance leaves space free for the operation of fantasy. † Thus, in time, every work is correctly ‘‘understood.’’ ‡ See the article by L. Sabaneyev in this book [i.e., in the almanac Der blaue Reiter].

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receives it, and also upon temporal influences (degree of absorption of the soul). Second, this vibration of the receiving soul will cause other strings within the soul to vibrate in sympathy. This is a way of exciting the ‘‘fantasy’’ of the receiving subject, which ‘‘continues to exert its creative activity’’ upon the work of art* [am Werke ‘‘weiter schafft’’]. Strings of the soul that are made to vibrate frequently will, on almost every occasion other strings are touched, also vibrate in sympathy. And sometimes so strongly that they drown the original sound: there are people who are made to cry when they hear ‘‘cheerful’’ music, and vice versa. For this reason, the individual effects of a work of art become more or less strongly colored in the case of different receiving subjects. Yet in this case the original sound is not destroyed, but continues to live and works, even if imperceptibly, upon the soul.† Therefore, there is no man who cannot receive art. Every work of art and every one of the individual means belonging to that work produces in every man without exception a vibration that is at bottom identical to that of the artist. The internal, ultimately discoverable identity of the individual means of different arts has been the basis upon which the attempt has been made to support and to strengthen a particular sound of one art by the identical sound belonging to another art, thereby attaining a particularly powerful effect. This is one means of producing [such] an effect. Duplicating the resources of one art (e.g., music), however, by the identical resources of another art (e.g., painting) is only one instance, one possibility. If this possibility is used as an internal means also (e.g., in the case of Scriabin),‡ we find within the realm of contrast, of complex composition, first the antithesis of this duplication and later a series of possibilities that lie between collaboration and opposition. This material is inexhaustible.

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parts, which had for the sake of convenience been firmly and definitively separated one from another. Here, one sees reflected the specialization that always comes about immediately when no new forms are being created. 2. The positive character of the spirit of the times could lead only to a form of combination that was equally positive. Indeed, people thought: two is greater than one, and sought to strengthen every effect by means of repetition. As regards the inner effect, however, the reverse may be true, and often one is greater than two. Mathematically, 1 + 1 =2. Spiritually, 1 –1 can = 2. Re (1). Through the primary consequence of materialism, i.e., through specialization, and bound up with it, the further external development of the individual [constituent] parts, there arose and became petrified three classes of stage works, which were separated from one another by high walls: A) Drama B) Opera C) Ballet (A) Nineteenth-century drama is in general the more or less refined and profound narration of happenings of a more or less personal character. It is usually the description of external life, where the spiritual life of man is involved only insofar as it has to do with his eternal life.* The cosmic element is completely lacking. External happenings and the eternal unity of the action compose the form of drama today. (B) Opera is drama to which music is added as a principal element, whereby the refinement and profundity of the dramatic aspect suffer greatly. The two constituent [elements] are bound up with one another in a completely eternal way. I.e., either the music illustrates (or strengthens) the dramatic action, or else the dramatic action is called upon to help explain the music. Wagner noticed this weakness and sought to alleviate it by various means. His principal object was to join the individual parts with one another in an organic way, thereby creating a monumental work of art.† Wagner sought to strengthen his resources by the repetition of one and the same external movement in two substantive forms, and to raise the effect * We find few exceptions. And even these few (e.g., Maeterlinck, Ibsen’s Ghosts, Andreyev’s Life of Man, etc.) remain dominated by external action. † This thought of Wagner’s took over half a century to cross the Alps, on the other side of which it was expressed in the form of an official paragraph. The musical ‘‘manifesto’’ of the Futurists reads: ‘‘Proclamer comme une nécessité absolue que le musicien soit l’auteur du poème dramatique ou tragique qu’il doit mettre en musique’’ [To proclaim as an absolute necessity that the musician should be the author of the dramatic poem or tragedy that he would set to music] (May 1911, Milan).

* This programmatic element runs right through Wagner’s work and is probably to be explained in terms not only of the character of the artist but also of the search for a precise form for this new type of creation, upon which the spirit of the nineteenth century impressed its stamp of the ‘‘positive.’’

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produced to a monumental level. His mistake in this case was to think that he disposed of a means of universal application. This device is in reality only one of the series of often more powerful possibilities in [the realm of ] monumental art. Yet apart from the fact that a parallel repetition constitutes only one means, and that this repetition is only external, Wagner gave to it a new form that necessarily led to others. E.g., movement had before Wagner a purely external and superficial sense in opera (perhaps only debased). It was a naive appurtenance of opera: pressing one’s hands to one’s breast (love), lifting one’s arms (prayer), stretching out one’s arms (powerful emotion), etc. These childish forms (which even today one can still see every evening) were externally related to the text of the opera, which in turn was illustrated by the music. Wagner here created a direct (artistic) link between movement and the progress of the music: movement was subordinated to tempo. The link is, however, of only an external nature. The inner sound of movement does not come into play. In the same artistic but likewise external way, Wagner on the other hand subordinated the music to the text, i.e., movement in a broad sense. The hissing of red-hot iron in water, the sound of the smith’s hammer, etc., were represented musically. This changing subordination has been, however, yet another enrichment of means, which of necessity led to further combinations. Thus, Wagner on the one hand enriched with the effect of one means, and on the other hand diminished the inner sense—the purely artistic inner meaning of the auxiliary means. These forms are merely the mechanical reproduction (not inner collaboration) of the purposive progress of the action. Also of a similar nature is the other kind of combination of music with movement (in the broad sense of the word), i.e., the musical ‘‘characterization’’ of the individual roles. This obstinate recurrence of a [particular] musical phrase at the appearance of a hero finally loses its power and gives rise to an effect upon the ear like that which an old, well-known label on a bottle produces upon the eye. One’s feelings finally revolt against this kind of consistent, programmatic use of one and the same form.* Finally, Wagner uses words as a means of narration, of expressing his thoughts. He fails, however, to create an appropriate setting for such aims, since as a rule the words are drowned by the orchestra. It is not sufficient to allow the words to be heard in numerous recitatives. But the device of interrupting the continuous singing has already dealt a powerful blow to the ‘‘unity.’’ And yet the external action remains untouched even by this.

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Apart from the fact that Wagner here remains entirely in the old traditions of the external, in spite of his efforts to create a text (movement), he still neglects the third element, which is used today in isolated cases in a still more primitive form*—color, and connected with it, pictorial form (decoration). External action, the external connection between its individual parts and the two means employed (drama and music), is the form of opera today. (C) Ballet is a form of drama with all the characteristics already described and also the same content. Only here the seriousness of drama loses even more than in the case of opera. In opera, in addition to love, other themes occur: religious, political, and social conditions provide the ground upon which enthusiasm, despair, honor, hatred, and other similar feelings grow. Ballet contents itself with love in the form of a childish fairy tale. Apart from music, individual and group movement both help to contribute. Everything remains in a naive form of external relationships. It even happens that individual dances are in practice included or left out at will. The ‘‘whole’’ is so problematic that such goings-on go completely unnoticed. External action, the external connection between its individual parts and the three means employed (drama, music, and dance), is the form of ballet today. Re (2). Through the secondary consequence of materialism, i.e., on account of positive addition (1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 1 =3), the only form that was employed involved the use of combination (alternatively, reinforcement), which demanded a parallel progression of means. E.g., powerful emotions are at once emphasized by an b in music. This mathematical principle also constructs affective forms upon a purely external basis. All the above-mentioned forms, which I call substantive forms [Substanzformen] (drama—words; opera—sound; ballet—movement), and likewise the combinations of the individual means, which I call affective means [Wirkungsmittel ], are composed into an external unity. Because all these forms arose out of the principle of external necessity. Out of this springs as a logical result the limitation, the one-sidedness ( = impoverishment) of forms and means. They gradually become orthodox, and every minute change appears revolutionary. Viewing the question from the standpoint of the internal, the whole matter becomes fundamentally different. 1. Suddenly, the external appearance of each element vanishes. And its inner value takes on its full sound. 2. It becomes clear that, if one is using the inner sound, the external action can be not only incidental but also, because it obscures our view, dangerous. * See the article by Sabaneyev.

The following short stage composition is an attempt to draw upon this source. There are here three elements that are used as external means, but for their inner value: 1. musical sound and its movement 2. bodily spiritual sound and its movement, expressed by people and objects 3. color-tones and their movement (a special resource of the stage). Thus, ultimately, drama consists here of the complex of inner experiences (spiritual vibrations) of the spectator. re 1. From opera has been taken the principal element—music—as the source of inner sounds, which need in no way be subordinated to the external progress of the action. re 2. From ballet has been taken dance, which is used as movement that produces an abstract effect with an inner sound. re 3. Color-tones take on an independent significance and are treated as a means of equal importance. All three elements play an equally significant role, remain externally selfsufficient, and are treated in a similar way, i.e., subordinated to the inner purpose. Thus, e.g., music can be completely suppressed, or pushed into the background, if the effect, e.g., of the movement, is sufficiently expressive, and could be weakened by combination with the powerful effect of the music.

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Further, if we go beyond these abstract discoveries to practical creation, we see that it is possible re (1) to take only the inner sound of an element as one’s means; re (2) to eliminate the external procedure ( = the action); re (3) by means of which the external connection between the parts collapses of its own accord; likewise, re (4) the external unity, and re (5) the inner unity place in our hands an innumerable series of means, which could not previously have existed. Here, the only source thus becomes that of internal necessity.

Kandinsky

3. The worth of the external unity appears in its correct light, i.e., as unnecessarily limiting, weakening the inner effect. 4. There arises of its own accord one’s feeling for the necessity of the inner unity, which is supported and even constituted by the external lack of unity. 5. The possibility is revealed for each of the elements to retain its own external life, which externally contradicts the external life of another element.

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The growth of musical movement can correspond to a decrease in the movement of the dance, whereby both movements (the positive and the negative) take on a greater inner value, etc., etc. A series of combinations, which lie between the two poles: collaboration and opposition. Conceived graphically, the three elements can take entirely individual, in external terms, completely independent, paths. Words as such, or linked together in sentences, have been used to create a particular ‘‘mood,’’ which prepares the ground of the soul and makes it receptive. The sound of the human voice has also been used purely, i.e., without being obscured by words, by the sense of the words. The reader is asked not to ascribe to the principle the weaknesses of the following short composition, Yellow Sound, but to attribute them to the author.

part five Italian Futurism

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talian Futurism, which was preoccupied with speed and technology, especially the intoxicating power of machines, originated with Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876–1944), a playwright, poet, war correspondent, and novelist. Born in Egypt, he moved to Italy in 1894, earned a law degree in 1899, and then embarked on his literary career. Starting with his Symbolist period, he founded Poesia, the first Symbolist journal in Italy, and wrote two full-length plays: Le Roi Bombance (King Glutton, 1905) and Poupées électriques (Electric Puppets, 1909), both of which premiered in 1909 at the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre in Paris. Heavily influenced by Alfred Jarry’s King Ubu, Le Roi Bombance is a grotesque farce in which the hungry masses cannibalize the king, only to reincarnate him by regurgitating his partially digested body parts. Poupées électriques featured puppets that observe the central couple’s lovemaking until the couple revolts and disposes of them. Marinetti revised the play into several one-act Futurist versions over the next two decades. In 1909 Marinetti published the first Futurist manifesto, The Futurist Manifesto, initiating the movement that he would lead for thirty-five years. Having little tolerance for the theatrical conventions of the past, and taking his inspiration from the innovations of the machine age, he proposed that theater should break free of conventional plots, psychological characterization, logical structure, and the constraints of reality. For this reason, Marinetti and his followers introduced sintesi—brief, compressed plays that rarely ran longer than five minutes. These plays, which Marinetti also referred to as ‘‘synthetic theater’’ (meaning compressed by human agency, rather than fake or counterfeit), frequently incorporated action occurring simultaneously in different places or times, and rejected the convention of the fourth wall, encouraging performers to address the audience directly and aggressively. Above all, the Italian Futurist theater aimed to be brief, improvised, and dynamic rather than lengthy, calculated, and

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static; objects and events were more important than the psychological presentation of character or the dramatic enactment of a theme. Futurists staged sintesi—in addition to readings of their poetry, performances of their music, film screenings, rounds of speech-making, and displays of their paintings and sculptures—in several cities as part of an evening’s entertainment, or serata, a predecessor of the Happenings of the 1960s. They attempted to disorient and shock audiences with the serate, blending politics and art. Marinetti, in his 1913 manifesto ‘‘The Variety Theater,’’ traced the Futurist aesthetic to the variety stages of nightclubs, circuses, and the music hall, which he extolled for their speed, spectacle, and structure. Despite Marinetti’s devotion to the anarchic, revolutionary principles of Futurism, he frequently supported and regularly attempted to curry favor with Benito Mussolini’s totalitarian, repressive regime—perhaps because the Fascists had thoroughly absorbed some of the Futurist rhetoric about nationalism, heroism, youth, and athleticism. Because of his Fascist sympathies, the originality of Marinetti’s work and the enormous influence it had on the development of theater, among many arts, were not recognized for years.

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fter Marinetti’s founding Futurist manifesto, Umberto Boccioni (1882–1916) co-authored ‘‘Technical Manifesto of Futurist Painting’’ (1910), the first manifesto to adapt the principles of the movement to painting. One of several artists featured in the first Futurist exhibition of painting in 1911 in Milan, he proposed a Futurist aesthetic for the visual arts in his book Futurist Painting and Sculpture (1914). A playwright as well as a sculptor and painter, Boccioni wrote the sintesi Genius and Culture (1915), a satiric indictment of artistic criticism that exemplified the Futurists’ variety aesthetic in using a quick set-up for a single, brief joke. He died from injuries suffered when he fell from his horse during cavalry exercises in World War I.

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rancesco Cangiullo (1884–1977), a playwright, poet, and painter, wrote several sintesi, including Detonation (1915), The Paunch of the Vase (1920), Lights (1919, 1922), and Piedigrotta (1914), a parole in libertà (words-in-freedom) drama, which was one of the first Futurist plays to attempt to realize the aesthetic that Marinetti proposed in ‘‘Variety Theater Manifesto.’’ With Marinetti, he wrote the manifesto ‘‘The Theater of Surprise’’ (1921), reasserting the principles of Futurism and proclaiming the importance of the movement as an influence on much of the grotesque, tragicomic theater produced in Italy since the founding of Futurism. Cangiullo toured Italy with Marinetti and Rudolfo DeAngelis as part of the Theater of Surprise Company (1921) and as part of DeAngelis’s New Futurist Theatre (1924), two of the most visible Futurist theatrical companies in the later years of the movement.

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mages of war and aggression had abounded in the works of the Futurists from 1909 onwards. They had declared war to be ‘‘la sola igiene del mondo’’ (the sole hygiene of the world), and they joined battle with enthusiasm, both aesthetic and physical. They had found a partial focus for their adulation of war in the war in Libya (1911–12), but now it became one of the major considerations of the group. Examples of sintesi written to appeal to Italian patriotism are F. T. Marinetti’s L’arresto and Umberto Boccioni’s Kultur, both performed during the tours of 1915 and 1916. In L’arresto (The Arrest ) a number of critics and observers are gathered in a comfortable room, and express their disapproval of the war. Suddenly, from the trenches a young soldier cries: ‘‘O venite un po’ voi signori pessimisti, a far quel che facciamo noi!’’ (Come on, you pessimists, and do what we’re doing!). One of the critics, described as spiteful and gouty, is forced to pick up a rifle and fight, with a gun instead of his tongue. The soldiers, from being participants in the war, become spectators, and watch the critic fighting the Austrians until he is killed by a bullet. The police arrive, and one of them says: ‘‘È già cadavere!’’ (He’s already dead!), to which a soldier replies: ‘‘Arrestate almeno il suo fetore passatista’’ (At least arrest his traditionalist stink). Kultur represents the struggle between Latin genius and unbearable Germanic pedantry, which destroys all creativity by making it the subject of arid study. Syntheses such as these were applauded, especially in 1916, and helped to create an atmosphere more favourable to the experimentation of the Futurists. It is worth saying that many of the sintesi remain schematic, like the ones described above, and that their value for the most part lies in their experimental nature. It is, however, worth analysing the approach of the Futurists to the theatre in these works, as they are the first practical realisation of their manifestos. Extended plot and action give way to brief and essential moments; logic and realism are abandoned in favour of a mingling of reality and imagination, the banal and the incredible, or even the supernatural; simultaneity of time and space is seen as the only means of presenting the complexity of life to the audience; characters are no longer such, but rather become allusions or syntheses, and the cast comes to include animals, flowers, noises, objects, and so on; the element of surprise is dominant; at all times, the theatre and society of the past are attacked. Time in the theatre is no longer chronological, but is, to use Marinetti’s terms, ‘‘created’’ or ‘‘invented,’’ and is used for dramatic rather than naturalistic effects. Dissonanza (Dissonance), by Bruno Corra and Emilio Settimelli, has a fourteenth-century setting in which a lady and a page exchange impassioned hendecasyllables. They are interrupted by a man asking for a match, and then continue as before. Similarly, space is no longer unitary, but can be used by the dramatist to show different situations at the same time, with no regard for Excerpted from Julie Dashwood, ‘‘The Italian Futurist Theatre,’’ in Drama and Society, ed. James Redwood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 129–46.

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verisimilitude. In Marinetti’s Simultaneità the life of a modest bourgeois family installed around a table reading, preparing accounts, and sewing is juxtaposed with that of a prostitute preparing her toilette. A dim greenish light surrounds the family, while a very bright electric light is focussed on the cocotte. The two groups seem unaware of each other until the end, when the family falls asleep and the cocotte moves towards them. She throws all their work onto the floor and then continues to polish her nails. She is, Marinetti wrote, not a symbol but a synthesis, of luxury, disorder, adventure, and waste, all things both desired and regretted by the family. He said that time and space were fused here, and a new dynamism and simultaneity were created. Evident here is Marinetti’s wish to contain reality in a moment rather than an act, using light and gesture rather than words to convey his meaning. The cocotte is not a naturalistic or psychological whole, and in this is typical of many of the protagonists of the Futurist theatre. ‘‘Il signore grasso e panciuto’’ (the fat, paunchy man) in Marinetti’s Un chiaro di luna (Moonlight ) is described by the author as an alogical synthesis of many emotions: fear of the future, of the cold and solitude of the night, of his vision of life in twenty years’ time, and so on. Even, at times, only part of the actor is seen by the audience. In Marinetti’s Le basi (The Feet ) the curtain is raised so that only the legs and feet of the actors are visible. The actors are instructed to give the maximum expression to the scenes by using the movements of these limbs. The same approach is used in Le mani (Hands) by Marinetti and Corra. In this case, only gestures of the hands are used to convey emotion and situation. Among the protagonists in his Caccia all’usignolo (Hunting the Nightingale), Corrado Govoni lists the sound of bells, the voices of drunkards, the rustling of wind, the interplay of light, moonlight, the voice of the nightingale, the movement of lizards, voices from the town, breathing, sighing, the sound of the clock, a cap, a hoopoe, and a god. Animals, inanimate objects, sounds, light, and movement come, therefore, to be as important as human actors, and even, at times, to replace them. Marinetti’s play Vengono (They’re Coming) is subtitled ‘‘Dramma d’oggetti’’ (drama of objects). Servants continually move eight chairs and an armchair around the stage as the majordomo receives different orders from his masters. Marinetti intended to give the impression that the chairs gradually acquired a life of their own through these movements. Finally, they are placed diagonally across the stage, and an invisible spotlight is used to project their shadows onto the floor. As the spotlight is moved, so the shadows move, making it appear as though the chairs themselves are going out of the French window. Marinetti wanted the three most important ‘‘characters’’ in his Teatrino dell’amore (Little Theatre of Love) to be the little theatre itself (in this case, a puppet-theatre), the buffet, and the sideboard. Fortunato Depero’s Colori (Colours) is entirely abstract, consisting only of sound and light. Accompanying the reduction of human actors to a secondary role, or their total disappearance, is the reduction of words to very brief exchanges, or to nonsense. The characters in Mario Carli’s Stati d’animo (States of Mind) have lines written in parole in libertà (words in freedom) or which are meaningless, and use gesture and tone of voice to convey their different emotions. Three sintesi by

Tutti gli spettatori che sono qui, personaggi-protagonisti, per comprendere il dramma devono porsi per suggestione nei panni di un paralizzato che non può né muoversi né parlare, a cui solo viva e chiara è rimasta l’intelligenza imprigionata nella carne morta e che si trova in letto presso a una finestra, con le persiane aperte dal vento nelle tre notti lunari di cui fan parte gli attimi della azione. (All the spectators here are characters and protagonists, who in order to understand the play, must try to imagine that they are paralysed and cannot move or speak, with only their intelligence, imprisoned in the flesh, left alive and unclouded; that they are in bed next to a window, with the blinds opened by the wind in the three moonlit nights which make up the moments of the action.)

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Francesco Cangiullo are an attack on the whole theatrical tradition, as well as on the use of words in the theatre. In Non c’è un cane (There Isn’t a Soul About ), called a synthesis of night, the protagonist is the Man Who Isn’t There. On a cold, deserted street at night, a dog (cane) crosses the road. Cangiullo’s Detonazione (Detonation) is called a synthesis of the whole modern theatre. The setting is the same as in the previous synthesis, but this time, after a minute of silence, there is a revolver-shot—and only a revolver-shot. We are told that his Decisione is a tragedy in fifty-eight acts, and perhaps more, but that it is useless to perform fifty-seven of them. The final, brief act concludes with the words: ‘‘Questa è una cosa che deve assolutamente FINIRE!’’ (This is something which absolutely must finish). Parody is also used to attack not just the traditional theatre but contemporary society as well. Passatismo (Traditionalism), by Corra and Settimelli, consists of three brief, identical, and static scenes, set in 1860, 1880, and 1910. An old man and an old woman hold the same conversation in each. At the end of the third scene, both die, identically, of a heart attack. Further assaults on surrounding realism are provided by Umberto Boccioni in Il corpo che sale (The Body which Rises). Here, the tenants of a block of flats see a body rising up past their windows. They call the portress, who explains calmly that this is the body of the lover of the fifth-floor tenant, sucked up every day by his mistress’s eyes. The portress will not allow him to use the stairs, as she is concerned about the good reputation of the building. In Paolo Buzzi’s Il pesce d’aprile (The April Fool ), a dead wife announces the death of her husband to the priest. The unexpected, the weird, and the supernatural are all elements used by the Futurists, as is the grotesque, or the resolving of tragic situations into comedy and the reverse. The conclusion of Giacomo Balla’s Per comprendere il pianto (To Understand Grief ) is ‘‘Bisogna ridere’’ (You must laugh). Iacopo, protagonist of Verso la conquista (Towards the Conquest ), by Corra and Settimelli, renounces his debilitating love for Anna in order to fulfil his self-appointed mission as a hero. On leaving her, however, he slips on the skin of a fig, and dies after falling downstairs. Some of the sintesi obviously made great demands on the ability of the audience to understand the new idiom. Of the audience, however, more was expected than mere comprehension and reaction to the Futurist theatre. In Dalla finestra (From the Window), by Corra and Settimelli, the spectators themselves are listed among the characters. At the beginning of the play, we are told that:

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The audience is asked, then, not just to react, but to participate directly in the mood of the play. These were the themes and techniques used by the Futurists to convey their ideas to their audiences. The manifesto of the synthetic theatre had claimed that: ‘‘Il teatro futurista saprà esaltare i suoi spettatori, cioè far loro dimenticare la monotonia della vita quotidiana, scaraventandoli attraverso un labirinto di sensazioni improntate alla più esasperata originalità e combinate in modi imprevedibili’’ (The Futurist theatre will be able to excite its audience, that is, make it forget the monotony of everyday life, by hurling it through a labyrinth of sensations expressed with the most exacerbated originality and combined in unpredictable ways). While the success of the dramatists in achieving this ambition was varied, serious attempts were made to create a new theatrical idiom, and to work up the sensibilities of the audience in a new way.

Select Bibliography on Marinetti and Futurism Gordon, R. S. ‘‘The Italian Futurist Theatre: A Reappraisal.’’ Modern Language Review 85.2 (April 1990): 349–61. ———. ‘‘The Use of Objects in Sintesi of the Italian Futurists.’’ Performance Research 12.4 (2007): 115–22. Modernism/Modernity 1.3 (Sept. 1994). Special issue: ‘‘Marinetti and the Italian Futurists.’’ See also Apollonio; Berghaus; Hewitt; House; Kirby; Rawson; Shankland; and Taylor, in the General Bibliography.

Feet Filippo Marinetti

A curtain edged in black should be raised to about the height of a man’s stomach. The public sees only legs in action. The actors must try to give the greatest expression to the attitudes and movements of their lower extremities. 1. Two Armchairs (one facing the other) a bachelor a married woman him: All, all for one of your kisses! . . . her: No! . . . Don’t talk to me like that! . . . 2. a man who is walking back and forth man: Let’s meditate . . . 3. A Desk a seated man who is nervously moving his right foot seated man: I must find . . . To cheat, without letting myself cheat! Reprinted from Futurist Performance, ed. Michael Kirby, trans. Victoria Nes Kirby (New York: Dutton, 1971), 290–91.

3a. a man who is walking slowly with gouty feet a man who is walking rapidly the rapid one: Hurry! Vile passéiste! the slow one: Ah! What fury! There is no need to run! He who goes slowly is healthy . . . 4. A Couch

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three women one: Which one do you prefer? another: All three of them. A Couch three officials one: Which one do you prefer? another: The second one. (The second one must be the woman who shows the most leg of the three.) 5. A Table a father a bachelor a young girl the father: When you have the degree you will marry your cousin. 6. A Pedal-Operated Sewing Machine a girl who is working the girl: I will see him on Sunday! 7. a man who is running away a foot that is kicking at him the man who is giving the kick: Imbecile!

Genius and Culture Umberto Boccioni

In the center, a costly dressing table with a mirror in front of which a very elegant woman, already dressed to leave, finishes putting on rouge. At the right, a critic, an ambiguous being, neither dirty nor clean, neither old nor young, neutral, is sitting at a table overburdened with books and papers, on which shines a large paper knife, neither modern nor antique. He turns his shoulder to the dressing table. At left, the artist, an elegant youth, searches in a large file, sitting on thick cushions on the floor. the artist (leaving the file, and with his head between his hands): It’s terrible! (Pause.) I must get out of here! To be renewed! (He gets up, tearing the abstract designs from the file with convulsive hands.) Liberation!! These empty forms, worn out. Everything is fragmentary, weak! Oh! Art! . . . Who, who will help me!? (He looks around; continues to tear up the designs with sorrowful and convulsive motions.) (the woman is very near him but doesn’t hear him. The critic becomes annoyed, but not very, and going near her, takes a book with a yellow jacket.) the critic (half asking the woman, and half talking to himself ): But what’s the matter with that clown that he acts and shouts that way? the woman (without looking): Oh well, he is an artist . . . he wants to renew himself, and he hasn’t a cent! the critic (bewildered): Strange! An artist! Impossible! For twenty years I have profoundly studied this marvelous phenomenon, but I can’t recogReprinted from Futurist Performance, ed. Michael Kirby, trans. Victoria Nes Kirby (New York: Dutton, 1971), 238–41.

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nize it. (Obviously with archeological curiosity.) That one is crazy! Or a protester! He wants to change! But creation is a serene thing. A work of art is done naturally, in silence, and in recollection, as a nightingale sings . . . Spirit, in the sense that Hegel means spirit . . . the woman (intrigued): And if you know how it is done, why don’t you tell him? Poor thing! He is distressed . . . the critic (strutting): For centuries, the critic has told the artist how to make a work of art. . . . Since ethics and aesthetics are functions of the spirit . . . the woman: But you, you’ve never made any? the critic (nonplussed): Me? . . . Not me! the woman (laughing with malice): Well, then, you know how to do it, but you don’t do it. You are neutral. How boring you must be in bed! (She continues putting on her rouge.) the artist (always walking back and forth sorrowfully, wringing his hands): Glory! Ah! Glory! (Tightening his fists.) I am strong! I am young! I can face anything! Oh! Divine electric lights . . . sun . . . To electrify the crowds . . . Burn them! Dominate them! the woman (looking at him with sympathy and compassion): Poor thing! Without any money . . . the artist (struck): Ah! I am wounded! I can’t resist any longer! (Toward the woman, who doesn’t hear him.) Oh! A woman! (Toward the critic, who has already taken and returned a good many books, and who leafs through them and cuts them.) You! You, sir, who are a man, listen . . . Help me! the critic: Calm down . . . let’s realize the differences. I am not a man, I am a critic. I am a man of culture. The artist is a man, a slave, a baby, therefore, he makes mistakes. I don’t see myself as being like him. In him nature is chaos. The critic and history are between nature and the artist. History is history—in other words, subjective fact, that is to say, fact, in other words, history. Anyway it is itself objective. (At these words, the artist, who has listened in a stupor, falls on the cushions as if struck by lightning. The critic, unaware of this, turns, and goes slowly to the table to consult his books.) the woman (getting up dumbfounded): My God! That poor youth is dying! (She kneels in front of the artist and caresses him kindly.) the artist (reviving): Oh! Signora! Thank you! Oh! Love . . . maybe love . . . (Revives more and more.) How beautiful you are! Listen . . . Listen to me . . . If you know what a terrible thing the struggle is without love! I want to love, understand? the woman (pulling away from him): My friend, I understand you . . . but now I haven’t time. I must go out . . . I am expected by my friend. It is dangerous. . . . He is a man . . . that is to say, he has a secure position . . .

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the critic (very embarrassed): What’s going on? I don’t understand anything . . . the woman (irritated): Shut up, idiot! You don’t understand anything. . . . Come! Help me to lift him! We must cut this knot that is choking his throat! the critic (very embarrassed): Just a minute . . . (He carefully lays down the books and puts the others aside on the chair.) Hegel . . . Kant . . . Hartmann . . . Spinoza. the woman (goes near the youth, crying irritably): Run! . . . come here, help me to unfasten it. the critic (nonplussed): What are you saying? the woman: Come over here! Are you afraid! Hurry . . . back here there is an artist who is dying because of an ideal. the critic (coming closer with extreme prudence): But one never knows! An impulse . . . a passion . . . without control . . . without culture . . . in short, I prefer him dead. The artist must be . . . (He stumbles, and falls clumsily on the artist, stabbing his neck with the paper knife.) the woman (screaming and getting up): Idiot! Assassin! You have killed him. You are red with blood! the critic (getting up, still more clumsily): I, Signora? How?! I don’t understand. . . . Red? Red? Yours is a case of color blindness. the woman: Enough! Enough! (Returns to her dressing table.) It is late. I must go! (Leaving.) Poor youth! He was different and likable! (Exits.) the critic: I can’t find my bearings! (Looks attentively and long at the dead artist.) Oh my God! He is dead! (Going over to look at him.) The artist is really dead! Ah . . . he is breathing. I will make a monograph. (He goes slowly to his table. From a case, he takes a beard a meter long and applies it to his chin. He puts on his glasses, takes paper and pencil, then looks among his books without finding anything. He is irritated for the first time and pounds his fists, shouting.) Aesthetics! Aesthetics! Where is Aesthetics? (Finding it, he passionately holds a large volume to his chest.) Ah! Here it is! (Skipping, he goes to crouch like a raven near the dead artist. He looks at the body, and writes, talking in a loud voice.) Toward 1915, a marvelous artist blossomed . . . (He takes a tape measure from his pocket and measures the body.) Like all the great ones, he was 1.68 [meters] tall, and his width . . . (While he talks, the curtain falls.)

Detonation Synthesis of All Modern Theater Francesco Cangiullo

character a bullet

Road at night, cold, deserted.

A minute of silence.—A gunshot. curtain

Reprinted from Futurist Performance, ed. Michael Kirby, trans. Victoria Nes Kirby (New York: Dutton, 1971), 247.

The Futurist Synthetic Theater, 1915 Filippo Marinetti, Emilio Settimelli, and Bruno Corra

As we await our much prayed-for great war, we Futurists carry our violent antineutralist action from city square to university and back again, using our art to prepare the Italian sensibility for the great hour of maximum danger. Italy must be fearless, eager, as swift and elastic as a fencer, as indifferent to blows as a boxer, as impassive at the news of a victory that may have cost fifty thousand dead as at the news of a defeat. For Italy to learn to make up its mind with lightning speed, to hurl itself into battle, to sustain every undertaking and every possible calamity, books and reviews are unnecessary. They interest and concern only a minority, are more or less tedious, obstructive, and relaxing. They cannot help chilling enthusiasm, aborting impulses, and poisoning with doubt a people at war. War—Futurism intensified—obliges us to march and not to rot [marciare, non marcire] in libraries and reading rooms. therefore, we think that the only way to inspire Italy with the warlike spirit today is through the theater. In fact, 90 percent of Italians go to the theater, whereas only 10 percent read books and reviews. But what is needed is a Futurist theater, completely opposed to the passéiste theater that drags its monotonous, depressing processions around the sleepy Italian stages. Not to dwell on this historical theater, a sickening genre already abandoned by the passéiste public, we condemn the whole of contemporary theater because it is too prolix, analytic, pedantically psychological, explanatory, diluted, finicking, static, as full of prohibitions as a police station, as cut up into cells as a monastery, as moss-grown as an old abandoned house. In Reprinted from Futurist Manifestoes, ed. Umbro Apollonio; trans. R. W. Flint (New York: Viking, 1973), 183–96.

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other words it is a pacifistic, neutralist theater, the antithesis of the fierce, overwhelming, synthesizing velocity of the war.

Our Futurist Theater will be Synthetic. That is, very brief. To compress into a few minutes, into a few words and gestures, innumerable situations, sensibilities, ideas, sensations, facts, and symbols. The writers who wanted to renew the theater (Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Andreyev, Claudel, Shaw) never thought of arriving at a true synthesis, of freeing themselves from a technique that involves prolixity, meticulous analysis, drawn-out preparation. Before the works of these authors, the audience is in the indignant attitude of a circle of bystanders who swallow their anguish and pity as they watch the slow agony of a horse who has collapsed on the pavement. The sigh of applause that finally breaks out frees the audience’s stomach from all the indigestible time it has swallowed. Each act is as painful as having to wait patiently in an antechamber for the minister (coup de théâtre: kiss, pistol shot, verbal revelation, etc.) to receive you. All this passéiste or semi-Futurist theater, instead of synthesizing fact and idea in the smallest number of words and gestures, savagely destroys the variety of place (source of dynamism and amazement), stuffs many city squares, landscapes, streets into the sausage of a single room. For this reason this theater is entirely static. We are convinced that mechanically, by force of brevity, we can achieve an entirely new theater perfectly in tune with our swift and laconic Futurist sensibility. Our acts can also be moments [atti—attimi] only a few seconds long. With this essential and synthetic brevity the theater can bear and even overcome competition from the cinema. Atechnical. The passéiste theater is the literary form that most distorts and diminishes an author’s talent. This form, much more than lyric poetry or the novel, is subject to the demands of technique: (1) to omit every notion that doesn’t conform to public taste; (2) once a theatrical idea has been found (expressible in a few pages), to stretch it out over two, three, or four acts; (3) to surround an interesting character with many pointless types: coatholders, door-openers, all sorts of bizarre comic turns; (4) to make the length of each act vary between half and three-quarters of an hour; (5) to construct each act taking care to (a) begin with seven or eight absolutely useless pages, (b) introduce a tenth of your idea in the first act, five-tenths in the second, four-tenths in the third, (c) shape your acts for rising excitement, each act being no more than a preparation for the finale, (d) always make the first act a little boring so that the second can be amusing and the third devouring; (6) to set off every essential line with a hundred or more insignificant preparatory lines; (7) never to devote less than a page to explaining an entrance or an exit minutely; (8) to apply systematically to the whole play the rule of a

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1. It’s stupid to write one hundred pages where one would do, only because the audience through habit and infantile instinct wants to see character in a play result from a series of events, wants to fool itself into thinking that the character really exists in order to admire the beauties of Art, meanwhile refusing to acknowledge any art if the author limits himself to sketching out a few of the character’s traits. 2. It’s stupid not to rebel against the prejudice of theatricality when life itself (which consists of actions vastly more awkward, uniform, and predictable than those which unfold in the world of art) is for the most part antitheatrical and even in this offers innumerable possibilities for the stage. Everything of any value is theatrical. 3. It’s stupid to pander to the primitivism of the crowd, which, in the last analysis, wants to see the bad guy lose and the good guy win. 4. It’s stupid to worry about verisimilitude (absurd because talent and worth have little to do with it). 5. It’s stupid to want to explain with logical minuteness everything taking place on the stage, when even in life one never grasps an event entirely, in all its causes and consequences, because reality throbs around us, bombards us with squalls of fragments of interconnected events, mortised and tenoned together, confused, mixed up, chaotic. E.g., it’s stupid to act out a contest between two persons always in an orderly, clear, and logical way, since in daily life we nearly always encounter mere flashes of argument made momentary by our modern experience, in a tram, a café, a railway station, which remain cinematic in our minds like fragmentary dynamic symphonies of gestures, words, lights, and sounds. 6. It’s stupid to submit to obligatory crescendi, prepared effects, and postponed climaxes.

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superficial variety, to the acts, scenes, and lines. For instance, to make one act a day, another an evening, another deep night; to make one act pathetic, another anguished, another sublime; when you have to prolong a dialogue between two actors, make something happen to interrupt it, a falling vase, a passing mandolin player. . . . Or else have the actors constantly move around from sitting to standing, from right to left, and meanwhile vary the dialogue to make it seem as if a bomb might explode outside at any moment (e.g., the betrayed husband might catch his wife red-handed), when actually nothing is going to explode until the end of the act; (9) to be enormously careful about the verisimilitude of the plot; (10) to write your play in such a manner that the audience understands in the finest detail the how and why of everything that takes place on the stage, above all that it knows by the last act how the protagonists will end up. With our synthetist movement in the theater, we want to destroy the Technique that from the Greeks until now, instead of simplifying itself, has become more and more dogmatic, stupid, logical, meticulous, pedantic, strangling. Therefore:

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7. It’s stupid to allow one’s talent to be burdened with the weight of a technique that anyone (even imbeciles) can acquire by study, practice, and patience. 8. It’s stupid to renounce the dynamic leap into the void of total creation, beyond the range of territory previously explored. Dynamic, simultaneous. That is, born of improvisation, lightning-like intuition, from suggestive and revealing actuality. We believe that a thing is valuable to the extent that it is improvised (hours, minutes, seconds), not extensively prepared (months, years, centuries). We feel an unconquerable repugnance for desk work, a priori, that fails to respect the ambience of the theater itself. The greater number of our works have been written in the theater. The theatrical ambience is our inexhaustible reservoir of inspirations: the magnetic circular sensation invading our tired brains during morning rehearsal in an empty gilded theater; an actor’s intonation that suggests the possibility of constructing a cluster of paradoxical thoughts on top of it; a movement of scenery that hints at a symphony of lights; an actress’s fleshiness that fills our minds with genially full-bodied notions. We overran Italy at the head of a heroic battalion of comedians who imposed on audiences Elettricità and other Futurist syntheses (alive yesterday, today surpassed and condemned by us) that were revolutions imprisoned in auditoriums. From the Politeama Garibaldi of Palermo to the Dal Verme of Milan. The Italian theaters smoothed the wrinkles in the raging massage of the crowd and rocked with bursts of volcanic laughter. We fraternized with the actors. Then, on sleepless nights in trains, we argued, goading each other to heights of genius to the rhythm of tunnels and stations. Our Futurist theater jeers at Shakespeare but pays attention to the gossip of actors, is put to sleep by a line from Ibsen but is inspired by red or green reflections from the stalls. We achieve an absolute dynamism through the interpenetration of different atmospheres and times. E.g., whereas in a drama like Più che l’Amore [by D’Annunzio] the important events (for instance, the murder of the gambling-house keeper) don’t take place on the stage but are narrated with a complete lack of dynamism; and in the first act of La Figlia di Jorio [by D’Annunzio] the events take place against a simple background with no jumps in space or time; in the Futurist synthesis, Simultaneità, there are two ambiences that interpenetrate and many different times put into action simultaneously. Autonomous, alogical, unreal. The Futurist theatrical synthesis will not be subject to logic, will pay no attention to photography; it will be autonomous, will resemble nothing but itself, although it will take elements from reality and combine them as its whim dictates. Above all, just as the painter and composer discover, scattered through the outside world, a narrower but more intense life, made up of colors, forms, sounds, and noises, the same is

Conclusions 1. Totally abolish the technique that is killing the passéiste theater. 2. Dramatize all the discoveries (no matter how unlikely, weird, and antitheatrical) that our talent is discovering in the subconscious, in ill-defined forces, in pure abstraction, in the purely cerebral, the purely fantastic, in record-setting and body-madness. (E.g., Vengono, F. T. Marinetti’s first drama of objects, a new vein of theatrical sensibility discovered by Futurism.) 3. Symphonize the audience’s sensibility by exploring it, stirring up its laziest layers by every means possible; eliminate the preconception of the footlights by throwing nets of sensation between stage and audience; the stage action will invade the orchestra seats, the audience. 4. Fraternize warmly with the actors, who are among the few thinkers who flee from every deforming cultural enterprise. 5. Abolish the farce, vaudeville, the sketch, the comedy, the serious drama, and tragedy, and create in their place the many forms of Futurist theater, such as: lines written in free verse, simultaneity, interpenetration, the short, acted-out poem, the dramatized sensation, comic dialogue, the negative act, the reechoing line, ‘‘extra-logical’’ discussion, synthetic deformation, the scientific outburst that clears the air.

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true for the man gifted with theatrical sensibility, for whom a specialized reality exists that violently assaults his nerves: it consists of what is called the theatrical world. The Futurist theater is born of the two most vital currents in the Futurist sensibility, defined in the two manifestos ‘‘The Variety Theatre’’ and ‘‘Weights, Measures, and Prices of Artistic Genius,’’ which are (1) our frenzied passion for real, swift, elegant, complicated, cynical, muscular, fugitive, Futurist life; (2) our very modern cerebral definition of art, according to which no logic, no tradition, no aesthetic, no technique, no opportunity can be imposed on the artist’s natural talent; he must be preoccupied only with creating synthetic expressions of cerebral energy that have the absolute value of novelty. The Futurist theater will be able to excite its audience, that is, make it forget the monotony of daily life, by sweeping it through a labyrinth of sensations imprinted on the most exacerbated originality and combined in unpredictable ways. Every night the Futurist theater will be a gymnasium to train our race’s spirit to the swift, dangerous enthusiasms made necessary by this Futurist year.

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6. Through unbroken contact, create between us and the crowd a current of confidence rather than respectfulness, in order to instill in our audiences the dynamic vivacity of a new Futurist theatricality. These are the first words on the theater. Our first eleven theatrical syntheses (by Marinetti, Settimelli, Bruno Corra, R. Chiti, Balilla Pratella) were victoriously imposed on crowded theaters in Ancona, Bologna, Padua, Naples, Venice, Verona, Florence, and Rome, by Ettore Berti, Zoncada, and Petrolini. In Milan we soon shall have the great metal building, enlivened by all the electromechanical inventions, that alone will permit us to realize our freest conceptions on the stage.

part six German Expressionism

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he first German Expressionist playwright to be published, Reinhard Sorge (1892–1916) introduced the chief element of Expressionist drama: the use of the central character’s completely subjective point of view to develop the action and distort the other characters. He brought this ingredient to the stage in his most important play, The Beggar (1912). Although outwardly structured as a traditional five-act play, it mixed realistic scenes with dreams, thereby disrupting the notion of objective reality onstage. The Beggar can be seen as the culmination of Sorge’s early obsession with Nietzschean philosophy, which drove him to seek redemption in the form of the ‘‘superman’’ in such dramas as Odysseus (1910), Prometheus (1911), and Antichrist (1911). After his conversion to mystical Catholicism in 1912, however, Sorge rejected his focus on the individual as artist-prophet and concentrated on human renewal or regeneration through the unity of humankind. His later works, which include liturgical drama and mystery plays, have been for the most part limited in their appeal to those who share his religious beliefs. Sorge was wounded during the Battle of the Somme in World War I and died near Ablaincourt, France.

Modernist Consciousness and Mass Culture Alienation in Reinhard Sorge’s Der Bettler

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he 1912 play Der Bettler, generally considered to be the first Expressionist drama, is an invaluable resource through which to learn about the contributions Expressionism made to the development of dramatic aesthetics and staging techniques. Sorge’s seminal play influenced the works of a number of writers whose names are readily connected with German Expressionist drama, such as Walter Hasenclever, Paul Kornfeld, and Rolf Lauckner. Certain innovative formal features of the play, furthermore, became staples for subsequent—and not only German—artistic movements. Sorge called, for instance, for a stage-lighting technique by means of which segments of the stage area and of the actors’ bodies were to be isolated and emphasized by light, a technique later taken up by Oskar Schlemmer, Kasimir Malevich, and other Constructivists in their works for the stage. It is also worth noting that Sorge further anticipated thematic techniques employed by later Expressionists and— after World War I—by the Surrealists, as he drew upon the central tenet of Impressionism and pointed through his aesthetics to realities beyond those immediately perceived. Der Bettler represented a transition in the development of the drama, which in the second decade of the twentieth century was in the process of redefining itself. What we have in this prototypical Expressionist drama is a work of art whose form and content cross-fertilize one another and are mutually derived from the youthful generation’s response to real-life social conditions. The play’s essential characteristic is its opposition to conventional drama. In both form and content it subverts the logic of the culture industry, whose central features are rationalization and cost efficiency. Soon after Der Bettler was completed, Sorge’s ‘‘dramatic mission’’ attracted the attention of significant figures in the German-language literary community, who went on later to become involved in Max Reinhardt’s concerted effort to promote Expressionist drama at his Deutsches Theater in Berlin between 1917 and 1920. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Felix Hollaender, and Samuel Fischer, for instance, wrote favorably of Der Bettler prior to its publication. Yet despite the considerable reputation it had gained early on, Der Bettler was not to be produced on stage until 1917, when Reinhardt’s Berlin literary association, Das junge Deutschland, premiered it on December 23. The . . . delay between Reinhardt’s acceptance of Der Bettler for production (1913) and the production itself (late 1917) was certainly not due alone to the fact that Sorge’s was a new type of drama per se. By 1913 Reinhardt had produced such plays as Wedekind’s Frühlings Erwachen (1906), Hofmannsthal’s Der Tor und der Tod (1908), and Strindberg’s Todestanz (1912) at his Berlin theaters. Instead, the delay Excerpted from Stephen Shearier, ‘‘Modernist Consciousness and Mass Culture: Alienation in Reinhard Sorge’s Der Bettler,’’ German Studies Review 11.2 (May 1988), 227–40.

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was due most probably to the particular manner in which the modern condition was rendered by Sorge. It seems that in the careful consideration of Reinhardt and the others at the Deutsches Theater, Der Bettler was simply ‘‘too new’’ in . . . its explicitly oppositional character to offer the public before 1917. Then, approximately eleven months before the end of the war and the beginning of the revolution, and four years after Der Bettler was accepted for production, it was felt that conditions within the disintegrating social order were right for staging Sorge’s ‘‘dramatische Sendung.’’ After December of 1917 Sorge’s play would no longer stand out as an anomaly as it would have earlier, since it was to be given a meaningful and coherent context through the other new dramatic works presented in the junges Deutschland series. Drawing upon the German literary tradition in order to supersede it, Sorge subtitled his play ‘‘Eine dramatische Sendung,’’ in an unmistakable allusion to Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, Eine theatralische Sendung, which had just been discovered in 1910. Sorge’s ‘‘Sendung’’ was similar to Goethe’s. Both Meister and the Beggar were intent on inscribing indelibly their mark on theater. There is a salient difference in the aesthetics explicated by Goethe’s and Sorge’s main figures, however. Meister’s plan was to raise the intellectual level of the German National Theater by establishing a program consisting of masterpieces from the international pantheon, from Sophocles to Shakespeare. The Beggar, by contrast, wanted to break with his masters and to have a theater at his disposal so that he could introduce oppositional, that is, his own, works to the public. This difference may be taken to denote a critical disillusionment vis-à-vis the aesthetic tradition, which Sorge, along with other writers of his generation, believed had become bankrupt. [Motivated] by this disillusionment, Sorge openly defied what was considered to be the hegemony of the theater establishment. The most conspicuous testimony of the play’s oppositional character is Sorge’s subject: the poet who resists and is ultimately crushed through his absolute alienation in the age of the culture industry. The young, ambitious playwright stubbornly refuses to allow his art to be commodified. Desiring nothing more than to have his plays produced in the public sphere—not merely because they are his own works, but because they would serve to fulfill his dramatic mission, which was to break the control of the theater establishment— he vehemently insists that a theater be placed at his disposal in order that he may be able personally to see his work brought to unadulterated fruition. His insistence on autonomy, however, only exacerbates the alienation to which the poet is subjected by mass culture, and his intransigence in his position with regard to the oppositional character of drama leads ineluctably to his ruin. In this sense, the play functions as a direct affront to the culture industry, which refuses to tolerate the oppositional voice. Establishment theater, buttressed by affirmative art that serves the need for legitimization of the existing power structure, is the focus of Sorge’s critical assault. The Beggar, the maverick artist, is the personification of absolute alienation, as he is thoroughly estranged from his environment, from himself, and finally from life itself. The dissolution of the individual in the modern age of mass phenomena, such

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as mass political movements, mass media, and mass culture in the form of the culture industry, is conveyed through Sorge’s particular nomenclature. Here attention is drawn to the diverse personae that make up the play’s central figure. The Beggar of the title, who, as the term implies, stands outside mass culture’s main stream, plays at particular times various ‘‘roles’’ signified as ‘‘Der Dichter,’’ ‘‘Der Sohn,’’ and ‘‘Der Jüngling.’’ Unwilling to abide by society’s normative values and incapable of achieving a congruence of the various aspects of his ‘‘I,’’ the Beggar perishes a veritable madman, forced, as it were, into utter alienation. Madness, which in Der Bettler is tantamount to complete isolation and alienation of the subject, operates as an essential part of Sorge’s critique of the culture industry in late Wilhelminian society. The Beggar’s madness, whose roots are explicitly social and implicitly genetic, serves as a metaphor for the crisis of dehumanization that Sorge perceived in Germany immediately preceding World War I. Sorge was by no means alone in this respect, since many Expressionist writers—for instance, Hasenclever, Heym, Hoddis, Toller, and Unruh—considered conditions during the second decade of the twentieth century, and especially the war, to be the expression of a crisis situation that was both a manifestation of, and inevitably led to, madness. The young at this time had a predilection [for drawing] analogies between the contemporary situation and the individuals it victimized, that is, themselves, or who they saw themselves to be: intellectuals, artists, individuals possessing genius. The plight of the artist or of the genius wronged by the culture industry therefore became a preoccupation of writers during this period. Sorge certainly shared these sentiments with others of his generation. It may be argued, however, that Sorge departs from other Expressionist writers in that he takes a critical stance vis-à-vis the widely maintained position that freedom is to be sought in the mere negation of the existing social order. That the Beggar utterly fails in his efforts and succumbs to what he opposes may say something of Sorge’s awareness of the artist’s false consciousness. Sorge’s critique is thus a dialectical one, as he comments on mass culture as well as on the consciousness shaped by it, by showing an artist who is victimized by the culture industry, but whose downfall may ultimately be due to his inflated ego, as he responds to oppressive conditions through a process of self-alienation by distancing himself from the profane world.

Select Bibliography on Sorge Lewis, Ward B. ‘‘The Early Dramas of Reinhard Johannes Sorge: A Poet’s Search for the Inner Light.’’ Modern Drama 14 (1972): 449–54. See also Hill and Ley; Krispyn; Kuhns; Raabe; Ritchie; Samuel and Thomas; and Sokel, in the General Bibliography.

The Beggar A Dramatic Mission Reinhard Sorge

In far-flung circles you’ve plowed your flights Through darkness and chaotic dreams, gigantic, Through torments’ regions, caves of space, gigantic— Restless at dawn and restless in your nights. . . . When your wild screams hoist you in a gyre Of father’s curse, and every mother’s pain; Eternal procreation shows it’s not in vain: Salvation mounts defiant from the mire. . . . Then with your wings you’ll move that bolted gate Whose jawlike hinges crushed so many brains; You love the longing leading to these pains, You clutch it, reeling downward to your fate.

The Human Beings: the poet the girl the father the older friend the mother the patron of the arts the sister the three critics Groups: the newspaper readers, the prostitutes, the fliers Reprinted from An Anthology of German Expressionist Drama: A Prelude to the Absurd, ed. Walter H. Sokel, trans. Walter H. Sokel and Jacqueline Sokel (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1963), 22–89.

Incidental Persons: the nurse, the waiter Mute Persons: the attendant, waiter, patrons of the café Projections of the Poet: the three figures of the dialogue, the figure of the poet, the figure of the girl ACT I

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Before a curtain. the poet and the older friend facing each other. The stage behind the curtain is illuminated. From behind the curtain, greatly muffled voices. the poet. The joy and memory of the applause still linger in your eyes . . . the older friend. Yes, it was a great success. There were seven curtain calls for him. Even after the third act people applauded wildly. the poet. After such an experience you can hardly be in the mood for my things . . . the friend. Don’t talk like that! You know, we couldn’t make the appointment for any other time; I must leave town tonight again, and your patron—I’m already beginning to call him that—incidentally, he too was in the theater tonight . . . the poet. Did you speak to him? the friend. I called on him this afternoon. He seems to be really impressed with your writing; at least, he had nothing but praise. I think everything will turn out all right. Of course, you mustn’t mention the demands you talked about the other day; today I tried to drop a hint, but he immediately refused. the poet. You mentioned it, and he said no? the friend. Of course he refused. I only did it to convince you it was impossible. I’ve talked to you about it often enough; and you do understand, don’t you? the poet. Certainly, I understand your advice. the friend. At last! Just imagine! A theater of your own! And at your age! Despair brought you to that, but despair is precisely what should make you humble; in your situation one must be grateful for every penny. the poet. Certainly, the situation is desperate. the friend. If he merely paid for the printing of your last plays, you would be helped; you’d have a small income, you could live. You can’t expect

Now the curtain parts in the middle and the interior of a café is seen. The café rises toward the back, steps at center-back. At the right, in the foreground and center-stage: Tables of the usual kind, many customers, waiters running back and forth. At the left: A free space, newspapers on the wall, clothes trees in front, in the center a long leather sofa, which is curved at the ends. On the sofa sit the newspaper readers, closely huddled together. At the moment, the first reader is reading aloud, seated on a second leather bench, somewhat

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performances soon anyway; your plays are too strange and avant-garde for that. It would be better yet if he were to give you a permanent income, then once and for all you would be free of money worries and could develop undisturbed. the poet. It would be very kind of him . . . the friend. I see you’ve become reasonable and have profited from my advice. the poet. When will you stop wanting to give me advice? the friend. Now, my dear fellow, that sounds stubborn again. But I hope I’ll be able to advise you for the rest of my life, and that you’ll benefit from it; after all, I’ll always be more than twenty years your senior. the poet. You are right there. the friend. Well, how are things at home? the poet. There gloom advances every day. On every nook the sun spews distress. Our father’s dreadful illness terrifies us. the friend. What do the doctors say? the poet. They talk of my father’s sound constitution, and say that no one can know how long it will last. Death could come any moment, but it might also be delayed for very long. Their talk does not mean a thing; but such uncertainty, I suppose, is characteristic of this disease . . . the friend. As far as I know, yes, that’s the case. And your mother? the poet. She languishes. Mainly she anxiously stares at the door and hearkens for my father’s steps. When they come dragging, then she forces for the madman a smile upon her lips, So helpless and touching that tears well up in my eyes. She weeps so much and speaks of dying. Poverty fills her cup. the friend. It’s dreadful. No, you can’t develop in such surroundings. Brief silence. Come, now; we want to meet him in the foyer. The time has come. Your hands are shaking. Be calm, all will turn out well for you. the poet, while both exit slowly to the right. My hands are shaking . . . ?! You see, it does mean something to me, after all!

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smaller and higher than the first; two others are seated beside him: the second and third readers, who, while listening, keep their papers lowered. Likewise the listeners on the lower sofa, among whom there are some without papers. In the background, tables are laid for supper; very few of them are occupied. The back wall has a few white-curtained windows. In the right-hand background there is a kind of alcove forming an octagonal space, shut off by a curtain. To the right of it, leading toward the alcove, the top of a staircase leading up from the vestibule, which is to be imagined as being to the right of the stage. Electric light. The sources of the upstage illumination are invisible. Full attention is to be focused on the group of readers, the rest of the public onstage speaking in muffled tones, serving as decoration. Muffled sounds of dishes. the first reader. . . . and it is very possible that the Italian chargé d’affaires in Constantinople has received instructions to immediately . . . first listener. Stop, please! This has been read once before! Are we supposed to croak of boredom? second listener. We are finished. third listener. Can’t we get the latest editions yet? fourth listener. Well, gentlemen, let’s start all over again. Laughter. fifth listener. Backward, gentlemen! Then it sounds like new . . . sixth listener. Let’s read the ads—they are full of obscenities! first listener. yawns. Oh . . . how boring! . . . They sit hunched over, staring vacantly, yawning, gloomy-faced. third listener. Where are the critics hiding, for God’s sake? second listener. If it takes this long, it means a hit. sixth listener. Is that so? . . . So Miss Gudrun was a hit— Yawns. or is she ‘‘Mrs.’’—which is it, really? fourth listener. Well, we’ll see . . . sixth listener. At best, we’ll hear, am I right . . . ? fourth listener. All right: so, we’ll hear, we’ll hear . . . all in a hubbub, yawning, stretching. Yes, we’ll hear. second reader cries out. Here come the papers! Two waiters with papers from the left. voices lively, to and fro. Here! Bring them here! Give me one! Give me one! Me! Me! No, the Tribune! Allow me— What on earth . . . ? Hell, give it to me!! Put it here! Put it here! Crap . . . !

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The papers have been torn out of the hands of the waiters, are being read greedily; those who have not obtained any read over their neighbors’ shoulders. seventh listener. Good Lord . . . eighth listener without a paper. Read aloud! Read to us! sixth listener. Well, boys, what did I tell you . . . ? eighth listener. So, let’s start, for God’s sake! What’s holding you up? second listener. Listen: earthquake in Central America! voices. Ha, ha! Well, well! How many killed? second reader. Five thousand. third listener. What a filthy mess! Commotion. second reader. Skirmish near Tripoli. voices. How many killed? second reader. About two hundred dead. Three hundred and fifty wounded. Murmur. second reader, skimming the paper. Crash of a French pilot. ninth listener. Always those French . . . fourth listener. How many dead? Laughter. third reader. Mass revolt in Spain . . . first reader. Mine disaster . . . second reader, continuing to skim. Factory fire . . . Hurricane flood . . . first reader. Train accident . . . tenth listener. Stop! I’m freezing! Brr . . . voices. Stop!! fifth listener. I’m freezing, too. Really. sixth listener. Go on ! Go on! seventh listener. No! No! Something constructive! third reader. Constructive. Good . . . A new German warship. voices. Ah! Hear, hear! third reader. Two new English warships . . . Commotion. eighth listener. Devil take it! sixth listener. That’s unconstructive. voices. What? How come? sixth listener. Three warships mean three years of hunger. voices. Rubbish! Bravo! Subversive! Bravo! How, subversive!? . . . Crazy!

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seventh listener. Quiet, please! We want to hear more constructive things! second reader. A strong healthy boy was born! voices. Bravo! Bravo! Constructive boy! Constructive boy! third reader. New successful experiments with Ehrlich-Hata?!* voices. Ah! Bravo! Heavenly! Great applause, clapping of hands. the three critics enter from the left. voices. Ah! Aha! Hallo! Loud greetings. Report! Report! sixth listener, drowning out the others. Well?! Well!? Was Miss Gudrun well built? Did she have her decent climaxes, hah? Did she go down nicely at the end?! Laughter and noise. The second and third critics take seats next to the others. first critic, more in the foreground than the others, humming grimly, as though answering the question of the sixth. ‘‘Her heart a dagger pierced!’’ How bitter, my dear Mr. Poet! Kindly don’t bother us with such nonsense— The Modern Woman preening herself; Leave her at home—may I humbly request! sixth listener. What are you grumbling about? The first critic sits down on the right end of the sofa, since there is no other seat available. They are gradually calming down. first listener. And now, please, a sensible report! Let’s hear it! To the first critic. You start! first critic. Gentlemen, an unqualified success. But all mediocrity is unequivocally successful. Voices of accord. The play is no good at all. second critic. Now, listen—no, really, I must say—that’s a completely misguided opinion! . . . On the contrary, it’s a very good play. Quite wonderful. But it so happens that the author is not a dissolute genius and a braggart, the way the mob usually likes them, but a serious, conscientious craftsman— first critic. My dear friend, you misunderstand me. I esteem the craftsman; but this one is lacking in Heavenly Inspiration, for all he can do is transplant; take from him the time-tested theme and he will starve. * Ehrlich, the famous German bacteriologist, together with his Japanese assistant, Hata, discovered the chemical compound Salvarsan for the treatment of syphilis in 1910, one year before Sorge’s play was written.

* Reference to the neo-Romantic movement of the time, which formed a stylish and stylizing opposition to the naturalist theater, but was despised by the Expressionists.

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second critic. But his beautiful language—! first critic. Beautiful crowing you can hear from any rooster. second critic. My God, in such a manner you can poke fun at Goethe too! third critic. Allow me to butt in! On the whole, I happen to find the play quite acceptable. It shows good taste, it’s tactful, it does not offend; in short: it is the work of a gentleman. Ant this is precisely the point—I think—this is its fatal flaw: it lacks a certain capriciousness that seeks to conquer its own particular territory; somewhere there is a weakness in it which he can’t disguise for all his blood-and-thunder violence—quite the contrary, by such means he actually reveals his weakness all the sooner; this author has a lack deep down in his depths—a lack which condemns him. first critic. Bravo! And I want to tell you what’s the fundamental lack: a heart that gives itself to the point of humility; self-surrender toward the world to the point of foolishness; divine blindness that penetrates profoundly into all secrets—indeed, what’s missing is the visionary—! second critic interrupts laughingly. Well! Well! Well! Don’t get maudlin over it! Heart has nothing to do with either his style or his theme. first critic. That’s just it! You happen to see the problem upside down! That very lack relegates him forever to the ranks of sterile hacks. Poets are lovers, lovers of the world, and endlessly addicted to their love; but he is stunted in his heart, and out of his narrowness and vanity he invents vain females. third critic, without a pause answering the first. And he lacks the demonic element, that great confirmation of the self transcending the self. He’s always merely his own shadow, never his better self. In the face of the Spirit he turns to chaff. second critic. Ah, that’s just so much— sixth listener. Please, don’t get tragic! Spare us that! Don’t become fanatical! third critic. With such mediocrity as we have today! Who could work himself up to fanaticism! second critic. You are quick to proclaim a tabula rasa! Now, really! Look, among the youngest writers we have now this dramatist of the Arthurian legends!* first critic. Who needs him! King Arthur and Gudrun—our own age searches—gazes far and wide—and its soul is aflame!— Or would you add that poet who, when he had nothing more to say, still boasted of his poverty and who is now miracle-mongering with pantomimes, woman, and pomp and circumstance?! That’s enough to drive one to distraction!

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third critic. Calm yourself ! Restrain yourself ! My dear friend. second critic to the first. Oh, well, you! You don’t feel right unless you’re bellyaching. sixth listener. Gentlemen, are we still going over to the Victoria Café? many voices. Yes, of course. Let’s go. To the Victoria. Right away. Noise and general exodus. third critic, who, while exiting, advances to the front in conversation with first critic. That’s right. We are waiting for someone who will reinterpret our destiny for us. Such a one I shall then call a dramatist and a mighty one. Our Haupt-Mann,* you see, is great as a craftsman, but deficient as a seer. It’s really high time: once again someone must take up the search for all our sakes. Curtain. The older friend, the patron, and the poet enter from the right and walk in front of curtain to center-stage. the patron to the older friend, while still walking. May I congratulate you on the fine success of your friend . . . the friend. Thank you. I am really very happy . . . the patron. You have every reason to be. It was a truly extraordinary success, a literary event. Turning to the poet. But I must extend a second congratulation to you, sir. I have now read all your writings and find in them a very rich and serious talent, a promising future, and interesting potentialities. I should like to contribute towards your further education. the poet. Many thanks! Unfortunately, I am afraid difficulties might arise between us. the patron. Until now, sir, you have had not the least cause for such a fear. the friend, to the poet. You’re giving yourself useless worries . . . ! the poet. I shouldn’t like to speak about all of this in such a hurry. Afterward—I believe—better occasion will be found . . . the patron. Certainly. However, I did not want to leave you unclear about my overall impressions. Naturally, concerning details, I have many things to tell you; also, I should like to see some things changed—that’s only to be expected. Please, come, a table has been reserved. He exits to the left. the friend to the poet. What possessed you to make that remark about your apprehensions and difficulties? It was uncalled-for. It seems to have put him out of sorts. * This is a pun and a gibe at Gerhart Hauptmann (1862–1946), the leading dramatist of German Naturalism and, subsequently, of neo-Romanticism. The pun consists in the fact that ‘‘Hauptmann’’ means ‘‘head man’’ or ‘‘captain’’ in German.

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the poet. Yes, it probably was uncalled-for. the friend. Speak discreetly, one word can spoil a lot. Now come, he’s waiting. He exits to left, the poet follows. The curtain separates again. Now the right half of the stage is dark and deserted. From somewhere high at the left, a floodlight falls slantwise across the left half of the stage, illuminating the prostitutes, who are seated, laughing and babbling, on the lower leather bench. They are still out of breath from a quick run and are adjusting their disordered garments. Their voices emphasize the shrill and bare impression made by the floodlight. Three prostitutes enter briskly from the left and sit down by the others. the first one. Quick! They’ll be here any minute! Who’s still missing? one of the new arrivals. The Redhead and the tall one are still primping downstairs. a second newcomer. Or they’re waiting for the fellows because they’d like to smack their lips over the first kisses! the second, to a neighbor. How many? the neighbor. About a dozen! the second. Ha, a good catch! the fourth, bending over the first. The Redhead is rich now, she only wears real stuff. the first. Oh, you little dope! You still believe that fraud? Three prostitutes on the right side of the bench, who until now have been whispering, suddenly burst into loud laughter. the third. Yes, sure the Redhead has an Englishman, all stiff with money. And he has red eyes and the jaws of a horse! the fourth. Ha-ha! I saw him too; I think he’s an American. the first. She is stupid; if she’s so well fixed, what’s she going with us for? the third. She can never get enough. They laugh. one of the three prostitutes on the right, screeching. And she simply smacked him one on his ass?! Hee-hee! Laughter. A prostitute approaches from the left. the third to the one entering. You, pale tall one with the craving for death— where is the Redhead hiding herself ? Has she already gone to bed with them down there? the tall one. No, she is only painting herself. The others aren’t here yet. the second yawns. That red bitch’ll choke on her paint some day. the tall one. She’s got the best paint, from Paris.

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the first. Hey, there she is! The redhead approaches from the left. the second. Where you been hiding, painted gypsy! the third and the fourth, screeching. Hi, painted gypsy! the redhead slaps the second. There, take this . . . That’ll show you . . . there! the others, laughing, all together. Hey, she’s mad . . . the redhead, scuffling with them. You fresh cockroach—fresh . . . In the heat of battle, a compact drops from the redhead’s handbag, opens, and the powder dusts out. the second, convulsed with laughter. Her powder! Ho-ho! Parisian powder! Ho-ho! the three on the right, becoming attentive. Hey, look! Her powder . . . ! voices. Powder . . . powder . . . ha-ha! Noise and laughter. the third. Watch out or you’ll drop your baby like that! one of the three prostitutes. Sit down in it; maybe that way it’ll do you some good! the redhead, in a rage. You whores! nyeh! Grimacing at them. She quickly picks up the compact and cleans up what has been spilled. the third. Sh-h-h . . . sh-h-h . . . They’re coming now! The three prostitutes burst into laughter again. the fourth. Hush, be quiet! All are listening intently. the second. Ah, rubbish, it’s all quiet—it’s not them yet. the third, to the fourth. Say, does my hair look all right? the fourth. Sure. How’s mine? the second, to the fourth, while looking into a compact mirror. Lend me your makeup! I’m all dark around my eyes. the fourth hands it to her. Here. the redhead, to the second. Gee, you’re cross-eyed! No paint will help you—ha-ha! You’d be better off with a glass eye! Steps and voices on the left. Silence quickly descends. the second puts out her tongue. You horror!! voices. Shh . . . shh . . . All quiet. The prostitutes, staring to the left, grin. Their expressions and postures are all alike. The lovers (eight or nine) enter from the left. They stop short at the sight of the prostitutes. They make their selections, bargain with each other, pointing their fingers at individual prostitutes. Their talk is rapid and the individual remarks fuse into each other.

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first. There they are. Ha! Choice! Here is selection! second. Come on! Forward! Hoi—this flesh! What the devil! some, holding him back. You, control yourself ! third. I’ll take the redhead! first. I the one next to her . . . fourth. You won’t take the redhead! third. She gave me looks . . . voices. Let me at them! Not yet! Choose first! What? Choose first!? fifth. That brunette there for me . . . sixth. Fine. And for me the tall one. seventh. Man, no . . . that one’s too short. The other— eighth. That one looks dangerous. She’s cross-eyed. fourth. I get this one here. second, furious. What! Let me go! Do you want me to suffocate!? You—! many voices. Forward! Let’s go! Let’s go! They rush toward the girls. Noise, screeching, pushing, embraces, shrill laughter. Wild commotion of the group swaying back and forth in the white beam of the floodlight. voices of the prostitutes and lovers, back and forth. Take me! Not him! I’m strong as a bear! It isn’t true! He’s a weakling! Me! You know how to kiss, girl! Kiss me, girl! What are you being coy for, why don’t you let me grab you? Keep out, you! You bald-headed fright! Get away from me, you horror! So take the two of us! You won’t die of it! You are white as a sheet! Ho! How you scratch me with your kisses! Crazy about her breasts?! Slap them and they’ll explode! You’re driving me crazy . . . Ouch, you’re biting me! Yes, up there! Come fast, you bewitching brunette! One couple sits down on the raised leather couch, which is roomy enough for three persons. You want something sweet, huh? Something sweet? Fine! Slap his filthy face! Slug him! Slug him! Let go, buster! Want to get slapped? I’ll get sherbet . . . Any kind you want. Vanilla? Let’s go home! Into bed. Quick! Get a move on! Hey, you thieving bitch! At the end the group postures as a monument. The voices resound rhythmically, like chanting. You feed me flames; I’m burned to ashes, wild one, you! You crush like iron, you’ll smother me!

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I’ll teach you joys that you have never known! I’ll show you nights of which you’ve never dreamed! You are Hell’s bottom and are black with lust! You are like Satan and I want your thrust! Lights out. Darkness. The noise fades. Brief silence. Then the space in front of the alcove is lit. The girl and the nurse have just come up the steps from the vestibule and are now standing in front of the curtain. the girl. Here, please, Nurse! There is no one up here. Here people can’t see us. the nurse. Why don’t you want to sit among people? You shouldn’t worry so much. The doctor has told you so often enough. You should spare yourself as much as possible, and you’ve just seen how necessary it is. We shouldn’t have gone to the theater yet. We had hardly walked ten minutes when you became dizzy! Don’t torment yourself unnecessarily! Your fate can’t be changed any more, and God will surely forgive you your baby. the girl. No waiter here? I’d like to sit here. A waiter comes up the steps. the nurse. We’d like to have a quiet table. the waiter. Certainly! The waiter draws the curtain back so that the octagonal alcove becomes visible. In it are a table and chairs. Through the windows one sees the night sky. A star sparkles brightly. Clouds drift past. The alcove is lit; the source of the light is invisible. the girl. Yes, we’d like to sit here! As the waiter wants to pull the curtain shut. Please, let us have the view, don’t close the curtains! the nurse. Why not? There always is a little draft through the cracks, and you catch cold so easily. You can close them! The waiter does so. The girl and the nurse sit down at the table opposite each other, in profile to the audience. Now the lights within and in front of the alcove go out, and during the subsequent scene the two figures can be seen only as shadows. The waiter soon leaves, and after some time brings the order. In the moment of darkening of the alcove, the rest of the proscenium turns bright. Approximately in the center sit the patron, the older friend and the poet, eating. A waiter comes and goes from time to time. the poet, beginning to speak almost simultaneously with the brightening of the proscenium. On the basis of my writings, you’ve explained my aims so accurately that I can now speak to you with increased hope for a favorable result. Still, an aspiring young author can so easily be misunderstood and give the impression of being immature and on the wrong path—you do understand, don’t you? Brief pause.

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My friend spoke to you about my situation; you know in what kind of an environment I have to work—and the theaters reject my plays—so much in them is novel that they shy away from risking the experiment of a performance. the patron. I agree with you. You are in an unfortunate position, since your plays tend only to become more and more peculiar and strange, and—if I may speak frankly—they actually have less and less chance of acceptance. Of course, one can’t be completely sure about that. the poet. I am glad you anticipate the same things I do, and are therefore in a position to understand my ideas all the better. This impossibility of getting a performance is my greatest handicap. For me performance is a necessity, the one basic condition for creation. It is my duty toward my work. the older friend. Please, consider what I told you before! Brief pause. the poet. You’ll realize that the mere printed publication of my plays can’t mean very much to me; that would always be merely a half measure, never my final purpose—that is performance. So I have just this one request: Help me found my own theater. the older friend. Be reasonable, please! This is absurd! the poet. Let me finish my say. I am speaking after careful deliberation. the patron. Yes, sir, let him finish what he has to say. the older friend. I only want the best for you. That will never be in your best interest. the poet. I’ve reflected at length about all this and examined it from all angles, considered every alternative, but I’ve always come back to this: I must be performed—I see my writings as the foundation and beginning of a rejuvenated drama; you yourself expressed a very similar idea a moment ago. But this new drama can become properly effective only by being performed; the only solution is a stage of my own. the patron. You are speaking of a new drama; considering the state of our modern theater, I think you’re justified in some degree. And your plays seem indeed to bear within them so many seeds of future possibilities that one can understand your high opinion of yourself. On the whole, I can assure you I understand your ideas and your decision very well. If in spite of that I propose a different course, I don’t do so from lack of understanding but from sound insight. I see your near future in a different light—even though I fully sympathize with your request—I see so many risks and problems in realizing it that a different solution appears necessary to me and, I believe, I have found one. the poet. Please, tell me! What is it? the patron. I consider this proposal sound and fruitful. I shall grant you a

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fixed income, sufficient to cover your expenses in the next few years so that you can live as you desire. Above all—I think—it’s time for you to do some traveling. Unless you find new stimulation, in your environment, you’re threatened with sterility. Let ten years pass in this fashion and we shall be able to discuss the other questions. You’ll have developed greatly, the risk will no longer be so great. What do you say? the older friend. Your fate is now in your own hands. Brief pause. the poet. Sir, I’ve pondered over this possibility too, for a long time, and have rejected it. I do not need external inspiration for future creation, but I must gain experience of theatrical technique by seeing my finished works performed. I must be able to test in practice the extent of what is possible on the stage. I must test experimentally the limits of drama. My writings are still deficient in this respect. Only by mastering these matters can I mature. The external world is necessary only secondarily, and sterility will never threaten me! My mission dictates this one path; therefore, I have to decline your offer. the patron. You talk heedlessly! You overlook the real advantage of my proposal—your mental growth in undisturbed security. That is what you need. Dramatic performances would actually be harmful to you, because your whole being would be so engrossed in them, there would be no peace left for your work; and your work can flourish only in peace and quiet. the poet. I will be able to unite work and fulfillment. I have the call, and hence I can accomplish what I must do. the patron. Forgive me, but now you are becoming fantastic, and we want to consider only what’s realistic. Brief pause. the poet, abruptly bursting forth. I see, you’ll never want to grant me this?! I know this well, you only think fantastic nonsense What I demand, such as my thoughts about My calling!? . . . How shall I begin my tale?! Shall I relate how this began in me with visions, Even when I was a child, and then matured And grew in might, compelling me and driving me Into much loneliness and tortured grief— How it imposed upon me such laws which sundered ties Between my loved ones and myself, condemning me To cruelties against those nearest me, whose blood I share?! My work! My work! My work alone was master! How best to say it . . . I want to show you images Of coming things which have in me arisen

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In all splendor, visions that led me on To where I am today, and neither love nor lust Has hitherto been able to displace them Or even for one instant make them dim! You shall see what riches wait for you, What vast good fortune. Truly this will prove a gold mine! And no risk at all! Just listen now: this will become The heart of art: from all the continents, To this source of health, people will stream To be restored and saved, not just a tiny esoteric Group! . . . Masses of workmen will be swept By intimations of a higher life In mighty waves, for there they will see From smokestack and towering scaffold, from The daily danger of clamoring cogs arise Their souls, beauteous, and wholly purged Of swarming accidents, in glorious Sublimity, conquerors of gripping misery, Living steel and spire soaring up In defiant yearning, regally. . . . Starving girls, Emaciated bodies bent, toiling for their children Out of wedlock born, in this shall find their bread And resolutely raise their little ones aloft, Even though these lie already lifeless in their arms! Cripples, whose twisted limbs betoken the teeming Misery of this crooked age, whose bitter souls Ooze from their poor misshapen forms, Will then with courage and from love of straight-limbed life Repress their bile and toss to Death The fallow refuse that was their lives. But men Shall stiffen their brows in sorrow and joy, And open their hearts to yearn and—renounce! Let woman excel in allegiance to man! Let his aim be—graciously to yield to her! .................................. To lofty birth let a highborn but in many ways corrupted age Advance toward me; Indeed, this age shall truly view itself In mirrors of omnipotence and lapse into silence when From the deep reaches of the skies Issues the gracious vision of the anchor which holds us all Inexorably, like rock-bound ore, To the bottom of divinity.

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During the poet’s verses the girl has risen and draws softly nearer, until she stands to the left by the entrance to the alcove. Subsequently, the nurse joins her. Standing on tiptoe, she looks curiously over the girl’s shoulder. the patron. Please, sir, calm yourself !—What you envision as the future is a figment of your imagination, a dream that will never come true. Therefore, I feel really justified in declining your request, first of all because in a few years’ time you will think of your plans with greater maturity. Then perhaps you will have learned to realize and appreciate more seriously the limits of possibility; your ideas will have adjusted to them, and we both will have it easier. the poet. Your words have been unmistakable, and we are finished! The nurse has meanwhile returned to her table, but the girl remains rooted to the spot, hearkening, slightly bent forward. The light upstage goes out immediately after the poet’s last word. Left-downstage is dimly illuminated. In the chiaroscuro one can see the five fliers seated on the lower bench. Their rigid posture makes each resemble all the others. They also are unified by their sharp and steely expressions. first flier, rhythmically. Of course, you speak for joyfulness, But fetters of constraining fear hold fast my senses. second flier. I feel like him. My pulse beat overwhelms My laughter with gloom and violence. third flier. Grief does not befit this festive hour, Even the worst fate merits more than that . . . fourth flier. How his eyes gazed upward radiantly at the sun In ardent communion, joyous in holy effort . . . fifth flier. How his courage, assured, gave strength to his handshake, His every word betokened success . . . first flier. His courage pushed his hands too far, Overconfidence has shattered many— second flier. Too much like the sun were his eyes, Many have burned to ashes near the sun— third flier. Grief does not befit this festive hour, Even the worst fate merits more than that. fourth flier. Still, let us wait, let us not heed vague apprehensions— fifth flier. They often deceived us; soon we shall know. sixth flier enters from the left, steps in front of the others, turns his face toward them, and remains in this posture during the subsequent scene. first flier. Woe . . . Your eyes bespeak the airy grave . . . second flier. Your brow foreshadows a desolate coffin. sixth flier. Woe: The storms of heaven shattered the airplane. It splintered on the rock-covered earth . . .

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all except the third and sixth. Woe . . . first flier. My apprehension did not deceive me, Rightly did fear hold me in clammy embrace! second flier. Rightly did engulfing waves of Bitter sadness drown all my laughter! sixth flier. Woe: Dead he lies with his brains spilled out, And his hand still clutches rudder and wing. all except the third and sixth. Woe . . . fourth flier. His courage lifted him into the stormy skies— Raging elements have no respect for courage in man! fifth flier. Brightly his eyes greeted the sun— The radiant star scorns the greeting of man! all except the third. Let the monotonous dirge resound, the soul’s lament, Psalm and organ for the dead. third flier. Grief does not befit the festive hour, Worst fate merits a nobler choral. first flier. Which god’s gospel do your works proclaim? second flier. Which is the freedom your trumpets declare? third flier. From storms of destruction rises my God, From death-dealing rays He draws living breath. fourth flier. Your word of courage moves the boulder from the grave And adumbrates the verdict against death. fifth flier. Your hope unseals hidden accords, Yes . . . It intones eternal life. sixth flier. Give us the gift of wisdom, give us the gift of omnipotence! third flier. Where has his fervor gone out, where has his courage been broken? All the more fiery was it infused into us! first flier. Yes, you’re piercing the clouds of my heart with heavenly rays—! second flier. You transfigure my sorrow with inward shared smiles! third flier. Think it through! Descend deep down into yourselves! Did he die? Or did he rise in resurrection? Our eyes now see with sight from his soul— fourth flier, with gesture. His longing lifts high our hands. fifth flier. His death has been solder for our union: It has welded and fused us—deepest nerve and broadest dominion . . . Silence. third flier, softer, yet more intent, his voice coming as though from afar. Prophetic vision above and beyond the groping of language— all, as though groping. Prophetic vision above and beyond the groping of language—

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third flier. Beyond uncertain solace—faith. all, their heads bowed. Beyond uncertain solace—faith! Darkening of downstage, center-upstage is lit. Only the older friend and the poet are left at the table. the older friend. You have killed your last opportunity. Do you realize what this means? I’ve warned you so many times. You appeared to agree with me, but it was all pretense. I detest from the bottom of my heart such secretiveness. I can’t comprehend what’s happened! It will be a long time before I can forgive you for this. What’s going to happen? How do you expect to get on? the poet. I did not like being secretive with you. I’d expressed many objections to you, but you rejected them all out of hand and you repeated your very definite opinions again and again. So I let it be. You held my wish in your hands and contemplated it like a lifeless thing, like a stone or a piece of wood. But there was organic development here, ever-changing and unfathomable, so much soul and mystery that neither you nor I could know anything absolute about it. Yet this is your way, your bitter habit: you had tagged me with a number and were looking for the formula it would fit. But I myself had not yet found my number and my law. Now, don’t be angry with me! the friend. I am upset by what’s happened. This obstinacy and blindness of yours make one wonder. You are too young to afford such negativity. Pause. He looks at his watch. It’s time now to catch my train. Good-bye. Look me up soon at home. In any case, let’s not be angry. They shake hands. the poet. I thank you. Farewell! The friend exits to the right, past the alcove and down the steps. The poet looks silently into space. Lights dim. The alcove is lit. The girl, still standing rooted as before. The nurse seated, sipping her cup of chocolate. the nurse. Do sit down! Your chocolate is all cold by now. Besides it’s high time you were home. The girl still standing rooted as before. The nurse seated, at the right. Excuse me, Nurse! Exits to the right. Lights out on this part of the stage; the lower stage is lit. It is completely deserted. The poet descends slowly downstage while speaking the subsequent monologue. Right after the first few words, the girl appears downstage at the right, and remains standing there, staring at the poet and listening intently to his words. the poet. You hurled a sky-high rock Upon my road—

The father in a blue dressing gown. He hammers away with an outsized drumstick at a multicolored toy drum. Even before the curtain opens, the first drumbeats can be heard; while the stage becomes visible, the drumbeats follow each other more and more rapidly, finally merging in a furious roll. the father, screaming over the din. Yippee! Yippee! Whee! Hallo! Away! Away with you, you scoundrels! Yippee! Look at them run! Away, away with you, scoundrels! Get out! Get out! Beat! Beat, my good drum, beat! He stops himself. Ah—now they’re gone. Looking up. Ha-ha, I can see you again, Mars, I can see you again . . .! And you shall have a kiss, drum, because you’re so kind, and chased away those old rascals. So here it is . . . Kisses his drum. Shame on them, those old rascals.—Here a fire, over there a coffin lid and smoke; over here a louse, over there a toad; there a heart, there a heart with a knife stuck in it; here a bucket of tears, there a chest filled with murder—surely it’s enough to drive one mad. But I have my drum now—nyaah—yes, I have my drum. The good Lord still means well by his old master builder. Up there in the attic it lay all forgotten—the old drum, when I went up to look for my old blueprints. Ha-ha-ha, the good Lord still means well by his master builder, yah, yah. Short drumbeats. One, two, three, and I see Mars again. Sends up a kiss.

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ACT II

The Beggar

With rocks you cluttered, too, my brain, and I can barely think. Yet your hostile force steels all my pulses, O Destiny! One day I shall stretch up defiantly toward blue sun . . . , An eagle, I shall spread my wings Toward the fires of the sun. Talon and eagle! And your rock becomes a mote. He continues to descend the steps and is about to turn right. Just then, the girl advances toward him, blocks his way, and lifts her arm as though to stop him, saying. I must speak to you, wondrous stranger . . . Curtain.

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Good day, dear Mars, how do you do, good Mars? I have my drum now! Abruptly changing. What, you mean fellow . . . what! You smoky giant, don’t block my view of Mars, you! He starts drumming again. Hallo, yippee, get out, get out, will you! You devil . . . get out of there! get out! Will you go! go! away! Wildly drumming, he advances to the left as though driving someone out. For a short while the drumming can be heard behind the scene; then silence descends. Now the curtain parts, and opens on a view of a living room. Downstage at the right, a settee. In front of a red curtain in the center of the back wall, a table and three chairs. Left center an armchair. Upstage at the left, a door papered with the same paper as the surrounding wall. Red carpet, red wallpaper, red furniture cushions, red table cover. The mother and the son (the poet) seated at the table opposite each other (in profile to the audience). the mother. . . . it’s the first time since your return that you deign to grant me a free hour. And you’ve been back for over a week. But you stay in your room all day or take walks. You don’t concern yourself at all about me, I only see you at meals; for that I’m good enough. If you only knew . . . I cry over you . . . the son. Dearest, let’s use this free hour for talking of other things . . . the mother. No, no, I must be able to talk about it. You, of course, don’t like that! Ah, I’m dead to you—do you tell me anything at all about your inner life? It was bad enough those last few months, but now, since you met that girl, you’ve become completely closemouthed! You haven’t told me a thing about your trip; why did you come back so soon? the son. You know that I undertook the trip to gather some stimulation for my art. I came back when I got enough . . . the mother. And you’ve come back so soon?! But I think you went on that trip for quite different reasons, I’m quite certain of that. In that connection you had some bad experience, and that’s why you came back so soon. the son. Where do you get all that information? the mother. When you came back, I noticed that something deep inside was troubling you. And it had to be something sad, I noticed that too. After all, I know you! After all, I know what goes on inside you! Oh, I know! Perhaps you went there to sell a play of yours, and it was turned down. the son. Ah, don’t trouble yourself with these useless thoughts . . . the mother. Yes, I notice it all right; it’s true. I thought so . . . Sighs. At the left, behind the scene, a door is heard to slam.

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the mother, startled. Listen! that was his bedroom! What does this mean? What is he up to? Isn’t he asleep? he won’t be coming in here, will he? Brief silence. the son. It’s all quiet. the mother. The attendant is with him, I hope? the son. Shall I go look? the mother. Yes, go, go, but quietly! If he’s asleep, don’t wake him by any means. Maybe it’s better you don’t go? the son. I’d better go. the mother. Yes, but very quietly, yes, it’s better you go, I suppose. After all, one never knows . . . But very softly, do you hear? The son nods and exits through curtain. Silence. the mother, inclining her head sorrowfully, folding her hands, stares straight ahead, and then she prays monotonously and mournfully. Lord, you bring everything to its rightful ending—all my sorrow, too! O Lord, O Lord, take my hands and lead me . . . A wild sobbing causes her head to jerk. A chair is moved behind the scene; the mother quickly wipes away her tears and looks at the curtain. the son, returning. Yes, the attendant is with him. the mother. Is Father sleeping? the son. He’s lying on the bed in his dressing gown and seems to be asleep. the mother. Didn’t you talk to the attendant? the son, resuming his seat. No, I didn’t go into the room at all. I only peeped in through the open door, no one heard me. the mother. Ah, when I think that this can go on another year, or even longer, I can’t endure it. the son. Did you write to Aunt once more? the mother. She wrote again herself. I meant to show you her letter. Searching in her dress. Where did I put it . . . ? Maybe I left it upstairs . . . the son. What does she write? the mother. She writes with no heart at all . . . No, I don’t have the letter now. the son. She writes heartlessly again? the mother. She ignored everything I said. She falls back on the statement of the doctors and insists on his spending his last days, not in the institution, but at home. She accuses me of lacking in love because I wanted it the other way. But you know how I love him . . . the son. One can’t reach her, appeals are of no use. She gives us so much money that we are dependent on her. the mother. If at least it were his heart’s desire! If it could only relieve his last days. Yes, then I would take everything upon myself ! But the doctor

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told me himself that those afflicted with his illness don’t care at all . . . ah, it’s so difficult, I can’t sleep any more from fear . . . the son. She loves her brother, to be sure, but she can’t sympathize with our torments here and with your great love. the mother, bowing her head. Yes, I love him utterly and I’m always with him. the son, more softly. Know this, I love you completely and am always near you. The mother looks up sorrowfully. the mother. I weep for both of you in my pillows at night. One eye weeps for your father, the other for you! A door is slammed, right afterward another one. Steps are heard approaching. the mother jumps up, screaming. That’s him! he’s coming! She flees into a corner of the room. Bolt the door! Tries to run out through the door upstage-left. Oh God, the door is locked! the son. Calm yourself ! Stay here! Calm yourself ! the mother, fleeing through the room into the farthest corner. For heaven’s sake, call the attendant! The red curtain in the background opens up; the father appears in the door frame. He is again in his blue robe. the father, in the door frame. Now I’m away Tralala And can dance Trala! He enters the room from the right, circumventing the table, without being aware of the others, who stand at the side to his right; the son puts his hand on his mother’s arm to calm her. the father. So you see, my dearest Boss, I’m no longer at a loss. One! two! three! Ha-ha-ha! Tralala! Pretending I was a stupid mule, I played my patron for a fool, Now I can laugh at him— Whoops— Scoff at him— Whoops— And say I have enough of him— Boomps.

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He twirls around. Then he perceives the son and mother. the father. Ah, there you are! Good evening! Good evening! the mother. Good evening, little papa. Not asleep yet? the father. Ha-ha-ho—how do you like that—I’ve only pretended I was asleep! But that fellow fell into my trap and thought I was really asleep. So I’ve gotten rid of him in a nice way—ha-ha—I’m rid of him. I’m dancing with joy, you shouldn’t think I’m crazy. I only dance with joy!! Yes, let’s all dance, where is Hedi, let her play the piano. Hopsa . . . hopsa . . . tralala . . . Well, how do you like that, I am even a poet! That poem was good, wasn’t it? A crazy man couldn’t make such poetry! Yes, poetry, that’s always been my forte. You still remember, Mommy? Oh, dearest bride with myrtle wreath, With a goose you’re putting your groom at ease . . . Ha-ha-ha . . . Brief silence. But sit down, sit down! What are you standing around for? Mommy, come, come here! They all take seats around the table. Well, my boy, you really should be in bed already—but you aren’t a child any more. Time was when you had to be in bed by half past seven on the dot . . . Punctually at half past seven! March, to bed—nothing to be done about it! I still remember—ha-ha—five minutes before, you already cast sidelong glances at the clock, and winked all secretly to yourself . . . but you couldn’t fool me—I saw it anyway. And you always begged to take your book along to bed, but that was out of the question. Yes, you were a rascal! And do you still remember how we did the puzzles, son? We two always solved them—one, two, three, just like that, but Mommy could never solve them . . . never . . . Pats her shoulder. Yes, yes, Mommy. It’s not as simple as all that. Ha-ha. the son. Sometimes you had the answer before I’d been able to finish reading the puzzle. the mother. Yes, little papa, you really could solve them beautifully. the father. But now, how is it now! We must discuss what we are to do. I am well again now, and we’ll fire the attendant on the first. I think, Mommy, we two will first take a nice trip south: anywhere else it would still be too cold. Yes, I’ve figured it all out. Well, will you be surprised, little mommy! the mother. That’ll be wonderful . . . the father. It sure will be wonderful! And afterward with new strength I’ll buckle down to work. And at full steam! Ha-ha, if you only knew . . . Work makes our life so sweet Never is a burden— Oh yes, oh yes.

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the mother. The other day you fetched your old blueprints from the attic. the father. Yes, that’s right . . . and the drum too! Ha-ha, have you already heard the story of my dear old drum . . . ? Well, I’ll tell you that another time. Mommy, you don’t have to make such an anxious face right away—it’s true about the drum . . . Yes—well—what were we talking about . . . the mother. Of your old blueprints, little papa, and your work. the father. Oh yes, the blueprints, I need them for something—ha-ha! Yes, there is lots to be done, ho, if you only knew! We’ll get filthy rich someday, we’ll laugh at everyone. But we mustn’t let anyone know. the son. You have a special project lined up, haven’t you? the father. No, nothing must be divulged. Well, maybe I’ll tell it to you, my boy, now you are ‘‘a colleague.’’ How are you doing? Pretty busy, aren’t you? How long will it take you to become construction boss? . . . Mommy, do you still remember, when I . . . The mother nods. Ha-ha-ha, you still remember that. My boy, as soon as I am well, we’ll go drinking together, absolutely, I want to have a real drinking spree again with the boys of the fraternity. Ad exercitium salamandri . . .* one, two, three . . . yes, yes, I can still do it . . . one doesn’t forget that. The mother has gotten up quietly and is about to exit through curtain. the father. Where are you going, Mommy? Oh, no, you stay here! Tonight you can stay up a little longer, for my sake, can’t you? Can’t you, my dear little wifey? the mother sits down again. Certainly, little papa. the father. You can sleep late tomorrow—tomorrow is Sunday. Sunday we never got out of bed before nine! My God, how long it’s been now since we slept together, you and I! But just let the attendant go—it will soon be the first. Let him go, Mommy, and we’ll have our wedding ceremony a second time. My dear, beautiful wifey! Silence. The mother regards the father with increasing anxiety. the father slowly. Tell me— Silence. the mother, timidly. What . . . ? the father. Tell me, what was it I wanted to discuss with you . . . what was it—what was it— Silence. . . . Well, just you wait, Mommy, when I start earning again! Then I won’t come home with a miserly six thousand marks, but with no less than six hundred thousand. Yes, then you’ll be surprised, but you have to wait a * A drinking ritual of the student fraternities.

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little. It’s so dreadful that I couldn’t do anything at all these years. I go crazy even now when I think of it. Here, here— Rolls up right sleeve. I bit my own flesh with rage, but it was no use, I could not make myself work. I could bite and bite as much as I pleased . . . the son. But now you’re planning new work again, Father. the father. Yes, now everything is fine again. So my biting was good for something anyway. Ha-ha, enough blood flowed out—one time a whole bowl was full. Ha-ha, but now we can laugh and be happy! Mommy, you know, we could afford a bottle of wine to celebrate the day. And—you know what—I’ll bring Hedi along too, she must join in our toast . . . He rises quickly, rubbing his hands, and hops around with joy. Hopsa, we’ll have a grand time . . . The mother whispers with the son by the curtain in the back, while the father, humming, entirely self-absorbed, paces up and down the room. The mother leaves the room. The son comes downstage, seats himself on the settee, and looks at the father. Silence. the son. You wanted to talk to me about your project, Father . . . the father, stopping. About my project; of course! . . . Well, it can’t be told that easily . . . the son. How long have you been working on it, actually? the father. Hmm, the first thought or the dream of it came to me already four months ago. And then I finished the plan, but at that time I hadn’t come back home yet.—The blueprint itself I started only yesterday. the son. You have to show me everything. What were you saying before about a dream . . . ? the father. Well—as I said—it’s not so easy to explain. There is something great, miraculous, behind this work, you know—an utterly mysterious power—yes, I know it sounds crazy, but it isn’t. Just listen to me.—How can I begin . . . the son. You had a dream? the father. Yes, that’s it! Yes! Just imagine! One night I saw the planet Mars in my dream, I saw it in the sky just as usual, but suddenly it grew brighter and brighter and bigger and bigger, it grew and grew, finally it became as large as this room here, and it was so near I could have touched it—so minutely visible, imagine, I could see the canals quite clearly. The Mars canals, you know? the son. Yes. the father. I saw them distinctly shimmering and flowing—they ran straight through across the whole planet, straight as a yardstick. the son. Had you seen them at any time before through a telescope? the father. Yes, but much, much smaller, not bigger than a five-mark piece, but then I saw them as large as this wall.

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the son. How miraculous. the father. Yes, truly miraculous! For the next night I dreamed the same, only this time I could see them building on one of the Mars canals! the son. Ah . . . the father, growing in stature as he revels in his vision. I saw the scaffolds and ditches—I saw everything!—and very curiously shaped—and it all hummed and whirred so in front of me that I became quite dizzy! I also saw people, very much like ourselves, except that they all had long trailing garments on and pointed hats, exactly the way I had once read it in a novel. the son. Had you read it all? the father. How could I have? . . . I had read about the people there, but nothing of all the other things; in that case there would have been nothing miraculous about it at all. Ha-ha-ha! Now, . . . where was I? . . . the son. With the people and the machines. the father. Right. As I said—of course I hadn’t read anything whatever about the machines and the whole construction. Otherwise there would have been nothing to this! the son. How was it then on the third night? the father. On the third night? Well, then I saw a little more of the construction site, and everything even more distinct! Then I also saw gigantic objects on the water—ships probably—I didn’t understand at all how those monsters could float! I didn’t comprehend anything, not the machines, not a single construction, nothing at all, I stood like a dumb ox before all those things! Gradually, however, I began to sense this and that— ah—I racked my brain trying to understand those things. They could drive one out of his mind, but I was probing into them! What times those were, my boy! I raced like a madman through the days, hardly able to wait for the night to come. I believe I must have been in a permanent state of fever from waiting. I burned. At night, when my glance fell on Mars, all red in the sky, I spoke to him. Then, in the night, I was up there. Yes, I was up there, every night for weeks, I didn’t dream—it was real, what I saw . . . the son. I believe you, Father. And how did it go on? Sounds behind the curtain. The mother and the sister come. The sister carries a tray with a bottle of wine and four glasses. The mother carries a tray. They put these on the table. The sister’s long blond hair streams down loose; she has a robe over her shoulders. The father, having thrown a rapid glance at them entering, paces back and forth, confused and completely absorbed in his visions. the mother, anxiously. Here we are, little papa . . . The father fails to hear her. the sister. I’d already gone to bed, little papa. That’s why it took me so long . . .

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the son, getting up. Come, Father, now we’ll drink a toast. Leads the father to the table. the father, as above. Well . . . well . . . well . . . Now he stands by the table; at that moment his glance lights on the tray, he wakes from his trance, and speaks in a lively tone: Ah! Macaroons! Hurrah, Mommy! Is this a surprise! Macaroons! My favorites! the mother, radiantly. They are still quite fresh, little papa. Actually, you were not supposed to get them till tomorrow. the father. Well, in that case I have to taste one right now— Eats a macaroon. Mmm, delicious! Eats another one. Really superb, Mommy, the way you make them. Continues eating. Oh, does this taste good! the son. Let’s all sit down! the father. Right, all around the table! We are short one chair . . . the son pushes a chair to the table, at an angle. Here, take this chair, Father. the father, taking it. Yes, I take the chair. Sick man that I am!—But now a toast! . . . Mommy, where do you have the corkscrew? the mother hands him the corkscrew. Here. the father. Well . . . tralala . . . this will taste out of this world! He tries to pull the cork. Hopla . . . Well, this is a difficult business . . . Tries again. the son. Let me try, Father! All sit around the table. the father. All right, you try. This is damned complicated—damned complicated. The son drives the screw further and pulls out the cork. the father. Ah, this boy is getting clever . . . just look at him! the mother. Yes, he used to be our all-thumbs. the father. Sure enough! . . . And now let’s pour. Pours and fills the glass till it overflows and spills. Hopla . . . this is too good. Well, let the rug too take part in the feast. the sister. Let me pour, little papa. She takes the bottle from him and fills the other glasses. the father. How do you like our children, Mommy—efficient, aren’t they? the mother. Yes, very, little papa!

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the father. Wouldn’t you like to make a speech, my boy?—Well? You used to love doing it. No birthday passed without one of your speeches. the son. Yes, I still remember. I always made long speeches, but tonight, I think, we’ll just toast quietly. the father. No, no, that’s impossible, you have to speak! Really, you have to make a speech! The son rises, raps on his glass. the father. Ah . . . psst . . . psst . . . quiet! Listen to the speaker! the son. Fraternity brothers! the father. Splendid. This will be a real fraternity carousal. the son. Tonight we welcome into our midst our dear old brother restored to his old gay and happy disposition. For a long time he stayed away from our drinking bouts, and his absence kept away good cheer. Now we can delight together with him in his health, and wish him the best for his future and his great enterprise. the father, wiping off his tears. Listen to him! Go on, go on, my boy! the son. Fraternity brothers! I call on you in honor of our dear senior brother to whom we owe so much, who has always been and always will be an inspiration for us and an example of loyalty, earnestness, and sense of duty, in honor of our dear senior brother, I call on you for a rousing toast in our best tradition: Ad exercitium salamandris: Estisne parati?* the father, with radiant face and booming voice. Sumus! the son. One, two, three— The father rubs his glass on the table and gestures to the mother and sister to follow his example. They copy him halfheartedly. One, two—bibite! They drink. Three . . . Salamander ex-est. the father, embracing him, with tears in his eyes. That was a wonderful thing you did, my boy! A wonderful thing—and now another toast. All of us together, let’s clink glasses. To the future! They all raise their glasses; as the father is about to clink his glass with the son’s, he says: To Mars! the son. Yes, to Mars! the father, to the mother and sister. That’s our secret. The mother and sister have joined timidly, smiling reluctantly, to humor his gaiety. the father turns to the son. But I want to go on with my story—! * The Son in this scene engages in a ritual of the German student fraternities—the so-called Salamanderreiben, or stirring the Salamander, which constitutes one of the highlights of the fraternities’ drinking feast. The ceremonial is described here; the formal language of the fraternities’ rituals is Latin.

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the son, to the mother and sister. Wouldn’t you like to go to bed? Father and I might stay up a while yet . . . the father. Yes, indeed, you must go to bed—good night, Mommy. See how well-behaved I am, I’m not going with you. But just wait a while . . . a week from now . . . oh, that will be nice . . . the mother. Yes! Good night, little papa. the father goes rapidly to her and kisses her. Good night, good night, my wifey! Kisses her more ardently. Good night! the son touches his arm gently. You meant to be well-behaved, didn’t you, Father? the father, letting the mother go. Tonight, yes, but in a week . . . The sister extends her hand, wishing him good night. Good night, Hedi. Throws the mother a kiss as she exits. Good night, good night! The mother and sister leave the room. the father, looking after them. She is really getting more and more beautiful, our dear little Mommy! He starts pacing up and down. Just wait, just wait, my dear wifey! This week shall also pass. One, two, three, one, two, three . . . bibite . . . oh, yes. He sits down in a corner at the foot of the sofa. the son. So tell me more of your plans, Father! the father. Yes, I’ll surely do that, my boy. What I’ve begun, I must also finish. That’s the way it should be, shouldn’t it? the son, in front of him. You’d been talking about the machines and how you gradually were beginning to understand their construction, and how in general . . . the father, transformed; under the impact of his vision. Yes, the machines! God, what advances compared to ours! Look here . . . He bends down and draws shapes on the floor with his finger. His mind is obviously throbbing with these visions and frequently interrupts the flow of his speech. The son stands in front of him. . . . The great drilling machine, for instance, it hung suspended on springs like this and like this—the frame looked like this, here, like this, the two beams here diagonally, the center beams here, you see, crosswise, see—like this . . . There the upper beam divided, suspended wires connected it with the lower part, four of them disappeared here underneath the center structure. Later on I could see that center structure in cross-section; the ignition was installed there, a complicated construction, didn’t become clear to me for a long time. Now there, below the

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ignition, were enormous hooks, and underneath these was the driller. They had some kind of induction—I’m telling you, it took me ages to find my way! But finally I found out everything, everything!—And then there was a dredge, my God, you could have cried for joy . . . we have absolutely nothing even remotely comparable!—This drill, now, had . . . well, it’s hard to describe, I have to show you the blueprints; then you’ll see it clearly. Teeth clenched; he jumps up. Yes, my boy, wasn’t it an enormous good fortune to be privileged to see all that!? And how I let it sink in! All of Mars burned itself, as it were, into my brain. And my brain was like a gigantic spider, embracing Mars, and inserting his proboscis into it, a sharp pointed sting, and sucking out all its secrets . . . all. Sits down again. Pause. the son. And now you wish to . . . the father, ecstatic. . . . and now, and now—I wish to Shower happiness upon this earth! You hear! I’m holding Treasures—Miracles of Mars! Riches of the stars! World happiness! I hold omnipotence in my hand! I can stamp This whole great earth into dust! When I stamp the ground, It bursts asunder. The solid rocks rip apart In dead center! In dead center! Ah—they are bursting even now! Mountains turn and wander far afield. Whither I command. The chasms fill With rocks or flames or flowers. Because I wish it so! Or with fields! And green! I make the craters! I beat out depths, Most dreadful depths—here! with this fist! I call the oceans from the poles And all the seas! the seas to me, To make them full . . . Fertile! Fruitful! Fruitful! He sinks back. The son puts the father to bed on the sofa. He rests his hand on the father’s forehead. The father tries to raise himself again; twitches with the effort. Silence. the father. The plan! . . . the plan! . . . the plan! the son. Now be quiet, Father, and don’t talk about it any more. the father. The plan . . . you have to see the plan! Wards off the son’s hand. Let me go—it’s all right. Half raised up.

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It’s all right.—You must see the plan. He reaches into the pocket of his robe and pulls out the folded and voluminous blueprint. He quickly unfolds it, putting it on the floor. The blueprint measures approximately three-fourths of the length of the sofa in both dimensions. the father. Here it is! my work! my work! This is it! ..................................... Yes, great! proud! glorious! blissful! marvelous! Mars filled all my brain when I created it! Mars rolled and glowed red-hot, and whirled thoughts round, And raised my arms electrically, And guided them! They carved these lines, The cosmos carved and all the stars came to my aid! Omnipotence created this through me! So proud . . . so the son, pacifying. Father. the father. Let me glorify! You shall not stop me! Glorify! Away and on! Look here and marvel: this line here Undercuts the Himalayas! What this signifies is but this: Away with Himalaya! I push it Out of my way! Here this yellow bedbug— Sahara is its name—will soon be in full flight from me, God only knows where to! And Himalaya, this tiny bug, Shall likewise run from me! I shall drown both in oceans deep, with these Two arms, sore with cosmic strength and radiance! They burn! you hear! they’re sore! . . . Here these lines, All these black lines, will soon gleam silver-white With broad canals! They will bring lasting happiness to earth Through power that is mine alone! And will be fruitful! fruitful! Many white sails are sailing to and fro, They are the white doves of my love. Forward, forward, On and on! . . . And harbors! ports and havens! they will stretch Many miles, black and strong and sooty With bellies swollen of all these blessings! Blessings! Yes, blessings! Bread and marrow floating through air, And derricks will link them. Oh, blessings! Broadly flung Brother bridges will join shore to shore! Fraternal, yes! A clanking and clattering in the air, And seeds are blown dustlike through the sky In giant clouds. In swelling clouds. Fragrant Clouds! All miracles! All miracles! He leans back. Ah! I am weary from all that splendor! What splendor! Creating makes one weary! I want to build myself a house by the side of the road, and lie

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peacefully and view my happiness. From my windows. Lying there, looking, I want nothing else . . . And I want to die! I am cold. Please cover me . . . I am so cold! My cover . . . The son takes a red cover from the foot of the sofa and spreads it over his father. the father. This is good . . . Hear me . . . I want to die . . . I’ve longed for this All my days . . . My work is done! Creating has been beautiful! Create further, My son! You will do it! Thank you! You! Now give me your hand! Love me well and help me die. Remember . . . Give me poison! Give poison to your poor father! I’ll thank you for it! You see, I’m shedding tears! Yes, you’ll give me poison and help me leave this life, Which tortures me so much . . . I want my bed . . . The son helps the father raise himself up. the father. . . . Well . . . well You have no inkling how I am tormented! Believe your father! It torments, torments, and no one knows the true extent! One is alone . . . and black with anguish is the world And one is mute. And turns insane! You too will suffer it, one day! Give me the poison! Poison me! Redeem your father! The others too will be relieved when I am gone; Then you will need no more attendants! . . . Well, to bed! The son leads the father away. . ....................................... For a short while the stage is empty. Lights are out. The son re-enters through the door at upstage-left, having released the bolt outside. He pulls the curtain aside, and in the window frame the sickle of the waxing moon appears. A star sparkles above it. the youth, seating himself at the foot of the settee. His posture: leaning back, supporting himself on his stiffened arms. Night—profound—night so blue—how marvelous. Redemption. Silver moon. ................................... Now drops the stony oppression of the day; Cooled, I can lie down in nearness to you, Conversing in heavenly dialogue, silvery miracle—you! The left half of the back wall and the adjoining half of the left side wall recede and the view opens onto the deep-blue night sky; stars. Mars glows in striking redness. Silhouetted against the sky, on the threshold of the room, these three figures become visible: two women, deeply veiled, kneeling. Behind them,

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erect, likewise veiled, the figure of a man. All have long, flowing, loose dark garments. The youth raises himself, gazing. the figure of the man speaks. In the day’s Anguished toil and need, Under death’s Brightly tinted lead, Borne on wan Poverty’s reed— Have you not your task forgotten? That ironclad command, Anchored with chains above you in the skies? This To ever-new signs Choosing you, In every pulse beat Using you, No martyr’s woe Refusing you, In blackest pit not Losing you, With fires of stars Fusing you— Have you forgotten it? Brief silence. the figure of the first woman speaks. Onto your narrow path Your loving mother’s star Threw many a burnt-out rock Freighted with pain and woe, Many a sterile stone, Many a dry dead bone. Has such disturbing confusion, Such humdrum intrusion Never embittered Your glance when you gazed on Maternal radiance In the deep blue of night?! Brief silence. the figure of the man speaks. With reddish glow Insane-creative, Your father’s meteor With restless wandering, Encircling Mars— Did you understand

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In flaming eruptions Of tormented craters Him who begot you? Brief silence. the figure of the second woman speaks. When despair was very near you The great omnipotent Will Brought the girl’s love to your path. When sorrow bestrides you, Enmity chides you, All power fights you, Your song even spites you— Ever constant will her love receive you, Her hands caressing will relieve you. Your frozen features she will thaw And spread out, blooming, into smiles— Under the gentle nearness of her gaze, In the ever-constant warmth of her embrace. Oh, you, let the breath of her kiss, Let her chaste embrace Be a sacred symbol of mystic might: Let the force of her attachment Symbolize mystic motherhood. the youth. I hear your every word. You are the stars and the voices Among which I always live. Your signs Have been carved into me deeply, those signs Will speak to me always. When you speak, All becomes eternity and healing consolation . . . chorus of the three. Thundering constellations Set us above you As your physical stars; Behold us, you that are body and person! Other stars, Many, will still rise for you, Kindly stars, Many, will still set for you in blood-red glow; Hark to our voices, body and person! Hearken, hark To us, your physical eternity— Feel us deeply, Us, Mothers of Your future immortalities!

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As they disappear, the walls close again. The voice of the man can still be heard growing fainter in the distance: Your father implored you. Hearken. Do well. Lights go up gradually. the youth rises. My father asked his death from me. I sympathize With his request. Yet this one question still arises: Did he create a fruitful work? He must not die If he can still create. Has perhaps his brain, In its deluded state, given birth to Deeply thought-out wonders?— An expert must decide on this. The sound of a door is heard from downstairs. The youth, startled, listens, then goes quickly to the door at upstage-left and opens it. Quick steps are heard mounting the staircase. The door stays open. The girl enters. She shuts the door behind her. Stepping close to him, she lays her hands on his shoulders. The youth kisses her on the forehead and both eyes. the girl, after a pause. I’m very late, beloved. We were so busy in the office. We didn’t get through till nine. the youth. Is this job more exacting than the ones you had before? the girl. Yes, it is, but that doesn’t matter. I am so happy I got it and that I can now live in the same town with you. And one has to get adjusted, you know. Four days isn’t a long time. the youth, leading her to the settee. Yes, we were lucky that my friend could get you the job so fast. the girl. How fast it’s all happened. She is about to sit down. Ah, you know, let us sit down the way we did last night. Shall we? It was so wonderful. the youth. This way— He moves the chair in front of the right-hand post of the door frame in the back, seats himself in the chair, while the girl settles on the floor, nestling her head on his knees. She does not withdraw her hand. Behind both are the night sky, moon, and stars. the girl, after a brief silence. Tonight you begin to tell, beloved, because I’ll have so much to tell you later. the youth. Is it something bad, my love? the girl. Please, you start. the youth. I don’t have much to tell. I did some writing this morning and took a walk at noon . . . My love, you have no idea how you’ve changed me! Remember, that evening in Berlin, when my last way out was blocked, and I no longer knew where I should turn, and yet was driven

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on by aspiration, driven on? No, I did not know then how I could go on to live my life! Then you came forward and confined the surge of my longing, and my inner drive no longer pushed me onward, but upward, my love! I was driven into gyres still unknown to me, and I’m still being driven in them, higher and higher. I wonder how it will continue . . . Silence. the youth, bending down and kissing the girl. And now, you tell me of yourself ! Have you finally had some news about your baby? the girl. Yes, this morning I received a letter. The baby is fine. She smiles painfully. And is getting rounder every day, they write. the youth, kissing the tears away from the girl’s lashes. He’s probably well taken care of in the Home. the girl. Yes, very well. Brief silence. And now read this letter. Hands him a letter. the youth, unfolding it. Who sent it? the girl. From my uncle, the master builder. the youth, skimming through the lines: What does he suggest? . . . what? . . . You are to give your child away? the girl nods painfully. He wants me to offer it up for adoption. Silence. the youth. I still don’t understand it—you know—it’s so dreadfully unnatural, so alien to me . . . the girl. I too couldn’t understand it at first! And I never wanted to give my child away. Never! But then reason began to speak up, and I had to agree with my uncle: What am I, with my tiny salary, able to offer to the child, and how he would be benefited by being brought up in a decent family. the youth. But suppose he comes to people who can’t offer the child anything but their decency, who are not rich but with their prejudiced views and miseducation will spoil the child’s youth . . . the girl. At least he will have a respectable name! That’s necessary for his future! . . . And my uncle would inform himself very carefully before about the family. the youth. What are we talking about! We are talking as if a human destiny could be predetermined and constructed with a little common sense. And yet we know nothing of the possibilities which might perhaps lead the child to his happiness if he remains with you, and perhaps to his misery if you give him away. What do we know! the girl. Yes, everything is so difficult . . . the youth. What will you decide, darling . . . ? the girl. I have already decided. One thing alone determined my decision.

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Softer. Lowering her voice. If I give the child away, nothing will tie me any more . . . and I can love you exclusively . . . and I can serve you with my undivided self . . . Profound silence. the youth. My girl . . . mine . . . it is so strange . . . so much . . . it is so good . . . incomprehensibly good. He stirs on his seat, rises, bends over backward, staring up toward the sky. O miracle! This miracle! It rushes toward me . . . it bends . . . Me into the Heavens . . . into the beyond . . . bends me . . . rushes— O girl! O love! You are so good—so good And wholly . . . He bends down and passionately kisses the crown of her head, then sits down again on the chair, leaning forward on her, pondering. Yet there is something warning me— I am afraid. I fear your matricide. Raising his head and trunk high, erect. . . . And that the screams of strangled motherhood Will fill you and encircle your heart, Lay waste your being and shriek above the wasteland! Desist! Desist! Love your child and me! And do not kill! the girl. I bear you too much love! the youth. Dearest, your sacrifice intoxicates my inmost depths! Your goodness dazzles me and gives a taste of Heaven! For years I have been longing for such love! It is unnameable! It is unthinkable! It remains desire only and good! Don’t do it! Don’t! Though I do want you to so much! Don’t do it! Concern advises well! . . . the girl. . . . Fear is past and gone . . . the youth. It is too much. Too quick. We have to wait . . . Silence. Until your uncle informs you of something definite, much time may pass, and we can meanwhile think it over many times. Try to understand me the right way, my darling girl! The girl tenses her body and gazes steadily up at the youth. The moon has almost set; only the tip of the sickle peeks up in silvery gleam; more stars have appeared. the girl speaks. I cannot understand you, I cannot well reflect, I only can implore you, And give to you— All my heart

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Desires to be near you And wants merely to give you. To give to you itself. the youth, uttering the first verses bent down over the girl, the last ones erect, while gazing to the sky. The depths of Heaven Shall surround us, The beauty of stars Shall be within us— What do I care about understanding, What do I care about comprehending— Omnipotent power Will lead me to my goal. the girl. All my heart Shall always be with you; I want your songs Kept in my heart— You can only give me, you can only bless me— What can I give you, how fructify you—? Faithful I shall be to you, Faithfully depart with you into the heavenly beyond. Curtain. ACT III Scene: Left, a garden. A partial view of a terrace jutting out from the middle of the wall for a quarter of the stage. The terrace consists of stone and has stone balustrades. On the far left, an ivy-grown segment of wall connects it with the ground, otherwise it is freestanding, elevated. In front of the terrace and past it leads a path into the garden; another path from right-front joins it. A young birch tree opposite the terrace; in front of it a backless bench. Upstage: a lawn divided by the path curving to the left. A hedge shuts the garden off. Blue spring sky. Morning. The mother, seated on the bench under the birch tree, her hands in her lap, her eyes closed. Silence. After a while the son approaches from the left. the son. Good morning, Mother. the mother. Is Father back again? the son. No, not yet. the mother. I sat down in the sun here, it’s so nice—spring has come. The sun feels so warm on me. And on my hands. the son. The sun will do you good. You look tired. I guess you haven’t slept since then? the mother. Why do you remind me of that again . . . I want to rest quietly here and think of nothing, and you are bringing it up again.

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the son. You are very right. Let’s not talk about it any more. the mother. No, not any more . . . You were about to tell me how he stood in front of the fire and threw the old blueprints in, singing and dancing all the while? It’s true, isn’t it? the son. Let’s not talk about it any more. the mother. No, tell me; it did happen . . . And he ran around, horrible, with his head burning, and screaming so dreadfully? Did it really happen? Or is it all unreal? the son. Mommy, rather enjoy the birch tree and spring all around you! the mother. Yes, here is our lovely birch—I’m so afraid. the son. Tell me: Of what are you afraid? the mother, anxiously frowning. Tell me: All this has never happened, I have only dreamed it. I know for sure I dreamed about something. But many things did happen. the son. Whatever happened, dearest, is past now, and what you dreamed of is also past. Don’t think of either any more. the mother. Do you see how I’m withering away . . . the son. Dear Mother! Spring will make you young. the mother. Yes, you’re a darling! Well, soon it will be cool around me; soon I’ll be allowed to lie in the earth. I ask God every day to take me away to Him. Then all will be well. the son, kissing her forehead. Soon all will be well; you’ll see, Mother! the mother. Yes, you’re a darling! But my fear won’t leave me, and neither will my dream. And real life exists and stays. Oh, it’s consuming me, but never mind! the son. You know that Susanne will come to dinner today? the mother. What a darling you are—you’ve still kept your kind heart! Yes, now I have to go in and see to the meal. Hedi isn’t back yet, is she? the son, helping her rise. I don’t think so. the mother. Ah. My knees are shaking again. Well! Thank you, thank you so much. Exits right. the son, leaning on the birch tree; after a silence. My friend has sent me now the poison. Ripe is The moment too. The time is overripe! My mother’s infirm age accelerates its course downward toward the grave; And they have deemed my father’s work—mad. He ponders, plucking a birch twig, absorbed in thought. Quickly the deed arose in me. It almost Blotted out the torment of its genesis. My beloved, too, laid her smile lovingly upon the wound,

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Yet under golden bridges, it bleeds on and on: this wound . . . And if I delve far down, the root of this deed also Shoots forth from out this bloody stream. Do not deceive yourself ! Your torment was its soil! Father, Mother, Sister offered themselves up To it as pillars. Am I then a soul towering Strangely up above a single will—? For me this is A symbol of spring which has become a need, And rising sun and first sight of blue. The girl and the sister enter from upstage-left. Hearing their steps, the son turns around. the son. Good morning, you two! the two. Good morning! the sister. We met at the garden gate. the girl. How wonderful this birch tree looks! the son. Spring is everywhere. The sister throws a meaningful glance at the brother. Silence. the sister to the brother. Could you still sleep last night after that? the brother. No, nor you either? the sister. No, no. All nights recently have been disturbed. the brother. You look so pale. You too, Susanne. the sister. It comes without one’s realizing it. Is Father back again? the brother. Not yet, I think. the sister. Has Mother asked for me? the brother. Yes, she is in the kitchen now. the sister. I’ll go to her. the girl. Just look at the birch tree in the breeze! Like blond hair. How beautiful it looks. While the sister exits to the right, she gazes up at the birch tree. the youth kisses the girl on her forehead and takes her hands in his. Good morning, my love, did you sleep badly? the girl. No, I had a good sleep, sound and deep . . . the youth. But you look pale and you’ve grown thin. the girl. I feel well, my love. the youth kisses her hair, sits down on the bench and draws the girl down next to him. I well know how you suffer. Silence. the girl. Let it be spring! the youth. Let spring enter into you! the girl. What can I do for it? It just comes over one; you understand . . . ?

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the youth, kissing her forehead. This is different. the girl. No! . . . Silence. the girl. I wonder . . . I have nursed renunciation in me and now I love it . . . I love myself in it . . . my better self . . . I wonder. the sister rushes in from the right and seizes the brother’s arm. Father is home! And he wants to come here. the brother rises. He wants to come into the garden? the sister. Yes, he is coming with the attendant. the youth. Then you two go! I wish to be alone with Father. the sister. Here he is already. Leaves upstage with the girl, and they exit left. The father enters from the right, the attendant behind him. The father carries a large folio full of drawings under his arm; the attendant carries the drafting instruments—compass box, rulers, etc. The father wears a green spring suit; the suit is too big and hangs on him. The top buttons of his vest are open. His cravat has slipped over the very low coat collar. the son. Good morning, Father. the father. You here! But you must go away—I want to work here. In such weather one has to work in the garden . . . Yes, what weather . . . ! He leans the folio against the birch tree. To the attendant. Just put these things on the bench there. The attendant obeys. the son to the attendant. Please, ask Madam to give you the cellar keys, and fetch us a bottle of wine and two glasses. The attendant nods, exits right. the father. Wine? So early in the morning? You’re a fine fellow! the son. Well, we want to drink a toast to your work. the father. All right, we might as well drink a toast first. He has meanwhile opened the folio and lifted out a drawing (on thin cardboard). Now he is about to nail it to the birch tree with a hammer and nail which the attendant had previously brought. the son. What are you trying to do? the father. None of your business, my boy. Hammers the nail in. I’m going to nail my blueprints up here, one next to the other—darn, I missed it—I’m going to nail my blueprints up here, one next to the other—and I want them—I want them all next to each other in a row. Because—ah, this is the first out of the way— Takes another drawing from the folio. Now the second above it . . . Climbs onto the bench and nails the second drawing above the first. You remember—we don’t have such a large table . . . at home. And this is

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important—it is important for the view of the whole; one can see better. Ah. Now we’ll get the bottom one . . . Takes a third sheet and nails it beneath the first, bending while doing so. How do you like my idea—this damn nail; don’t we have some pliers here . . . ? the son hands them to him. There. the father. Thank you . . . Now we can really drink a toast . . . I’ve earned it, now, really. Didn’t shut an eye these past few nights . . . here, one more nail—well, I’ve made progress. Fine—now one more in the center— convenient, isn’t it? . . . Fine. The birch tree is now covered with three large pieces of cardboard; the strangest crosswork of lines is fantastically drawn on these, curves and loops, the weirdest ornaments, but having a most powerful, rhythmic quality. The drawings are all in India ink. the father, looking at the birch. It looks fine, splendid, doesn’t it? The attendant enters from the right with wine and glasses. the son. Here is the wine. Thank you. You may go, I’ll stay with Father. attendant exits to the right. the father, laying out his instruments on the bench. All right, let’s drink the toast now! And then to work! There isn’t so much left to do—perhaps I’ll even get finished today. Ah, that would be something! The son is filling the two glasses that stand on the bench. Yes, we’ll have our toast right now! Just let me unpack first. Oh! I’ve run out of red India ink. Hmm—the maid must get me some immediately. the son. It’s Sunday, the stores are closed. the father. That’s right, it’s Sunday—uh, how maddening. What am I to do now! I need red India ink desperately. Pointing to the blueprint. There . . . down here, all this will be filled in with red India ink. the son. Can’t you finish another area? the father. Well, that would be possible. Pointing again. Here, for example—here I’d only need black and green. But that’s soon done, and without the red I can’t finish today . . . the son. So you’ll finish tomorrow. the father. Ah, tomorrow! tomorrow! Who knows what will be tomorrow. I might be dead by then. Ha-ha . . . yes, really. What am I to do . . . It’s maddening. Softly whistling in frustration, his head bent, his hands in his pockets, he walks past the bench, turns to the right, and proceeds a short distance upstage. In doing so, he catches sight of a fledgling bird on the ground, which must have dropped out of a nest. the father. Ah, look, what is this down here?

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Bends down. A little birdie, sure enough! Now, look at that! Picks it up. Such a thing! How did it get down here! It probably fell out of a nest. Why are you chirping so pathetically? Are you hungry? . . . Ha-ha-ha, so am I! Very brief pause. The father is staring incessantly at the bird, then squeezing its body. Does this hurt?! does this hurt?! Ha-ha-ha . . . what do you think . . . During this, the father turns his back to the son. The son fills both glasses, quickly pulls a paper out of his breast pocket, and pours the poison into one of the glasses. Then he searches for something to stir the liquid with, rapidly breaks a green twig off the birch, and uses it to stir with. The father turns around now; the son drops the twig. the father, holding the fledgling. Ha, I’ve got an idea! Magnificent, really! Do you know how I’ll get my red India ink? Do you know? Well, see if anybody else can match this! Watch! Very rapidly he takes one of the compasses and drives one of the points deep into the flesh of the bird. There . . . The son automatically seizes the father’s arm and tries to stop him. the father. There, there, that’s the way to do it. And now the drawing pen. Takes a drawing pen and dips it into the bird. There . . . go ahead and chirp now! the son makes a motion to take the little bird. Leave it alone, Father! the father. What?! What?! What do you want?! Watch out, watch out, I’m warning you! What, I’m not to have my red India ink? Watch out! Don’t be presumptuous, my boy! I won’t have that, once and for all!! the son, pacifying. Don’t get excited . . . the father, nearly screaming. I need this red India ink, do you understand I must have it! I have got to have it! Who cares about a bird? Who? I must have my red ink. I’d stab a human being, I’m telling you. I must have it! the son. You are quite right, Father. I didn’t think far enough. What does such a fledgling bird amount to? And you need your red ink . . . the father. Now you are sensible. That’s good . . . Well, I’ve taught you a lesson . . . sure . . . Working. You see how easily it’s going, ha-ha . . . it’s going magnificently! the son. Shouldn’t we have our toast first? the father. Toast, yes . . . we really must have it. We must drink to my clever idea. The son has quickly taken his glass; the father raises the poisoned drink. Suddenly the mother enters from the right. When the father sees her, he puts down his glass without having drunk.

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the father. Look who is here? Our Mommy! Advances toward her and leads her on. Come along, little mommy, you too shall have a toast with us. Oh, I must show you something— He picks up the dead bird and shows it to the mother. Here, look, that’s the way to get red India ink when you’ve run out of it and the stores are closed. How do you like that . . . ? Ha-ha! . . . Well, don’t get so scared about this. Is a dead bird such a horrible thing? No, don’t be scared, I won’t harm you. Throws the bird away. Well . . . satisfied now? What? . . . And now let’s have our toast. Fetch another glass, my boy, for our Mommy. The son quickly exits to right. During the subsequent scene, the sister and the girl appear upstage from left, picking flowers. the father. My God, you’re still looking at me so frightened. Really, I won’t do anything to hurt you. And you look so pale—ah, really sick with worry. And deep shadows under your eyes . . . The mother tries to smile. No, not this kind of smile; it is worse than tears. I know, I know: It’s all my fault, your pallor and the circles under your eyes, and your wrinkles here and here . . . The mother shakes her head. Yes! Don’t shake your head! It’s been caused by the nights you have cried for me. I know it! I know you, after all! the mother smiles quite painfully, tears welling up in her eyes. Don’t cry! Don’t cry!—All will turn out well now. I am healthy, you see, and I can work again! The future lies before us blue and beautiful like this day, doesn’t it, Mommy? No, don’t grieve any more! Don’t make yourself sick! . . . Mommy, you must stay well for me, what would I be without you . . . ! Who has cared for me all this time so beautifully and fondly—? It was you. You’ve always been loving. When I was nasty, you forgave me right away. You have made a happy home for me and borne my children. Tears glittering in his eyes. the mother. My only one, what would my life be without you? You have always been my staff; I am so fragile and feeble and I need support. You have always been that. You made me a mother, you made me happy . . . I can’t exist without you . . . the father, nodding slowly. The future will be bright! I swear to you. My illness only cemented our love! You see, that was the good it worked. He raises a glass and, gazing at the mother with a very solemn expression, drinks half. Now the mother takes the other glass, nods smiling, and also drinks. girl and sister continue to pick flowers upstage as before. the father. Oh, that’s good . . . the mother. You like the wine?

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the father. Why shouldn’t I like it? How well it warms! Ah! Spring is here . . . ! He puts his arm around the mother. Ah, my dear sweet little wife! Can you guess what I am thinking now? He begins whisperingly, then ever more loudly and intensely. Intonation like a child’s. Once again I want to see you In your bridal gown, All wrapped in silk, And stand before you, waiting. Once more the night lamp Shall glow in crimson hues of fairyland, And all your splendor bring Happy tears to my eyes— Then, shy and trembling, You will let fall the silk, And humbly I shall lift your veil, Absorbed in thoughts of joy to come . . . Then you will hold your hands To hide your nakedness, My power you will swell To mighty size! Then . . . all around us . . . Many stars will blink . . . Soon it will be, this bliss— Come! Let us drink! He takes the glass from which the mother has drunk before and empties it. The mother takes the other glass, but it drops from her trembling hands and crashes to the ground. the father. Well, Mommy, what do you think you’re doing . . . The son enters from right carrying a third wineglass. the son in front of his parents, his face turned upstage. You both have drunk? the father. Yes, we’d already drunk one toast before. Now you must drink your own toast by yourself, my boy, that can’t be helped . . . the son. Here are broken pieces—? the father. Mother dropped her glass. Maybe this might mean good luck, after all. Right, Mommy? the son. So you didn’t drink . . . the mother. Oh yes, yes! I did drink all right, but when I tried the second time I dropped the glass. the son, unwittingly eased. Ah— the father. But don’t stand around there now with your empty glass. Drink! Takes the bottle.

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Come, let me pour it for you! Pours into the son’s glass. And now say a toast to our health, my boy! The son drinks, posture unchanged. the father. Well, well, don’t you throw your glass down too! Your hands are shaking pretty badly. Well, that’s what you get from running so fast. The son places the empty glass upon the bench. the mother. I am tired, my limbs feel so heavy. I’ll go rest a little before dinner. Looks at her watch. I still have some time. The father has meanwhile turned to his work again, and readies the instruments. the son. Your limbs are heavy . . . ? the mother. Like lead. Remember . . . Softly. The night— the father. Yes, Mommy, go, go and rest! But have dinner ready on time. the mother. Yes, for half past one. She exits to the left. Soon afterward she appears on the terrace, a collapsible armchair under her arm. She sets it up. the son makes a half-turn, takes a few steps forward and up to his mother. Are you feeling very ill . . . ? the mother. I’m only tired. Merely tired . . . First, I must have a good long rest again and sleep, you know . . . She leans back in the chair, closing her eyes. Just for a little while! Silence. the son watches the father working busily; then he looks down at the pieces of broken glass and gently touches them with the tip of his foot. Wipes his forehead with his right hand. How is this to be understood—? the father has wiped his forehead twice with his hand, now puts the instruments aside. That’s that. Now all that’s left is an insignificant little corner, and then it’ll be finished. Steps in front of the bench, stands arms akimbo, gazing at the blueprints. Here it’s hanging now—my great project . . . yes, here it is, my work. His eyes are gradually getting misty. He works himself up gradually into an ever-intensifying state of rapture. Yet, it is finished . . . at last . . . Just look at it, my boy . . . look at it! Ah, now there is a moment’s peace in me . . . But it won’t last long . . . I know myself . . . Soon I’ll have to go on . . . begin with another star . . . I know it. There is no peace in this life . . . work! always work . . . when one star is done, it’s the next one’s turn . . . Uh-huh . . . just look at it, my boy, it’s

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finished. And you are to give it life, do you hear? I’m entrusting it to you . . . With haste I want to help you too . . . You shall have it easy . . . like this . . . yes, like this! . . . My hands over my brain . . . and I reach into my brain . . . you see . . . deep . . . and now, here . . . He takes his hands from his own head and lays them on his son’s. I’m pouring it into you . . . I’m leaving it to you . . . pressing it into you . . . pressing it—does it hurt? He presses more violently. Does it hurt? . . . It must hurt, ha-ha-ha . . . Ah. Drops his hands breathlessly. Now I’ve become your father for a second time and you my son. Isn’t it so? Haven’t I pressed my work into your brain?! Ha-ha-ha, that’s the way it is. Now you are to complete it . . . and carry it further! . . . carry further this work! Do you hear? What do you have your mother for, if not for that? That’s the way it is . . . that’s the way it is . . . Why did I marry . . . I did not marry . . . ha! My work had sucked forth new blood . . . My work wished you to continue it . . . ha-ha, it’s the same with marriage! Shame on you, if you don’t create . . . Produce! produce! I am your father and keep my eye on you . . . Don’t think you can do what you please! . . . I command you . . . you shall develop my work still further . . . I’m laying this on you as your duty . . . I am your father and may command you . . . You must obey me . . . And here you have my kisses too . . . Kissing his head impetuously. I love you . . . You are my son . . . and have to do what I wish . . . I love you . . . and you must . . . Kisses! Kisses! ah . . . He falls back, the son holds him, he sinks onto the bench, drops his head to the side and leans it upon the birch, on one of the blueprints. He is dead. The sister and the girl approach together down center-stage. Each carries a bunch of loose violets. the sister hands her flowers to the brother. Take this for Father! . . . Is he asleep? the girl hands her flowers. Take this for Mother. Both exit together to the right. The son puts one bunch beside the father on the bench where the two wineglasses rest and the father’s instruments are scattered about. He keeps the second bouquet in his hand. Suddenly he drops to his knees and presses his head impetuously into his father’s lap. Silence. He rises and exits left. Stage empty for a short time. Then the son appears on the terrace where the mother is resting; he walks on tiptoe, peering at her to see if she is asleep. the mother. You can come nearer, I’m not asleep. the son steps up to her. But weren’t you about to fall asleep?

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the mother. Yes, I’m very tired . . . Oh, look, these beautiful violets! . . . are they from the garden? the son. Yes. Susanne sends them to you. And Hedi picked some for Father. the mother, accepting the flowers and burying her face in them. Ah, this makes me happy! He was so sweet to me just before, it was like a shaft of joy into my heart. And he spoke so confidently about his health that I myself began to believe at last that he would get well again someday. Oh, perhaps he really will! The son kneels down by the mother’s side and takes her hand. Ah, yes . . . take my hand, that is good. Yes . . . firmly . . . like this . . . the son. Are you feeling very ill? the mother. Just tired—and so strange—so unlike myself—so very strange I feel—my hands and my body and all—so unlike myself; I hope I won’t get sick— the son. Does your head ache? the mother. No. All this results from these last few years—all these upsets, you know—and this constant anxiety—and then also this worry about you—and last night—oh, for a long time already I have been wishing myself in the grave. the son, his hand on her brow. Dear Mother, you mustn’t feel this way, you know—if one wishes for death all the time, death will come at last . . . the mother, smiling. If Father gets well, I don’t want to die—I want to be where he is—that’s what I would like— Silence. the mother. He spoke so fondly. It entered deep into my soul. He spoke so sweetly of our second wedding feast. It was to come soon now, for he was well. I should then step in front of him in my bridal silk again, Just as it had been long ago, he would kneel down before me . . . Oh . . . Perhaps it will be so. Perhaps I shall be his bride once more, After so many tribulations he shall be mine once more. That would be heaven. Even more beautiful than it was. I know life now and its share of grief, And he knows illness and imprisonment. This then will be like resurrection from our anguished woes— Not merely youthful pleasure, but marvelous through knowledge. We shall be happier in a better way than we had been. All will be joy sublime . . . Oh then . . . how gladly would my breasts then nurse his child again! Her head falls back.

Curtain. translator’s note: Only the first three acts of this play, which constitute about four-fifths of the total length, are given here. The last two acts have been omitted because their inclusion would have made this selection excessively long, and also because the substance of the play is contained in the first three acts. No real development takes place in the remainder, which consists mostly of the Poet’s monologues. He takes a job with a newspaper, then quickly decides to give it up, rejects his friend’s request to change a passage in his play, and accepts the Girl’s offer to give her first child away after she tells him she is carrying his child. There is no real end, but a hymnic invocation of the vistas of existence beckoning to them.

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the son, kneeling and without looking up to her. Loved one, sacred is the sleep slept at your breasts. Many things I hear stream past. That is your way, mothers. He looks up. Silence. O Mother, how beautiful has been your death . . . Silence. Mother, your death belonged to you. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The stage darkens. The son’s voice is heard sonorously from the darkness. You lived beyond, lonely, on the height, And knew of nothing . . . The abyss gaped and darkness shrouded us, You failed to see me . . . But every longing which arose in me and grew, You knew it . . . And every tear that rose in me and flowed, You saw it . . . Invisibly one bond did bind us: It held and throbbed . . . A touching song without a word: ’Twas sung and sung . . . Oft from your somber rock your grieving blood Dripped down on me, With gesture and with smile I often spilled Maternal blood . . . Yet from darkest woe it still conveyed To me its furtive gleam of love. Now it ascends, becomes a star, Radiant and sublime.

y

van Goll (1891–1950) experimented with Expressionism beginning in 1913 in Berlin. At the start of World War I, he moved to Switzerland to avoid the draft and befriended members of the emerging Dada movement in Zurich. In 1919 he moved to Paris, where his work began to evolve toward Surrealism and, five years later, he founded Surréalisme, one of the first Surrealist publications. Goll’s plays and film scenarios, distinguished by their rejection of realism and extensive use of cinematic devices, have been categorized as Expressionist as well as Surrealist and Dadaist. They include The Immortals (1918), the preface to which follows; his cinematic tribute to Charlie Chaplin, Die Chaplinade (1920); and Methusalem, oder Der ewige Bürger (Methuselah, or The Eternal Bourgeois, 1922), produced in collaboration with painter Georg Grosz. The painters Marc Chagall and Pablo Picasso collaborated with Goll, contributing illustrations to his books of poetry, and Kurt Weill composed the music for Goll’s surrealist opera Royal Palace (1927).

Select Bibliography on Goll Kramer, Andreas, and Robert Vilain. Yvan Goll: A Bibliography of the Primary Works. Oxford: Peter Lang, 2006. See also Bru et al. in the General Bibliography.

Two Superdramas Yvan Goll

A difficult struggle has commenced for the new drama, the superdrama. The first drama was that of the Greeks, in which gods contested with men. A great thing it was that the gods then deemed men worthy of such a contest, something that has not since occurred. Drama meant enormous magnification of reality, a most profound, most enigmatic Pythian immersion in measureless passion, in corroding grief, and all of that colored in surreal tints. Later followed the drama of man for man’s sake. Inner conflict, psychology, problems, reason. A single reality and a single realm are to be reckoned with and, consequently, all measures are limited. All is concerned with a particular man, not the man. The life of the community is sorely neglected: no modern mass scene attains the power of the ancient chorus. The vast extent of the gap can be seen in the ill-begotten plays of the past century, which aimed at nothing more than being interesting, forensically pleading, or simply descriptive, imitative of life, noncreative. Now the new dramatist feels that the final struggle is imminent: man’s struggle with all that is thinglike and beastlike around him and within him. He has penetrated into the realm of shadows, which cling to everything and lurk behind all reality. Only after their conquest will liberation be possible. The poet must learn again that there exist worlds quite different from the world of the five senses—worlds comprising the Superworld. He must meet this new situation head-on. This will by no means be a relapse into mysticism or romanticism, or into the clowning of vaudeville, although all these have one thing in common—the extrasensory. Preface to The Immortals, 1918. Trans. Walter H. Sokel. Reprinted from An Anthology of German Expressionist Drama: A Prelude to the Absurd, ed. Walter H. Sokel (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1963), 9–11.

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The first task will have to be the destruction of all external form—reasonable attitudes, conventionality, morality, all the formalities of life. Man and things will be shown as naked as possible, and always through a magnifying glass for better effect. We have forgotten entirely that the stage is nothing but a magnifying glass. Great drama had always known this. The Greeks strode in buskins, Shakespeare discoursed with the spirits of dead giants. We have forgotten entirely that the primary symbol of the theater is the mask. The mask is rigid, unique, and impressive. It is unchangeable, inescapable; it is Fate. Every man wears his mask, wears what the ancients called his guilt. Children are afraid of it and cry. Man, complacent and sober, should learn to cry again; the stage serves that purpose. And do not the greatest works of art, a Negro god or an Egyptian king, often appear to us as masks? In the mask lies a law, and this is the law of drama. Nonreality becomes fact. For a moment, proof is given that the most banal can be mysterious and ‘‘divine,’’ and that herein lies Sublime Truth. Truth is not contained in reason. It is found by the poet, not the philosopher. Life, not the intellectual abstract, is truth. Furthermore, we discover that every event, the most heartshaking as well as the most trivial, is of eminent significance to the total life of this world. The stage must not limit itself to ‘‘real’’ life; it becomes ‘‘superreal’’ when it knows about things behind things. Pure realism was the worst error of all literature. It is not the object of art to make life comfortable for the fat bourgeois so that he may nod his head: ‘‘Yes, yes, that’s the way it is! And now let’s go for a bite!’’ Art, insofar as it seeks to educate, to improve men, or to be in any way effective, must slay workaday man; it must frighten him as the mask frightens the child, as Euripides frightened the Athenians who staggered from the theater. Art exists to change man back into the child he was. The simplest means to accomplish this is by the use of the grotesque—a grotesque that does not cause laughter. The dullness and stupidity of men are so enormous that only enormities can counteract them. Let the new drama be enormous. Therefore the new drama must have recourse to all technological props which are contemporary equivalents of the ancient mask. Such props are, for instance, the phonograph, which masks the voice, the denatured masks and other accoutrements which proclaim the character in a crudely typifying manner: oversized ears, white eyes, stilts. These physiological exaggerations, which we, shapers of the new drama, do not consider exaggerations, have their equivalents in the inner hyperboles of the plot: Let the situation stand on its head; that a sentence be more effective, let it be produced as when one stares steadily at a chess board until the black squares appear white and the white squares black: when we approach the truth, concepts overlap. We want theater. We seek the most fantastic truth. We search for the Superdrama.

part seven

Dada

d

ada, a relatively short-lived movement in avant-garde theater, began as a reaction to World War I. Believing that mainstream art was futile in the face of the war’s insane destruction, its members created a movement that has been called ‘‘anti-art’’ for its attempt to obliterate the staid conventions of traditional art with spontaneity and freedom from all logical constraints. Though their pacifism set them apart from the Futurists, the Dadaists appropriated several aesthetic principles of drama from Futurism, such as the use of simultaneous action on stage and the performers’ antagonistic relationship to the audience. Tristan Tzara (1896–1963) was one of the founders and the chief theorist of Dada, which originated in 1916 at the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich and spread to several major European cities, including Berlin, Cologne, and Paris. As a teenager, the native of Romania was initially drawn to Symbolism, co-founding a short-lived but influential Symbolist magazine with two of his friends in 1912. But at the start of the war, Tzara moved to Zurich, where from 1917 to 1920 he wrote Seven Dada Manifestoes, expressing the central tenets of Dada in his typically angry, mischievous, and often-nonsensical style. The 1918 Dada Manifesto, his best-known theoretical text, includes his famous declaration that brought Dada and Tzara to the attention of André Breton and his friends in Paris: ‘‘Art is a private affair, the artist produces for himself; an intelligible work is the product of a journalist.’’ In 1920, Tzara moved to Paris, where his play First Celestial Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine was produced at the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre, with sets designed by avantgarde painter Francis Picabia. Three years later, the production of his Gas Heart at the Théâtre Michel provoked fights between its supporters and detractors. By 1924, however, Dada had lost its power as an avant-garde movement, an end signaled when Breton—who had broken with Dada two years earlier—introduced Surrealism. Tzara mended his relationship with Breton by 1929 and gradually aligned himself with the Surrealists, though he resisted Breton’s political alliance with the Communist Party.

Anarchy and Resistance in Tristan Tzara’s Gas Heart 1. To state here that Tristan Tzara’s Gas Heart (Le coeur a gaz) is itself a form of anarchy against art,1 and specifically the theater, would be simply restatement. Tzara, a Romanian poet, found his artistic home in Zurich’s Cabaret Voltaire. Along with two co-Dadaists, Tzara unquestionably suggested the perfect form of inaugural entertainment for the cabaret’s opening debut in early 1916. Richard Huelsenbeck, Marcel Janco, and Tzara all read poems from their collections; there was a catch though, the effect of which aptly illuminates the spirit of Dada. All three poets read simultaneously, each poet’s words, inflections, and rhythms competing with the others to create purely artistic babble.2 In this ‘‘experiment,’’ anarchy and art fused to annihilate ‘‘the language by which the war was justified.’’3 A clue to understanding Tzara’s Dada stage, and surely Dada’s final demise, comes from an Expressionist/Dada performance of a play by Oskar Kokoschka titled Sphinx und Strohmann (Sphinx and Strawman). On its opening night, actors performed the play to the mistimed special effects of thunder and lightning controlled offstage by none other than Tzara himself. His control of these effects was met with skepticism by fellow performers, as well as viewers and critics, yet Tzara maintained that these dissonant backgrounds were ‘‘intended by the director.’’4 Kokoschka, however, was also baffled by Tzara’s handling of the controls and claimed to have had nothing of the sort in mind. This is a fabulous example of the natural contentions between staging an art form (theater) which so ‘‘necessarily relies on constructive cooperation,’’5 and Dada, which constantly solicited a derailing of expectations—even those assumed relationships behind the curtain. With anarchy pervading the communication and understanding between playwright and performance, it is no wonder that Dada’s link to the theater came so quickly to an end.

2. In Tzara’s Gas Heart, there are a number of corroborating elements which may be identified as anarchic. There is little stage direction to The Gas Heart. Occasionally, the character called Mouth must exit and re-enter; at one point, Eye has to fall to the stage and walk on all fours, but little more. The play begins with a few modest instructions: Neck must ‘‘[stand] downstage’’ with Nose opposite [facing] the audience; the other characters can enter and ‘‘exit as they please’’ unless otherwise indicated in the text; the Gas Heart, a character with no lines to speak at all, walks the stage with aimless surrender. Excerpted from Robert A. Varisco, ‘‘Anarchy and Resistance in Tristan Tzara’s The Gas Heart,’’ Modern Drama 40. 1 (Spring 1997): 139–48.

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Interestingly, these stage directions continue after the brief introductory notes as a sort of authorial commentary. Tzara writes that the play is the ‘‘greatest three-act hoax of the century: it will satisfy only industrialized imbeciles who believe in the existence of men of genius. Actors are requested to give this play the attention due a masterpiece such as Macbeth or Chantecler, but to treat the author—who is not a genius—with no respect and to note the levity of the script which brings no technical innovation to the theater.’’6 It does not take more than a second to realize that these are not stage directions at all, but false exegeses (much in the spirit of Chaucer’s part-earnest, part-jest ‘‘Retraction’’). With this commentary, Tzara countermands the play before the first line has even been uttered. The text ceases to be art, as he insists the text is fraudulent, a ‘‘hoax’’ whose joke is leveled at the vitality of the theater itself—the audience and benefactors. In so doing, Tzara attacks and shakes the ideological platform of the theater. If not for the benefit of its audiences and supporters, what is the purpose of creating and acting out plays? Why bother with theater hall and audience at all, and not simply text and readers? Tzara knew the risk he took with such sanctimony. A play that had nothing new to offer, one which explicitly declared its ‘‘levity’’ as a product of an author ‘‘who is not a genius,’’ stood to receive little attention from audiences and critics who were already wearied by the preposterous claims and babble of Dada manifestos and other fatuous, fustian productions. Tzara’s Dadaism is anarchy. The theater is not a hallowed ground, and rather than being rebuilt, it needed to be destroyed. Alienating audience, meaning, and authority in this way was the first step in the overturning of traditional theater. It was precisely this traditional theater, in fact, whose clearly delineated identities permitted the action to proceed in an orderly fashion, which was Dada’s bullseye. A traditional character is usually introduced whose individuality gradually takes shape, springing first and most strongly from the character’s given name. Over time, the names of characters from especially memorable texts (often made popular by the biases and consensus that avant-garde playwrights resisted) lodge in the minds of generations afterward—Jesus, Othello, Jane Eyre, Roquentin. In The Gas Heart, however, identity is rejected as an ordering and controlling tool. Tzara uses general, undisguised body parts as names for the play’s characters: Eye, Mouth, Nose, Ear, Neck, and Eyebrow; Tzara thus deconstitutes customary dramaturgical organization and reconstitutes a spontaneous, revolution/riot-type (mob formation) anonymity. They are part of a whole naturally; each body part cannot separate itself from the others, just as the nose for instance, cannot be removed from an actual body. Onstage, the parts are unpredictable in action and speech, yet they all blend together—few semiotic traits distinguish them. They jockey for position above their squirming audience, anesthetizing the hall with ravings and gibbering. Finally, they attack their prey with shouted monosyllables and a command of subordination in the end. As body parts, the characters analogize the authorial point that all stage members contribute to the dramatic performance, codependent on one another. Tzara’s stage ‘‘body’’ stews together in a way similar to the revolutionary

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‘‘body’’ as described by Menenius in Shakespeare’s Tragedy of Coriolanus. In Coriolanus (1, i. 96–155) the revolutionary crowds that take up arms against the despot are described in an analogy as ‘‘mutinous members’’ against a benevolent ‘‘belly,’’ the organ that ‘‘feeds’’ all in the kingdom. In Tzara’s play, the revolutionary mob7 as ‘‘body’’ and stage performers as ‘‘body,’’ stir and diffuse similarly. Both ‘‘bodies,’’ contingent in their varied grievances, move against their respective oppressive powers. In the case of the anarchist swarm, the oppressive power is the tyranny of masters. The oppressive power in the case of Tzara’s stage is stale tradition and an audience that had long become too comfortable with theater as entertainment. Tzara mocks the audience as the complementary brain which finalizes the play’s anatomy; the brain rests dormant in the faint and numb collective awareness of the spectators, another bodily device, but one which the other parts loathe. Language and anonymity are the weapons leveled at the spectator-enemy. When Tzara removed personalities and names, real characters, from the stage, he undermined the expectations of every viewer; a veritable bomb was thrown into the seats from the theater wings. In the play itself, there are a few identifiable semiotic strategies that undermine the traditional dramatic text. The beginning lines, for instance, are two separate collocations of words that illustrate a class structure of haves (‘‘statues jewels roasts’’) and have-nots (‘‘cigar pimple nose’’). The first assemblage is made of items which the cultured (and assuredly, the uncultured) would recognize as things associated with the affluent bourgeois, those who parade expensive jewelry while discussing high art over dinner. An accompanying line to this first assemblage, ‘‘and the wind open to mathematical allusions,’’ (133) is a reference to the sort of strategically dropped cocktail chat that reinforces class convictions and apprehensions in western pedagogy— the cultured are those educated who are chosen to lead and who prefer to let it be known. The second assemblage is just as revelatory. Here, the emblems of ‘‘cigar pimple nose’’ are common, even dull, just as its attending statement, ‘‘he was in love with a stenographer,’’ points to the dullest of professions. However, an analysis of class distinction with regard to the opening lines of the drama makes little sense without the lines which follow the assemblages: eyes replaced by motionless navels mister mygod is an excellent journalist inflexible yet acquatic [sic] a good morning was drifting in the air what a sad season.

Though at first glance it appears as if the lines are merely capricious, Tzara is fighting the rationality of a world caught up in its own indifference and vanity, ‘‘fragmentation and decomposition.’’8 It is ‘‘a sad season’’ indeed when ‘‘eyes’’ are as sightless as ‘‘navels,’’ people are satisfied with their gods and an ‘‘inflexible,’’ dank morning, spread over the region like a wet towel, is a ‘‘good morning.’’ This disillusionment translates into further ludicrousness when the other body parts listening in on Eye’s monologue comment upon the ‘‘lagging’’ quality

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of such considerations. It would seem as if the pandemonium of words is blithely overlooked by all present; the musical anarchy of Eye’s compression of words seems lost on the listeners (133–34). Yet hidden in the habitual conversation between these parts to the whole is a real politics of interference. Eyebrow notes that ‘‘Justice’’ becomes a ‘‘regular functioning’’ monument likened to a ‘‘nervous tic or a religion’’ (136). In essence, the concepts of fairness and equity in a world gone mad with domination and battle-lust are taken for granted or totally overlooked and lose their power. The point is well made by the character that ‘‘says’’ a lot without the use of words; an Eyebrow’s position on the face ‘‘speaks’’ volumes in context—a furrowed, worried brow has enormous power. A correctly positioned Eyebrow can even seduce or alarm or both. Eyebrow acidly grieves over capital J, ‘‘Justice,’’ a monolith encased in stone that passersby hardly notice. But it is Eye who acutely reminds Eyebrow et al. that the passerby, in the ‘‘regularity of his life,’’ will experience ‘‘a little death, too’’ (136). No doubt a double meaning here, but at least one meaning is that Eye warns an unconcerned and listless audience to question its role as spectators of a greater, abominably absurd drama, whose gunpowder special-FX hang all about them. ‘‘Have you felt the horrors of the war? [ . . . ] Don’t you speak the same language [as I do]? [ . . . ] What . . . prevents my words from penetrating the wax of your brain?’’ (140); ‘‘regularity . . . continuity’’ stuns the mind, but this most irregular play demands of its watchers to wake up and speak out. We the spectators must practice giving ‘‘abortive birth to our obscurities’’ (regularity!) more than just ‘‘once a day,’’ says Eyebrow. Eye supports this call to purge regulatory ‘‘obscurities’’ (regularity!) by again reminding spectators that ‘‘time is lacking no longer.’’ The war has ‘‘compressed’’ time, a little of it goes a long way, and though ‘‘the eye is weak,’’ it is not yet closed (137). Something must be done: counteraction! Love is both the key to unlocking one problem and the revelation of another for the characters. Ear declares, ‘‘It’s spring it’s spring,’’ the traditional season of love, and a quarrel between Nose and Neck begins. ‘‘I tell you it’s two yards,’’ says Nose, while Neck counters, ‘‘I tell you it’s three yards,’’ and on they argue for several turns. Eye cuts off the pair and informs the audience as to what ‘‘it’’ is in their race. ‘‘Love,’’ like ‘‘Justice,’’ is a crisis whose regular evocation, ‘‘accumulated by centuries,’’ reduces its sovereignty and quality to ‘‘a nervous tic of shifting sand dunes.’’ Love is a ‘‘hair-do [ . . . ] on the flail,’’ something which appears ‘‘outwardly new’’ but whose erratic, fickle treatment changes its face with the hour. In the end, it is little more than an ‘‘error’’ (141–42). Neck and Nose once more pick up the quarrel, with love being ‘‘seventeen yards [ . . . ] eighteen yards [ . . . ] nineteen yards,’’ and so on. Soon the race ends at twenty-nine yards, mired down by the greater and greater distance from where it began running from ‘‘Love.’’ The second act ends and soon the final act begins. In the third act, love is revived long enough to show how explicitly vacuous it is through the Mouth. After declaring its love for a modest list of inane items (‘‘cats, birds, animals and vegetables [ . . . ] bedding, vases and meadows’’), none of which are capable of equaling and returning such love, Mouth concludes that these things are only ‘‘dreams’’ which ‘‘dampen the evening,’’ dreams which

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are more oppressive than inspir[ing] because of their pedestrian tangibility. More frustrated than ever, Mouth exits the stage area once more (143). The other characters then mock Mouth’s sentimentality by alluding that love is an ‘‘illusion’’ and a ‘‘prize horse’’ that ‘‘has lost its energy,’’ a revving chatter to prepare the way for the coming denouement. It is Eye that speaks again and unveils the true power in which love erroneously wraps itself—lust. With Eye’s brief monologue, love is mutated: for Clytemnestra, Eye’s ‘‘blood trembles [ . . . ] cells awaiting’’ her, ‘‘the violence of [his] breath’’ imparts his anticipation of the ‘‘sweet childish possibilities’’—what ‘‘further sensational revelations’’ does she need? If love is the docile, grown up form of expressive communication between sexual creatures, then Eye demands a return to the ‘‘childish possibilities’’ of lust (144). This is an anarchy against both adulthood’s unfair tempering of youthful exploration and curiosity and bourgeois Romanticism, an uptight paper tiger of robotic, social persecution attempting to disguise natural, promiscuous, animal lust. Tzara as playwright strikes soundly, with steady punches, at false, cramped propriety. Throughout the play and right up to the end, The Gas Heart elevates the realm of pointless verbiage. The body parts who are our characters take turns at resistance in highly stylized and antisymbolic philosophizing which always leads back to the prevalent feeling of ‘‘lag’’ that they all share. The exception to this rule is the case of Mouth. Throughout the text, it is Mouth who constantly exits, each time following a particularly senseless speech by another. During an early exchange with Eye, both Mouth and Eye take turns repeating a question: ‘‘The conversation is lagging, isn’t it? [ . . . ] Yes, isn’t it? [ . . . ] Obviously, isn’t it?’’ (133– 34). This very blunt, barren repartee fixes the limits of lingual/linguistic operation for Mouth. Anything outside of vacant chitchat, Mouth considers too alien and complex. Language, perhaps, is extremely important to Mouth; Mouth is ‘‘too sensitive’’ to language’s use, dislikes the diffuse anarchy of others, and thus constantly ‘‘shuts off’’ and exits. The disorder of catcalls and clamor does not affect this character. Intense, hard-boiled babble, the undoing of language, does. Each time Mouth speaks, the audience’s attention is drawn to the striking difference between its thoughts and those of the others. ‘‘It gets warm in the summer’’ (135), ‘‘let’s not forget the camera’’ (138), ‘‘I’ve made a great deal of money’’ (139), and ‘‘I’ll be on my ship by next Monday’’ (139) are all examples of simple, complete thoughts and sentences Mouth uses to counteract and combat the convoluted, surrounding inanity. In reality, a mouth (Mouth) is the mechanism of language; communication is the mouth’s function: ‘‘Thought is made in the mouth,’’ as Tzara ruminates.9 From the mouth, language distinguishes the authentic self and separates the speaker in the minds of those around us, people we know and meet. In the play, Mouth resists the others in hopes of grounding, controlling, and restraining language. The others can feel the difference between themselves and Mouth; ‘‘Everybody knows you,’’ they take turns jeering at Mouth (143). The question then arises, Is Mouth the anarchist of the play in opposition to the babbling concord of Eye, Ear, Nose, Neck, and Eyebrow? Or is Mouth the Simon

Legree bad guy skeptically calling into question the neological experiments of the accompanying black pennies? Again, it doesn’t matter, as Mouth concedes, ‘‘I don’t mean to say anything,’’ sporadically slipping into its own brief, unintelligible drivel before finally alienating itself, ‘‘alone’’ and ‘‘blank’’ with its simple thoughts: ‘‘I love birds [ . . . ] I love cats [ . . . ] I love hay.’’ The lawlessness of empty and jumbled chatter reigns in the end. ‘‘[A] lovely marriage’’ of repudiatory, cynical absurdity marks and terminates the previous disorder in the final commands of the remaining rebel characters: ‘‘Go lie down’’ (146).

Select Bibliography on Tzara Bay-Cheng, Sarah. ‘‘Translation, Typography, and the Avant-Garde’s Impossible Text.’’ Theatre Journal 59.3 (2007): 467–83. Garner, Stanton B. ‘‘The Gas Heart: Disfigurement and the Dada Body.’’ Modern Drama 50.4 (2007): 500–16. See Benedikt and Wellwarth, Modern French Theatre; Berghaus, ‘‘Dada Theatre’’; Bigsby; Erickson; Esslin, The Theatre of the Absurd; Gordon, Dada Performance; Hedges; Matthews, Theatre in Dada and Surrealism; Melzer; and Pronko, Avant-Garde, in the General Bibliography.

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1. Martin Esslin states this a little differently: ‘‘the destruction of art,’’ 364 in The Theatre of the Absurd, 3rd ed. (London, 1980). 2. Esslin, 365–66. 3. Greil Marcus, Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 1984), 195. 4. Hugo Ball, quoted in Esslin, Theatre of the Absurd, 365. 5. Esslin, 366. 6. Tristan Tzara, The Gas Heart, in Modern French Theatre: An Anthology of Plays, trans. and ed. Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth (New York, 1964), 133. Subsequent page references appear parenthetically in the text. 7. Or perhaps, disgruntled masses, or even Leo Tolstoy’s ‘‘freely flying swarm,’’ quoted in Michael Ossar, Anarchism in the Dramas of Ernst Toller (Albany, N.Y.: 1980), 24. 8. Gordon Frederick Browning, Tristan Tzara: The Genesis of the Dada Poem, or from Dada to Aa, 56 (Stuttgart, 1979), 11. 9. Richard Huelsenbeck, Memoirs of a Dada Drummer, ed. H. Kleinschmidt (New York, 1969), 35.

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Notes

The Gas Heart Tristan Tzara

characters eye mouth nose ear neck eyebrow ACT I Neck stands downstage, Nose opposite, confronting the audience. All the other characters enter and leave as they please. The gas heart walks slowly around, circulating widely; it is the only and greatest three-act hoax of the century; it will satisfy only industrialized imbeciles who believe in the existence of men of genius. Actors are requested to give this play the attention due a masterpiece such as Macbeth or Chantecler, but to treat the author—who is not a genius— with no respect and to note the levity of the script, which brings no technical innovation to the theater. eye: Statues jewels roasts statues jewels roasts statues jewels roasts statues jewels roasts Reprinted from Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada, and Surrealism; An Anthology of Plays, ed. Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth; trans. Michael Benedikt (New York: Dutton, 1964), 131–46.

statues jewels roasts and the wind open to mathematical allusions

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eyes replaced by motionless navels mister mygod is an excellent journalist inflexible yet aquatic a good-morning was drifting in the air what a sad season mouth: The conversation is lagging isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it. mouth: Very lagging, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? mouth: Naturally, isn’t it? eye: Obviously, isn’t it? mouth: Lagging, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? mouth: Obviously, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? mouth: Very lagging, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? mouth: Naturally, isn’t it? eye: Obviously, isn’t it? mouth: Lagging, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? mouth: Obviously, isn’t it? eye: Yes, isn’t it? nose: You over there, man with starred scars, where are you running? ear: I’m running toward happiness I’m burning in the eyes of passing days I swallow jewels I sing in courtyards love has not court nor hunting horn to fish up hard-boiled-egg hearts with Mouth exits. nose: You over there, man with a scream like a fat pearl, what are you eating?

The Gas Heart

cigar pimple nose cigar pimple nose cigar pimple nose cigar pimple nose cigar pimple nose cigar pimple nose he was in love with a stenographer

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ear: Over two years have passed, alas, since I set out on this hunt. But do you see how one can get used to fatigue and how death would be tempted to live, the magnificent emperor’s death proves it, the importance of everything diminishes—every day—a little . . . nose: You over there, man with wounds of chained wool mollusks, man with various pains and pockets full, pieman of all maps and places, where do you come from? eye: The bark of apotheosized trees shadows wormy verse but the rain makes organized poetry’s clock tick. The banks filled with medicated cottonwool. String man supported by blisters like you and like all others. To the porcelain flower play us chastity on your violin, O cherry tree, death is so quick and cooks over the bituminous coal of the trombone capital. nose: Hey you over there, sir . . . ear: Hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey hey neck: Tangerine and white from Spain I’m killing myself Madeleine Madeleine. ear: The eye tells the mouth: open your mouth for the candy of the eye. neck: Tangerine and white from Spain I’m killing myself Madeleine Madeleine. eye: Upon the ear the vaccine of serious pearl flattened to mimosa. ear: Don’t you think it’s getting rather warm? mouth: (who has just come in again): It gets warm in the summer. eye: The beauty of your face is a precision chronometer. neck: Tangerine and white from Spain I’m killing myself Madeleine Madeleine. ear: The watch hand indicates the left ear the right eye the forehead the eyebrow the forehead the eyebrow the left eye the left ear the lips the chin the neck. eye: Clytemnestra, the diplomat’s wife, was looking out the window. The cellists go by in a carriage of Chinese tea, biting the air and openhearted caresses. You are beautiful, Clytemnestra, the crystal of your skin awakens our sexual curiosity. You are as tender and as calm as two yards of white silk. Clytemnestra, my teeth chatter. I’m cold, I’m afraid. I’m green I’m flower I’m gasometer I’m afraid. You are married. My teeth chatter. When will you have the pleasure of looking at the lower jaw of the revolver closing in my chalk lung. Hopeless, and without any family. neck: Tangerine and white from Spain I’m killing myself Madeleine Madeleine. mouth: Too sensitive to approval by your good taste I have decided to shut off the faucet. The hot and cold water of my charm will no longer be able to divert the sweet results of your sweat, true love or new love. (Exits.) ear (entering): His neck is narrow but his foot is quite large. He can easily

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drum with his fingers or toes on his oval belly which has already served as a ball several times during rugby. He is not a being because he consists of pieces. Simple men manifest their existences by houses, important men by monuments. nose: How true how true how true how true how true . . . eyebrow: ‘‘Where,’’ ‘‘how much,’’ ‘‘why’’ are monuments. Like, for example, Justice. What beautifully regular functioning, practically a nervous tic or a religion. nose (decrescendo): How true how true how true how true how true . . . eyebrow: In the lake dipped twice in the sky—the bearded sky—a pretty morning was found. The object fleeting between the nostrils. Acidulous taste of weak electric current, this taste which at the entrances to salt mines switches to zinc, to rubber, to cloth—weightless and grimy. One evening—while out walking in the evening—someone found, deep down, a tiny little evening. And it’s name was good evening. nose: How true how true how true how true how true . . . eye: Look out! cried the hero, the two paths of smoke from those enemy houses were knotting a necktie—and it rose overhead to the navel of the light. nose: How true how true how true how true how true . . . ear: Carelessly the robber changed himself into a valise, the physicist might therefore state that the valise stole the robber. The waltz went on continuously—it is continuously which was not going on—it was waltzing— and the lovers were tearing off pieces of it as it passed—on old walls posters are worthless. nose: How true how true how true how true how true . . . eye: They kept catching colds with great regularity. For the regularity of his life a little death, too. Its name was continuity. nose: How true how true how true how true how true . . . eye: Never had a fisherman made more assassinating shadows under the bridges of the city. But suddenly midnight sounded beneath the stamp of a blink and tears mingled in telegrams undecoded and obscure. eyebrow: He flattened out like a bit of tin foil and several drops several memories several leaves testified to the cruelty of an impassioned and actual fauna. Wind the curtain of nothingness shakes—his stomach is full of foreign money. Nothingness drinks nothingness: the air has arrived with its blue eyes, and that is why he goes on taking aspirin all the time. Once a day we give abortive birth to our obscurities. eye: We have the time, alas, time is lacking no longer. Time wears a mustache now like everyone, even women and clean-shaven Americans. Time is compressed—the eye is weak—but it isn’t yet in the miser’s wrinkled purse.

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mouth: Isn’t it? eye: The conversation is lagging, isn’t it? mouth: Yes, isn’t it? eye: Very lagging, isn’t it? mouth: Yes, isn’t it? eye: Naturally, isn’t it? mouth: Obviously, isn’t it? eye: Lagging, isn’t it? mouth: Yes, isn’t it? eye: Very lagging, isn’t it? mouth: Yes, isn’t it? eye: Naturally, isn’t it? mouth: Lagging, isn’t it? eye: Obviously, mygod. curtain ACT II eyebrow: We’re going to the races today. mouth: Let’s not forget the camera. eye: Well, hello. ear: The mechanical battalion of the wrists of shriveled handshakes. Mouth exits. nose (shouts): Clytemnestra is winning! ear: What do you mean you didn’t know that Clytemnestra was a racehorse? eye: Amorous jostlings lead everywhere. But the season is propitious. Take care, dear friends, the season is satisfactory. It chews up words. It distends silences in accordions. Snakes line up everywhere in their polished eyeglasses. And what do you do with the bells of eyes, asked the entrepreneur. ear: ‘‘Seekers and curious people,’’ answered Ear. She finishes the nerves of others in the white porcelain shell. She inflates. nose: Fan having a seizure of wood, light body with enormous laugh. eyebrow: The driving-belts of the mills of dreams brush against the woolen lower jaws of our carnivorous plants. ear: Yes, I know, the dreams with hair. eye: Dreams of angels. ear: Dreams of cloth, paper watches. eye: The enormous and solemn dreams of inaugurations. ear: Of angels in helicopters.

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nose: Yes, I know. eye: The angels of conversation. neck: Yes, I know. ear: Angels in cushions. nose: Yes, I know. eye: Angels in ice. nose: Yes, I know. ear: Angels in local neighborhoods. nose: Yes, I know. ear: The ice is broken, said our fathers to our mothers, in the first springtime of their life, which was both honorable and gracious. eye: This is how the hour understands the hour, the admiral his fleet of words. Winter child the palm of my hand. Mouth enters. mouth: I’ve made a great deal of money. nose: Thank you, not bad. mouth: I swim in the fountain I have necklaces of goldfish. neck: Thank you, not bad. mouth: I’m wearing the latest French coiffure. nose: Thank you, not bad. eye: I’ve already seen it in Paris. neck: Thank you, not bad. mouth: I don’t understand anything about the rumblings of the next war. neck: Thank you, not bad. mouth: And I’m getting thinner every day. nose: Thank you, not bad. mouth: A young man followed me in the street on his bicycle. neck: Thank you, not bad. mouth: I’ll be on my ship next Monday. nose: Thank you, not bad. eye: Clytemnestra, the wind is blowing. The wind is blowing. On the quays of decorated bells. Turn your back cut off the wind. Your eyes are stones because they only see the wind and rain. Clytemnestra. Have you felt the horrors of the war? Do you know how to slide on the sweetness of my speech? Don’t you breathe the same air as I do? Don’t you speak the same language? With what limitless metal are your fingers of misery inlaid? What music filtered by what mysterious curtain prevents my words from penetrating the wax of your brain? Certainly, stone grinds you and bones strike against your muscles, but language chopped into chance slices will never release in you the stream which employs white methods.

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Mouth exits. ear: Doubtless you know the calendars of birds? eye: What? ear: Three hundred and sixty-five birds—every day a bird flies away—every hour a feather falls—every two hours somebody writes a poem—somebody cuts it apart with scissors. nose: I’ve already seen it in Paris. eye: What a philosophy. What a poet. I don’t like poetry. ear: Then you must love cold drinks? Or a countryside that rolls like a dancer’s permanent waves? Or ancient cities? Or the black arts? eye: I know all about that. nose: A little more life on the stage. eyebrow: Gray drum for the flower of your lung. ear: My lung is made out of lung and is not a mere cardboard front, if you really want to know. eye: But, Miss. ear: Please, Sir. eye: Bony sacraments in military prisons painting doesn’t much interest me. I like a quiet countryside with considerable galloping. nose: Your piece is quite charming but you really don’t come away enriched. eyebrow: There’s nothing to be enriched by in it everything is easy to follow and even come away with. An outlet of thought from which a whip will emerge. The whip will be a forget-me-not. The forget-me-not a living inkwell. The inkwell will dress a doll. ear: Your daughter is quite charming. eye: You’re very considerate. ear: Do you care for sports? eye: Yes, this method of communication is very practical. ear: You know of course that I own a garage. eye: Thank you very much. ear: It’s spring it’s spring . . . nose: I tell you it’s two yards. neck: I tell you it’s three yards. nose: I tell you it’s four yards. neck: I tell you it’s five yards. nose: I tell you it’s six yards. neck: I tell you it’s seven yards. nose: I tell you it’s eight yards. neck: I tell you it’s nine yards.

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nose: I tell you it’s ten yards. neck: I tell you it’s eleven yards. nose: I tell you it’s twelve yards. neck: I tell you it’s thirteen yards. nose: I tell you it’s fourteen yards. neck: I tell you it’s fifteen yards. nose: I tell you it’s sixteen yards. ear: Thank you thank you very good. eye: Love—sport or indictment summary of the directories of love—love accumulated by centuries of weights and numbers with its breasts of copper and crystal god is a nervous tic of shifting sand dunes nervous and agile leafs through countrysides and the pockets of onlookers the hair-do of death thrown on the flail outwardly new friendship with error delicately juxtaposed. nose: I tell you love’s seventeen yards. neck: I tell you it’s eighteen yards. nose: I tell you it’s nineteen yards. neck: I tell you it’s twenty yards. nose: I tell you it’s twenty-one yards. neck: I tell you it’s twenty-two yards. nose: I tell you it’s twenty-three yards. neck: I tell you it’s twenty-four yards. nose: I tell you it’s twenty-five yards. neck: I tell you it’s twenty-six yards. nose: I tell you it’s twenty-seven yards. neck: I tell you it’s twenty-eight yards. nose: I tell you it’s twenty-nine yards. ear: You have a very pretty head you ought to have it sculpted you ought to give the grandest of parties to know nature better and to love nature and sink forks into your sculpture the grasses of the ventilators flatter the lovely days. eyebrow: Fire! Fire I think Clytemnestra’s ablaze. curtain

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ACT III neck: The sky is clouded my finger is opened sewing-machine these staring examinations the river is opened the brain clouded sewing-machine these staring examinations. mouth: We will make fine material for the crystal dress with it. nose: You mean to say: ‘‘Despair gives you its explanations regarding its rates of exchange.’’ mouth: I don’t mean to say anything. A long time ago I put everything I had to say into a hatbox. neck: Everybody knows you, installation of conjugal bliss. nose: Everybody knows you, tapestry of forgotten ideas, crystallization. neck: Everybody knows you, formula for a song, running board of algebra, insomnia number, triple-skinned machine. mouth: Everybody does not know me. I am alone here in my wardrobe and the mirror is blank when I look at myself. Also I love the birds at the ends of lit cigarettes. Cats, all animals and all vegetables. I love cats, birds, animals, and vegetables which are the projection of Clytemnestra in the courtyard, bedding, vases, and meadows. I love hay. I love the young man who makes such tender declarations to me and whose spine is ripped asunder in the sun. Dance of the gentleman fallen from a funnel in the ceiling onto the table. mouth: Dreams dampen the evening of stretched hide. (Exits.) eye: Imagine that my dear friend I no longer love him. ear: Which one do you mean? eye: I mean the one I’ve loved too long. ear: Me too, I’ve lost an illusion. The prize horse in my stable has lost his energy. eye: Well then, my dear, his life must be renewed. ear: You’re just bitter. (Exits.) Enter Mouth. eye: Clytemnestra you are beautiful. I love you with the intensity of a diver . . . his seaweeds. My blood trembles. Your eyes are blue. Why can’t you hear, Clytemnestra, the quiet laughter of my cells awaiting you, the violence of my breath and the sweet childish possibilities fate has in store for us? Are you perhaps awaiting further sensational revelations regarding my temperament? Exit Mouth. Eye falls to the stage.

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nose: Huge. neck: Fixed. nose: Cruel. neck: Broad. nose: Small. neck: Short. nose: Shrill. neck: Feeble. nose: Magnificent. neck: Long. nose: Narrow. neck: Strong. nose: Sensitive. neck: Fat. nose: High. neck: Slim. nose: Trembling. neck: Fine. nose: Clear. neck: Courageous. nose: Thin. neck: Obscure. nose: Timid. neck: Pretty. nose: White. neck: Flexible. nose: Deep. neck: Nasty. nose: Ugly. neck: Heavy. nose: Low. neck: Black. nose: Superficial. neck: Scentless. nose: Harmonious. neck: Smooth. nose: Rigid. neck: Tangerine and white from Spain I’m killing myself Madeleine Madeleine.

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ear (entering with Mouth, who crawls on all fours, and shouting): Clytemnestra, racehorse: 3,000 francs Going once! Going twice!! Going thrice!!! ☞ Gone! Eye goes up to Mouth, on all fours. ear: This will end with a lovely marriage. eye: This will end with a lovely marriage. eyebrow: This will end with a lovely marriage. mouth: This will end with a lovely marriage. neck: This will end with a lovely marriage. nose: This will end with a lovely marriage. ear: Go lie down. eye: Go lie down. eyebrow: Go lie down. mouth: Go lie down. neck: Go lie down. nose: Go lie down. finis

Dada Manifesto, 1918 Tristan Tzara

The magic of a word—Dada—which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us. To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3, to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big abcs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing— hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluffmadonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m’enfoutisme; it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause. But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the Impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary Reprinted from The Dada Painters and Poets: An Anthology, ed. Robert Motherwell; trans. Ralph Manheim (New York: George Wittenborn, 1951; reissued 1967), 76–82.

actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense. Dada—there you have a word that leads ideas to the hunt: every bourgeois is a little dramatist, he invents all sorts of speeches instead of putting the characters suitable to the quality of his intelligence, chrysalises, on chairs, seeks causes or aims (according to the psychoanalytic method he practices) to cement his plot, a story that speaks and defines itself. Every spectator is a plotter if he tries to explain a word: (to know!) Safe in the cottony refuge of serpentine complications, he manipulates his instincts. Hence the mishaps of conjugal life. To explain: the amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.

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Dada Means Nothing If you find it futile and don’t want to waste your time on a word that means nothing . . . The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: to find its etymological, or at least its historical or psychological origin. We see by the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada. The cube and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: Dada. A hobbyhorse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Dada. Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy jesusescallingthelittlechildren of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism. Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all. Hence, criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind? The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad benevolent wings: shit, animals, days. How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation: man? The principle: ‘‘Love thy neighbor’’ is a hypocrisy. ‘‘Know thyself ’’ is utopian but more acceptable, for it embraces wickedness. No pity. After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself, since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into my river, I oblige no one to follow me, and everybody practices his art in his own way, if he knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms. Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in mangers magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the angels.

1. In 1916 in the Cabaret Voltaire, in Zurich.

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And so Dada1 was born of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough Cubist and Futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies, and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company after riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat. Here we cast anchor in rich ground. Here we have a right to do some proclaiming, for we have known cold shudders and awakenings. Ghosts drunk on energy, we dig the trident into unsuspecting flesh. We are a downpour of maledictions as tropically abundant as vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain are our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is vigor. Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cézanne painted a cup twenty centimeters below his eyes, the Cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side. (I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all.) The Futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the other, and maliciously adds a few force lines. This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment of intellectual capital. The new painter creates a world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionist reproduction) but creates— directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, boulders—locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of monetary sensation. All pictorial or plastic work is useless: let it then be a monstrosity that frightens servile minds, and not sweetening to decorate the refectories of animals in human costume, illustrating the sad fable of mankind. Painting is the art of making two lines geometrically established as parallel meet on a canvas before our eyes in a reality which transposes other conditions and possibilities into a world. This world is not specified or defined in the work, it belongs in its innumerable variations to the spectator. For its creator it is without cause and without theory. Order=disorder; ego=non-ego; affirmation=negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of a cosmic, ordered chaos, eternal in the globule of a second without duration, without breath without control. I love an ancient work for its novelty. It is only contrast that connects us with the past. The writers who teach morality and discuss or improve psychological foundations have, aside from a hidden desire to make money, an absurd view of

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life, which they have classified, cut into sections, channeled: they insist on waving the baton as the categories dance. Their readers snicker and go on: What for? There is a literature that does not reach the voracious masses. It is the work of creators, issued from a real necessity in the author, produced for himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which laws wither away. Every page must explode, either from profound heavy seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the eternal, the crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles or from the way in which it is printed. On the one hand a tottering world in flight, betrothed to the glockenspiel of hell, on the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups. Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks with a mania for improvement. I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are not sentimental. We are a furious wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds and prayers, preparing the great spectacle of disaster, fire, decomposition. We will put an end to mourning and replace tears by sirens screeching from one continent to another. Pavilions of intense joy and widowers with the sadness of poison. Dada is the signboard of abstraction; advertising and business are also elements of poetry. I destroy the drawers of the brain and of social organization: spread demoralization wherever I go and cast my hand from heaven to hell, my eyes from hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel of a universal circus to objective forces and the imagination of every individual. Philosophy is the question: From which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena? Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it. If I cry out: Ideal, ideal, ideal, Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge, Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom,

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intellectual men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in life; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with philters made of chicken manure. With the blue eyeglasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a

Dadaist Spontaneity I call je m’enfoutisme the kind of life in which everyone retains his own conditions, though respecting other individualisms, except when the need arises to defend oneself, in which the two-step becomes national anthem, curiosity shop, a radio [broadcasting] Bach fugues, electric signs and posters for whorehouses, an organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this together physically replacing photography and the universal catechism. active simplicity Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain—(if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as

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dime’s worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease; it puts to sleep the antiobjective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. Dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he has demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility—that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity . . . Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins . . . I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one’s own littleness, to fill the vessel with one’s individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lillies:

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we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one, and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation. Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself; an intelligible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability. When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal [harboring] vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the help of typographical microbes. We have thrown out the crybaby in us. Any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhea. To encourage this act is to digest it. What we need is works that are strong straight precise and forever beyond understanding. Logic is a complication. Logic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, toward illusory ends and centers. Its chains kill, it is an enormous centipede stifling independence. Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous gray entrails. But the suppleness, enthusiasm, even the joy of injustice, this little truth which we practice innocently and which makes us beautiful: we are subtle and our fingers are malleable and slippery as the branches of that sinuous, almost liquid plant; it defines our soul, say the cynics. That too is a point of view; but all flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is our call to antihuman action. I am speaking of a paper flower for the buttonholes of the gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the [cuisine] of grace, white cousins lithe or fat. They traffic with whatever we have selected. The contradiction and unity of poles in a single toss can be the truth. If one absolutely insists on uttering this platitude, the appendix of a libidinous, malodorous morality. Morality creates atrophy like every plague produced by intelligence. The control of morality and logic has afflicted us with impassivity in the presence of policemen—who are the cause of slavery, putrid rats infecting the bowels of the bourgeoisie which have infected the only luminous clean corridors of glass that remained open to artists. Let each man proclaim: There is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished. We must sweep and clean. Affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Without aim or design, without organization: indomitable madness, decomposition. Those who are strong in words or force will survive, for

Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: Dada; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: Dada; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our values: Dada; every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions, and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: Dada; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: Dada: abolition of prophets: Dada; abolition of the future: Dada; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity: Dada; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one’s church of every useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them— with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn’t matter in the least—with the same intensity in the thicket of one’s soul—pure of insects for blood wellborn, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: life

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they are quick in defense, the agility of limbs and sentiments flames on their faceted flanks. Morality has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics. Morality is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men. This task is not ordered by a supernatural force but by the trust of idea brokers and grasping academicians. Sentimentality: at the sight of a group of men quarreling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom. With a sticking of labels the battle of the philosophers was set off (mercantilism, scales, meticulous and petty measures), and for the second time it was understood that pity is a sentiment like diarrhea in relation to the disgust that destroys health, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhea of a putrid sun issued from the factories of philosophical thought, I proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of

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part eight The Theater of Pure Form

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tanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz (1885–1939) worked mainly as a portrait artist in his native Poland after serving as a Russian Imperial Army officer in World War I. Son of a famous painter and writer of the same name, he took the name Witkacy to distinguish his artistic identity from his father’s. Frequently painting under the influence of narcotics, he coded his paintings to indicate what drugs he had taken when working on each one. As a playwright, Witkacy wrote more than thirty works (many now lost) from 1918 to 1939, all based to some extent on his theory of ‘‘pure form.’’ He proposed the replacement of the causal logic of psychological realism with a theater dominated by form, movement, music, and scenic elements, in which ‘‘meaning would be defined only by its purely scenic internal construction.’’1 The purpose of such theater, Witkacy argued, would be to re-create humankind’s primordial feeling of wonder at human existence, the metaphysical sense of the mystery of life. His plays thus stood in direct opposition to what he saw as the dehumanizing influence of technology, science, and mechanization—an idea he explored in The Crazy Locomotive (1923) and Janulka, Daughter of Fizdejko (1923). Although Witkacy aimed to achieve a theater of pure form with such plays as The Cuttlefish (1922) and The Water Hen (1922), he often appropriated traditional dramatic forms, then parodied, distorted, and disrupted them by using fantastically grotesque characters, bizarre nonlinear action, and rapid reversals, moving from mock-philosophical dialogue to melodramatic action, for example. The distinctive qualities of Witkacy’s work are an acute sense of the absurd; a deeply felt philosophy of the tragic isolation of humans in an alien, accidental universe; and a powerful visual imagination that, in its obsession with colors and shapes, evokes dream states and drug-induced hallucinations—all constantly

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undercut by self-mockery that produces jarring dissonances and unresolved discrepancies in tone. Witkacy, who committed suicide immediately after the Nazi and Soviet invasions of Poland in 1939, was not appreciated during his lifetime. Nonetheless, he became an important figure in Polish experimental theater, in addition to the dramatic avant-garde, after Tadeusz Kantor’s 1956 production of The Cuttlefish, which heralded the end of the dominance of socialist realism in Poland. (Kantor’s theater company, Cricot II, expanded on Witkacy’s texts in its seminal productions of his work.) Witkacy’s affinities with Expressionism and Surrealism, as well as with the dramatists of the Theater of the Absurd, particularly Eugène Ionesco and Samuel Beckett, confirm his significance as a writer and theorist of the avantgarde.

Note 1. Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz, ‘‘On a New Type of Play,’’ in The Mother & Other Unsavory Plays, ed. Daniel C. Gerould (New York: Applause, 1993), 234.

The Cuttlefish (1922)

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ritten in 1922 and published the following year in magazine form, The Cuttlefish, or The Hyrcanian Worldview, ‘‘A Play in One Act,’’ was first performed in Cracow at the avantgarde artists’ Theater Cricot in 1933, when its prophetic forecast of the rise of totalitarianism had already come true in Germany, Italy, and Russia. In this interpretation, created largely by painters and musicians, the dictator Hyrcan IV was made up and costumed to look like Hitler in order to stress the timeliness of the work. The Cricot’s Cuttlefish proved to be the last professional production of any of Witkacy’s works during the playwright’s life, which was cut short by rise of Hitler and totalitarianism in 1939. A generation later, however, the same play, presented at a revised version of the same theater, marked the beginning of Witkacy’s triumphal return to the Polish stage. The Cuttlefish was the first of Witkacy’s plays to be performed after World War II. In 1956, at the start of the liberation of the arts from Stalinist controls, the painter Tadeusz Kantor chose the work to open his Cricot II, an experimental theater designed to reestablish the avant-garde in Cracow. This staging of The Cuttlefish helped bring Witkacy to the attention of new generations of playgoers and critics—now receptive to the playwright’s style and vision after dreary years of enforced socialist realism—and became an important step in the rediscovery of the forgotten playwright, who would soon exert a major influence in the formation of the new Polish theater. As a drama about a twentieth-century painter face to face with dictatorship and the tyranny of the body politic, The Cuttlefish has remained perennially fresh and contemporary, equally applicable to conditions under Hitler, Stalin, or any oppressive regime of whatever ideology, country, or historical period. Because its system of allusions is not topical and realistic, but subjective and universal, The Cuttlefish successfully depicts the plight of any artist in the modern world who is buffeted between the conflicting demands of his art and the state, in neither of which he can wholeheartedly believe, because he has lost faith in himself. Written by a nonrealistic painter about a nonrealistic painter, The Cuttlefish is pre-eminently a drama of modern art, conceived in a painterly style. Witkacy composes his play out of shapes and colors, with maximum attention to the pictorial values of his material. The dilemma of the contemporary creator is formulated in the language of images as well as of concepts; form and substance in The Cuttlefish become fused. Witkacy’s portrait of the artist as a casualty of the twentieth century resembles a modern canvas, Cubist or Surrealist, in its shifting perspectives, dream vistas, and hard, impenetrable surfaces. The cast includes a mere ten characters—five major, two minor, and three purely incidental—and there is only one simple setting. The entire drama takes place in the studio where the painter-hero practices his craft and carries on his Excerpted from Daniel Gerould, ‘‘The Cuttlefish (1922),’’ in Witkacy: Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz as an Imaginative Writer (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1981), 185–98. Reprinted by permission of the University of Washington Press.

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argument about existence: it is a mysterious, black-walled room, ornamented with emerald-green designs, which may be viewed as the interior of the artist’s mind. Containing no spectacular stage effects and devoid of violent social upheavals, The Cuttlefish is a dramatic exploration of the cerebral in the process of becoming sensuously tangible. The conceptual finds precise visual equivalents. No play better illustrates Witkacy’s ability to theatricalize the activity of thought—not through the use of personified abstractions and generic types, as in the German Expressionist drama, but rather by means of highly personal and idiosyncratic individual portraits drawn from the playwright’s imagination. The animation of these dramatic portraits in an artist’s studio is done with masterly skill. In The Cuttlefish Witkacy shows new ease and authority in forging anachronistic simultaneity out of three juxtaposed historical epochs—past, present, and future—a difficult dramaturgical feat which he had first attempted, somewhat more schematically, in The New Deliverance. Now the playwright has subtly erased all rigid demarcations between disparate areas of experience, thereby creating a fluid bend or Witkacian ‘‘mishmash,’’ in which the dead come back to life and the inanimate becomes animate. In the enchanted chamber that serves as the setting for The Cuttlefish, a Renaissance pope, a modern artist, and a prospective dictator (of an as yet nonexistent fascist state) join a shapely statue to debate Einstein’s theory and argue the possible relativity of all values in art, politics, and religion. By bringing together such a wildly improbable group in an inexplicable encounter beyond time and space, the playwright is free to develop a preposterous yet exciting exchange of ideas among richly comic disputants in what could be called a Witkacian discussion play. The essential drama in The Cuttlefish unfolds as a dialectical battle, then, between the champions of three different worldviews. Like Richard III in The New Deliverance, Pope Julius II is a visitor from the past, representing the extinct race of mighty aristocrats. Warrior, consolidator of papal power, and patron of such artists as Raphael and Michelangelo, Giuliano della Rovere (1443–1513) is an exemplar of Renaissance greatness. In his combination of strength, cunning, and exquisite taste, the pope is the very opposite of the gray mediocrity now reigning in society. Quite dissimilar is the visitor from the future, Hyrcan IV, who hopes through sheer aggression to become the new strongman. Entirely synthetic and self-fabricated, he is the creator and ruler of the imaginary kingdom of Hyrcania, which takes its name from an ancient legendary domain in Asia Minor, famous for its fierce tigers. Without a name or heritage of his own, the would-be dictator must invent both a country and a worldview to justify his existence. A modern barbarian and vulgar ‘‘slob,’’ Hyrcan totally lacks the cultivated manners and refined intelligence of his Renaissance predecessor. Caught between these two heroes, ancient and modern, is the rootless man of the present, the painter Paul Rockoffer, whose only claim to greatness is that he is an artist. But, as his name indicates, Paul has gone ‘‘off his rocker’’ and become profoundly disturbed because of the crisis in contemporary values that has made art no longer viable as a way of life. The central figure in The Cuttlefish, the half-mad artist must at all costs find a new Weltanschauung, since for him life is possible only as the direct expression of a philosophy. It is his fiancée, Ella, who

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is the play’s cuttlefish, although at first glance it may be difficult to see what she has in common with a ten-armed sea mollusk of the squid family. Like his contemporaries the Dadaists and Surrealists, Witkacy enjoyed giving his plays enigmatic titles, but those the Polish playwright chooses are never arbitrary or without hidden significance. In Witkacy’s lexicon a cuttlefish is any soft and insidious predator that, once having attached itself with sucking tentacles, will not let go; as used by the playwright, then, the term can be applied to capitalism, a demonic woman, or an ordinary overpossessive housewife like Ella. As the drama opens, Paul Rockoffer is first seen from the perspective of eternity, against the black walls of his studio containing a single blood-red window, which becomes mysteriously lighted at irregular intervals. Isolated in the dark void of the soul, the despairing artist can voice his anguish only to a nonexistent deity or to a nonhuman companion, the beautiful statue Alice d’Or, his former love and now a monument of fossilized desire. At the mercy of a world without religious faith or philosophic belief, Rockoffer has been forced to recognize the futility of his art in a mass society that sanctions only the most banal art and ignores or suppresses genuine creativity. In fact, his own works have recently been burned by the government, and his ideas on art are scorned and reviled. At the age of forty-six, Rockoffer has reached a total impasse in his work; he must either commit suicide or make a new life for himself. In a brilliant opening soliloquy, Witkacy establishes the hero’s character as a metaphysical quester racked by self-doubts and ironic afterthoughts, and lays bare the workings of his mind. Rockoffer does not, however, remain alone for long. With the arrival of Ella’s mother to attend her daughter’s wedding, accompanied by another matron, the progressive, nearly mathematical orchestration of The Cuttlefish reaches its full complement and highest point of complexity. Two sudden acts of violence bring the drama to a swift climax and general exodus. Acting out his Hyrcanian desires, the dictator brutally kills Ella with one blow of his sword in response to her hysterical pleas for death at the thought of losing the reluctant Rockoffer. The second matron—a blowsy aging tart—then discloses that she is Hyrcan’s mother. Deeply humiliated at being the son of a whore and—perhaps worse in his fascistic view—of a Jewish father, the ridiculous strongman leaves the stage abruptly, muttering threats. Murder and usurpation result as Rockoffer, too, puts the absolute into effect in life. On the pretext that he did not like the way that Hyrcan talked to his mother, the artist shoots the inept dictator—decorously committing the violence offstage—and returns to proclaim that he is now Hyrcan V. Following his Hyrcanian desires, Rockoffer will prove that the artist alone is qualified to rule. In assuming power in the artificial kingdom of Hyrcania, Rockoffer hopes to create in life what he has failed to create in art. By imparting entirely new meaning to the concept of Hyrcanian desires, he feels that he can succeed where Hyrcan went astray. His Hyrcania will be a creative synthesis of man’s aspirations and knowledge, not the repressive tyranny that his predecessor had envisaged. Rockoffer’s reign as Hyrcan V will be one of enlarged consciousness. His promise to his friends, ‘‘Together, we’ll create pure nonsense in life, not in Art,’’ antici-

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pates the Surrealists’ liberating creed, as expressed by their call for a moment of intense meaninglessness which would reflect and concentrate the absurdity of the world about us, and thus serve to make us more aware of our precarious human condition. Yet there are other, more sinister undercurrents that can be detected in Rockoffer-Hyrcan’s final resolve. In succumbing to the temptation of power and in following [his] Hyrcanian desires, the artist may become a fanatical monomaniac and grow to be an even more dangerous dictator than Hyrcan IV. Thus, on the one hand, Witkacy prophetically senses that in actual practice the role of superman is a fraudulent pose on the part of frustrated weaklings which will be used to justify the worst crimes and lead directly to totalitarian oppression and the destruction of all human values, rather than to any freedom of the spirit. The playwright doubts the possibility of greatness in the modern world and questions the superiority of the self-appointed strongman. Above all, the author of The Cuttlefish finds these Nietzschean delusions of grandeur comic and theatrical. Witkacy’s longings for the absolute are constantly undercut by his own ironic self-doubts and deep feeling for the imperfection and failure inherent in human life. On the other hand, Witkacy adopts wholeheartedly Nietzsche’s hatred of complacent mediocrity, herd instincts, and anthill happiness for all, and he shares the German philosopher’s scorn for liberal mercantile democracy, British empiricism, and egalitarian society so homogenized that absolute values become eroded. Moreover, Witkacy deliberately chooses Zarathustra’s lonely, heroic search for intensity of life over bourgeois practicality and pragmatic calculation of profit and loss, and he experiences a Nietzschean imperative for greatness in an age of boredom and conformity. The playwright sees himself in the role of exceptional individual and artist-aristocrat at odds with the masses and their drudgery and slave mentality. The author of The Cuttlefish regards the artist as the sole champion of metaphysical values, driven to the point of insanity by the uncomprehending mob in his defense of mystery. For Nietzsche, as for Witkacy, madness is the distinguishing mark of genius.

Select Bibliography on Witkiewicz Degler, Janusz. ‘‘Witkacy’s Theory of Theatre.’’ Russian Literature 22.2 (1987): 139–56. Dorczak, Anita. ‘‘S. I. Witkiewicz as an Avant-Garde Writer.’’ Australian Slavonic and East European Studies 4.1–2 (1990): 69–89. Dukore, Bernard. ‘‘Spherical Tragedies and Comedies with Corpses: Witkacian Tragicomedy.’’ Modern Drama 18 (1975): 291–315. Folcjewski, Zbigniew. ‘‘The Cubist Factor in Witkacy’s Theater of Pure Form.’’ Etudes sur le Futurisme et les Avant-Gardes 1.1 (Jan. 1990): 3–13. Polish Review 18 (1973): ‘‘Witkiewicz Issue.’’ See also Gerould, Twentieth-Century Polish Avant-Garde Drama; Kiebuzinska; and Kott, in the General Bibliography.

The Cuttlefish, or The Hyrcanian Worldview Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz Motto: Don’t give in even to yourself.

characters paul rockoffer, forty-six years old, but looks younger (his age becomes clear during the course of the action). Fair-haired. In deep mourning. the statue alice d’or, twenty-eight years old. A blonde. Dressed in a tightfitting sheath resembling alligator skin. the king of hyrcania,1 Hyrcan IV. Tall, thin. Vandyke beard, large mustache. A bit snub-nosed. Large eyebrows and longish hair. Purple cloak and helmet with a red plume. A sword in his hand. Under his cloak a golden garment. (What he has on under that will be revealed later on.) ella, eighteen years old. Chestnut hair. Pretty. two old gentlemen, in frock coats and top hats. They can be dressed in the style of the thirties.2 two matrons, dressed in violet. One of them is Ella’s mother. grumpus, the footman. Gray livery coat with large silver buttons and gray top hat. julius ii,3 sixteenth-century Pope. Dressed as in the portrait by Titian. Reprinted from A Treasury of the Theatre, 4th ed., vol. 2, ed. John Gassner and Bernard F. Dukore; trans. Daniel C. and Eleanor S. Gerould (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1970), 626–37. 1. Hyrcania, on the Caspian Sea, was a province of the ancient Persian empire. The Hyrcanian tiger, noted for its ferocity, is mentioned by Pliny, Vergil, and Shakespeare. 2. Sic. The Cuttlefish was written in 1922! 3. Giuliano della Rovera (1445–1513) was elected Pope in 1503. A patron of the arts, he commissioned Michaelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

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The stage represents a room with black walls with narrow emerald green designs. A little to the right on the wall in the center of the stage is a window covered with a red curtain. In places marked (—) a light behind the curtain goes on with a bloody glow, in places marked (+) it goes out. A little to the left, a black rectangular pedestal without ornamentation. Alice d’Or lies on her stomach on the pedestal, leaning on her arms. Paul Rockoffer paces back and forth, clutching his head in his hands. An armchair to the left of the pedestal. Another one closer to the center of the stage. Doors to the right and to the left. rockoffer: Oh, God, God—in vain I call Your name, since I really don’t believe in You. But I’ve got to call someone. I’ve wasted my life. Two wives, working like a madman—who knows why—after all, my ideas aren’t officially recognized, and the remains of my paintings were destroyed yesterday, by order of the head of the Council for the Production of Handmade Crap. I’m all alone. statue: [Without moving; her head in her hands] You have me. rockoffer: So what? I’d rather I didn’t. All you do is remind me that there’s something else. But in yourself you’re just a poor substitute for what’s really important. statue: I remind you of the further road which opens before you in the wilderness. All the fortune-tellers have predicted that you’ll devote yourself to Occult Knowledge in your old age. rockoffer: [With a contemptuous wave of his hand] Oh! I’m absolutely incorrigible in maintaining a perpetual grudge against poor humanity, and I can’t find a single drop of healing medicine. I’m like a useless, barren pang of conscience, from which not even the meagerest bud of hope for improvement can blossom. statue: You’re a far cry from real tragedy! rockoffer: That’s because my passions aren’t too strong. The life I’ve wasted escapes hopelessly into the gray distance of my past. Is there anything more horrible than the gray past which we still have to keep on digesting over and over again? statue: Think how many women you could still have, how many nameless mornings, softly gliding through the mysteries of noontime, then finally how many evenings you could spend in strange conversations with women marveling at your downfall. rockoffer: Don’t talk to me about that. Don’t rip open the innermost core of strangeness. All that is closed—forever closed, because of boredom: galloping, raging boredom. statue: [With pity] How trite you are . . . rockoffer: Show me someone who isn’t trite, and I’ll let my throat be cut as a sacrifice on that person’s altar. statue: Me.

4. The ‘‘hierarchy of Beings’’ probably comes from the work of the German philosopher and biologist Ernest Haeckel (1834–1919), who popularized Darwinism and traced the chain of being from one-celled creatures to man.

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rockoffer: A woman—or rather the personification of everything impossible about women. Life’s unrealizable promises. statue: At least be glad you exist at all. Just think—even prisoners serving life sentences are glad of the gift of life. rockoffer: What’s that got to do with me? Should I be happy just because right now I’m not impaled on a lonely mound in the middle of the steppes or because I’m not a sewer cleaner? Don’t you really know who I am? statue: I know you’re funny. You wouldn’t be, if you could fall in love with me. Then you’d grasp your mission right here on this planet, you’d be a unique personality, itself and only itself—just that one, and no one else . . . rockoffer: [Uneasily] So you recognize that there’s an absolute, I repeat, an absolute hierarchy of Beings,4 do you? statue: [Laughing] Yes and no—it depends. rockoffer: Tell me what your criteria are, I humbly beseech you. statue: You’ve given yourself away. You’re neither a philosopher nor an artist. rockoffer: Oh, so you’ve had your doubts about that anyhow. No, I’m not. statue: [Laughing] Then you’re just an ambitious nobody, aren’t you? Despite everything, for them you’re a genius at creating new metaphysical shocks. rockoffer: I’m pretending—just pretending because I’m bored. I know it’s not even decent—it’s not decent to pretend. statue: Still, you’ve got something in you that goes way beyond anything my other lovers had. But unless you love me, you won’t get one step further. rockoffer: Stop talking about those eternal lovers of yours that you’re always bragging about. I know you have influence in real life and that through you I could become who the hell knows what. But somebody real, not just somebody in my own eyes . . . statue: You’re exaggerating: greatness is relative. rockoffer: Now I’m going to tell you something: you’re trite; worse—you’re thoughtful; still a hundred times worse—you’re basically good. statue: [Upset ] You’re wrong . . . I’m not good at all. [Suddenly in another tone] But I love you! [She stretches out toward him.] rockoffer: [Staring at her] What? [Pause] That’s true, and that’s why it doesn’t matter to me. The light of the Sole Mystery has been extinguished for me . . . [—] [A knock at the right; the Statue assumes her former pose.] and its unfathomableness . . . statue: [Impatiently] Quiet—the Pope’s coming.

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rockoffer: [In another tone] I beg you, introduce me to the Pope. He’s the only ghost I still feel like talking to . . . [Enter the Pope.] julius ii: Greetings, daughter, and you, my unknown son . . . [Paul kneels. The Pope gives him his slipper to kiss.] Only let’s not talk about Heaven. Alighieri was 100 percent right. Even a child knows that, but I still have to say that the human imagination cannot conceive such happiness. That’s why it was hell that our son Dante portrayed with so much talent.5 I’ll even go so far as to say that Doré’s illustrations6 express quite well the inadequacy of human concepts and the human imagination to portray this kind of, as it were . . . statue: Boredom . . . julius ii: Quiet, daughter. You don’t know what you’re talking about. [Emphatically] This kind of happiness. [ Jokingly] Well, my son: get up and come over here and tell me who you are . . . statue: Holy Father, he’s the great artist and philosopher, Paul Rockoffer. julius ii: [Raising both hands up in horror] So it’s you, is it? You, wretched infidel, who dared reach out for the fruit of the Highest Mysteries? rockoffer: [Proudly, getting up] It is I! julius ii: [With humility, his hands on his stomach] I’m not talking about you as an artist. You’re great. Oh, I was a fierce patron of the arts. [+] Now that’s all over, all over! Yes, I’ve learned to appreciate decadence in art. They don’t understand it, and yet that’s the only way they live themselves. I’m talking about the people of your time. [Indignantly] What a terrible thing—all your paintings burned. My son, eternal reward awaits you in Heaven. statue: In Heaven? Ha, ha, ha. julius ii: [Good-naturedly] Don’t laugh, daughter. Heaven has its good sides too. Nobody suffers there, and that counts for something. rockoffer: I’m a philosopher, Holy Father, but I’ve continued to be a good Catholic, too. I can’t stand that lie any more. julius ii: Yes—you’re a Catholic, maître Paul, but not a Christian. There’s a great difference, a very great difference. And what lies can’t you stand anymore, my son? rockoffer: That I’m pretending as an artist, that is, that I’ve been pretending up to now. All my art is a hoax, a deliberate, carefully planned hoax. julius ii: I’m disregarding the fact that there can be no question of Truth once we start discussing Beauty in the abstract. But that’s what’s so awful, that your art and the art of people like you is the sole Truth. You’ve discovered the last possible consolation, but I’ve got to take it away from 5. Dante Alighieri (1265–1321), in The Divine Comedy. 6. Gustave Doré (1832?–1883), French illustrator and painter.

7. Georges Sorel (1847–1922), French sociologist and theorist of revolution.

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you. [Solemnly] Your art is the sole Truth on earth. I didn’t know you personally, but I do know your paintings very well in marvelous divine reproductions. [Gloomily] That’s the sole Truth. statue: And what about the dogmas of faith? julius ii: [Hurriedly] They’re Truth too, but in another dimension. In earthly terms they’re Truth for our poor understanding. Only there [he points to the ceiling with his finger] their mystery blazes forth in all its fullness before the dazzled intellect of the liberated. rockoffer: [Impatiently] Holy Father, theology isn’t my specialty, and I’d prefer not to talk about philosophy. With Your Holiness’s kind permission, let’s talk about Art. I know I lie, and that’s good enough for me. No one will make me believe that my Art is genuine, not even you, a guest from a genuine Heaven. julius ii: [With his finger pointing toward the ceiling] Up there, where I come from, they know about that better than you do, you miserable speck of dust. But after all, an artist’s worth comes from either rebellion or success. What would Michelangelo have been if it weren’t for me or other patrons of the arts (may God punish them for it). A few madmen eager for new poisons raise up the man who concocts them to the apex of humanity, and then a crowd of nonentities adore him, gaping at the agony and ecstasy of the ones who’ve been poisoned. Isn’t the fact that the Council of the Production of Handmade Crap burned your works a proof of your greatness? statue: You’re beaten, Paul, baby. Bow down before His Holiness’s connoisseurship. [Rockoffer kneels.] rockoffer: Something terrible’s happened. I don’t know any more whether I’m lying or not. And I was the one who knew everything about myself. Holy Father, you’ve taken away my last hope. I’d finally found one thing I was absolutely sure of, and you, you cruel old man, you’ve destroyed even that. julius ii: [To the Statue, pointing at Rockoffer] That’s what comes from pursuing the absolute in life. [To Rockoffer] My son, in life as in philosophy, relativity is the only wisdom. I was a believer in the absolute myself. My God, what respectable person hasn’t been! But those times are over. Now, what all of you fail to realize is that not every biped who’s read Marx or Sorel7 is highest in the earthly hierarchy of Beings, nor do you realize that I, for example, and the rest of you are two different kinds of Beings, and not just varieties of the human species. Only Art, despite decadence, has remained on a high plane. rockoffer: [Getting up, in despair] She tells me the same thing. I’m surrounded by treachery on all sides. I don’t have any enemies. I look for

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them night and day in all the back alleys and only find some sickening jellyish mess, but no opponents worthy of me. Can Your Holiness understand that? julius ii: [Puts his hand on Rockoffer’s head] Who could understand you better, my son? Do you think that history has given me full satisfaction in that respect? Whom do you take me for? Can you suppose that I, Julius della Rovere, was content having as my chief foe that mediocrity Louis XII? [With deep emotion] Oh! Like God without Satan and Satan without God is he who has not acquired an enemy worthy of him. statue: It’s dangerous to base one’s greatness on the negative value of one’s friends. It’s worse than admitting the relativity of Truth. julius ii: [Drawing near her and stroking her under the chin] Oh, you, you cute little dialectician! Who educated you so well, my nice little woman? statue: [Sadly] Unhappy love, Holy Father, and not only that, but for somebody I despise. Nothing can teach us women dialectics so well as the combination I just mentioned. julius ii: [To Rockoffer] Poor maître Paul, how you must have suffered with that précieuse. In my day that type of woman was a little different. They were real titanesses. I myself, my God, even I . . . [Ella runs in from the left. Dressed in a sky blue dress. A man’s straw hat with sky blue ribbons. She has gray gloves and a whole pile of different colored packages in her arms. Grumpus follows after her in a gray servant’s coat and a gray top hat, carrying twice as many packages as she is. Both of them pay absolutely no attention to Alice d’Or.] rockoffer: Help! I forgot, I have a fiancée. ella: [Throwing the packages on top of Grumpus and running up to Rockoffer] My dearest! But you’re happy you have one, now that you’ve remembered she exists. My one and only: look at me. [She cuddles up to him. Grumpus, laden down, stays where he is. Julius II goes over to the left and stands leaning on the base of the Statue.] rockoffer: [Embraces her gently with his right arm and looks straight ahead madly] Wait, I have the impression that I’ve fallen from the fourth floor. I don’t understand myself very well. You know, Mr. della Rovere has just proved that my Art is Truth. I’ve lost the prop for my carefully planned hoax. ella: [Chattering away] I’ll do everything for you. Just rely on me. I’ve fixed up our little apartment divinely. The small sofas have already been covered—you know, the golden material with the tiny rose stripes. And the sideboard is just the most beautiful thing. All the furniture for the dining room is really pretty, but there’s something strange about the sideboard. There’s some sort of dreadful mystery in those faces made out of iron-gray wood. They were done by Zamoyski8 himself. You can keep 8. Jan Zamoyski, a Polish artist and friend of Witkiewicz.

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all your drugs in there. I won’t bother you, I’ll let you do everything you want, only in moderation. [Rockoffer smiles vacantly.] Aren’t you happy? [Ella suddenly grows sad] Mother furnished my boudoir for me herself. Everything’s covered in pink silk with sky blue flowers. rockoffer: [Embraces her with sudden tenderness] But of course—I am happy. My poor little thing . . . [He kisses her on the head.] julius ii: [To the Statue] Look, daughter, how this little bird’s chattering lulls our good docile snake to sleep. ella: [Looking around] Who’s that old man? rockoffer: Don’t you know? It’s Pope Julius II: he’s come straight from Heaven to bless us. ella: [Turning to Julius II] Holy Father . . . [Kneels and kisses his slipper. Grumpus puts the packages on the ground, kneels down too, and kisses the Pope’s other slipper.] Oh, how happy I am! julius ii: [To the Statue] Well, what can you do with such innocence and goodness? [To all those present ] I bless you, my children. I wish you a swift and unexpected death, my little daughter. You’ll be the most beautiful of all the angels whose garlands twine about the throne of the Almighty. rockoffer: [Falling on his knees] Oh, how beautiful this is! I feel that from now on I could start painting like Fra Angelico. All decadence has vanished without a trace. Thank you, Holy Father. julius ii: [To the Statue] See how it’s possible to be a sower of good in this world without even meaning to be. Look at the blissful faces on those two children. Maître Paul has grown at least ten years younger. statue: Not for long, Your Holiness. You don’t realize how quickly time passes for us. Time is relative. You know Einstein’s theory, Holy Father. Transferring the concept of psychological time to physics produced a wonderful flowering of knowledge about the world, an indestructible creation of absolute Truth. [Ella gets up and goes over to Paul, who also gets up. They kiss in ecstasy. Grumpus gets up likewise and looks at them, deeply moved.] julius ii: My, my, my! In Heaven, where we live, no one believes in physics, my child. It’s only a simplified system for all of you to understand phenomena since your brains stopped short at the frontier beyond which the creation of metaphysics is possible. Every step in the hierarchy of Beings has its own boundary. Human philosophy has got itself all bottled up. The coefficient of all knowledge is infinite only within each boundary. But what about what’s happening on the planets of Aldebaran! Ho, ho! They know their ‘‘Einstein’’ there too, but they’ve known how to place him in his proper sphere. statue: [Anxiously] And so the world really has no bounds? julius ii: Of course not, my child.

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statue: Then even you, Holy Father, won’t live eternally? And what about Heaven? julius ii: Heaven is only a symbol. You people must accept the theory of diverse bodies united in a single individual. But the number of these bodies is limited. Eventually we’ll all die for good. The sole mystery is God. [He points to the ceiling. (—)] statue: Ah! [She falls down on the pedestal. Julius II sits on the chair on the left side.] ella: [Drawing away from Rockoffer] What’s that? I heard a voice inside me saying something about eternal death. [+] rockoffer: [Pointing to the prone Alice d’Or] That statue said it. It just passed out. It’s a symbol of the past which I sacrificed for you. ella: [Astounded] But there’s nobody there! rockoffer: Didn’t you hear how His Holiness was philosophizing with it? ella: Paul, stop joking. The Holy Father was talking to himself. Don’t stare so blankly: I’m afraid. Tell me the truth. rockoffer: You wouldn’t understand anyhow, my child. Let’s not talk about it. julius ii: Yes, daughter, maître Paul is right. A good wife shouldn’t know too much about her husband. Within certain limits, a husband should be a mystery. ella: I have to know everything. You’re torturing me, Paul. Our little apartment, which made me so happy, is beginning to terrify me in this vision of the future you and the Pope have created together. A kind of shadow has fallen on my heart. I want my mother. rockoffer: [Embracing her] Quiet, little girl. I’ve begun to believe in my future. I’m returning to Art and I’ll be happy. We’ll both be happy. I’ll start painting again calmly, without any orgies with form, and I’ll end my life as a good Catholic. julius ii: [Bursts out laughing.] Ha, ha, ha! ella: End your life? I’m just beginning it with you. rockoffer: I’m old—you must understand that once and for all. ella: You’re forty-six—I know. But why does your face say something different? Can the soul be so different from the face? rockoffer: [Impatiently] Oh, quit bothering me about my soul. It’s an essence so complicated that I’ve never been able to see myself as a whole. It was only an illusion. Stop thinking about me and accept me as I am. ella: Paul, tell me who you really are. I want to know you. rockoffer: I’m unknowable even to myself. Look at the paintings I’ve already done and you’ll see who I used to be. But if you look at what I’m going to do now, you’ll see what I want to be. The rest is a delusion. ella: And is that what love is?

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rockoffer: Love? Shall I tell you what love is? In the morning I’ll wake you with a kiss. After a morning bath, we’ll drink coffee. Then I’ll go paint, and you’ll read books, which I’ll suggest for you. Then dinner. After dinner, we’ll go for a walk. Then work again. Tea, supper, a little serious discussion, and finally you’ll fall asleep, not too fatigued by sensual pleasures, to conserve strength for the next day. ella: And so, on and on, without end? rockoffer: You mean: to the very end. Such is life for those devoid of absolute desires. We are limited, and Infinity surrounds us. It’s too trite even to talk about. ella: But I want to live! With that hope in mind I’ve fixed up our dear little apartment, I’ve looked after everything. I’ve got to really live. rockoffer: Tell me, please, what is life ‘‘really’’? ella: Now I don’t know anything any more and that terrifies me. rockoffer: Don’t force me to make speeches. I could tell you things, beautiful and horrible, deep and infinitely remote, but it would be just one more lie. statue: [Waking up (—)] A little drama is beginning. Our little Paul has decided to become sincere. ella: I’m hearing that evil voice of a strange being inside me again. [Looking around] That’s funny—I feel that there’s somebody here, but I don’t see anyone except you and the Pope.[+] statue: I am the lady Pope for fallen titans. I teach them the gray wisdom of daily existence. ella: [In fear] Paul—stop hypnotizing me. I’m afraid. rockoffer: Don’t say anything more. I’m beginning to be afraid myself. I don’t even know myself how I know that person. ella: What person? Oh, my God, my God—I’ll die of fright. I’m afraid of you. Holy Father—save me. You’ve come from Heaven. julius ii: [Getting up, speaking with cruelty] How do you know that Heaven isn’t a symbol for the most awful renunciation?—renouncing one’s real personality. I’m a shadow, just as she is. [He points to the Statue.] ella: But there isn’t anyone there, is there? Take pity on me, Holy Father. All this affects me like a bad dream. julius ii: Dream on, my child. Maybe this moment of terror is the most beautiful in your whole life. Oh, how I envy all of you. [Ella covers her face with her hands.] rockoffer: A strange force is entering me again. Ella—I can’t conquer decadence with you. ella: [Without uncovering her face] Now I understand you at last. I’ve either got to die for you or stop loving you. [Uncovers her face.] I love you now that I see how you’re descending into the abyss. This is my real life.

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statue: That little virgin’s making progress like crazy. Now I’ll never get you back again, Paul, honey. ella: That voice again. But I’m not afraid of anything now. It’s already happened. My fate’s already sealed somewhere. And the sooner the better, Paul. Now I won’t go back to mother. I’ll stay with you now. julius ii: Don’t be in such a hurry, daughter. You’ve already entered on the right path. But it doesn’t mean you’ve got to be in quite such a hurry. rockoffer: Holy Father, the speed of my transformations terrifies me too. In a moment I may become a statesman, an inventor, who the hell knows what. Whole new layers have shifted in my head like an avalanche. julius ii: Wait—I hear footsteps in the hallway downstairs. I have a rendezvous with King Hyrcan today. rockoffer: What? Hyrcan IV? Is he still alive? You know, he was a classmate of mine at school. He was always dreaming about an artificial kingdom in the old style. julius ii: And he created it. I guess you don’t ever read the newspapers. [He listens.] That’s him—I recognize his powerful, commanding footsteps. [Suspense] ella: But is he real or is he something like Your Highness? julius ii: [Outraged] Something like! You’re taking too many liberties, my daughter. ella: I’m not afraid of anything now. julius ii: You’ve already died—you have nothing to fear. ella: Nonsense. I’m alive and I’ll create a completely normal life for Paul. He’ll fall slowly, creating wonderful things. I’m not at all as innocent and stupid as all of you think. I’ve got a little venom in me too . . . [—] [From the right, enter Hyrcan IV in a purple coat which comes down to the ground. He has a helmet on his head with a red plume. A huge sword in his hand.] hyrcan iv: Good evening. How are you, Rockoffer? You weren’t expecting me today. I’ve heard you’re getting married.—It’ll never work. [Kneels quickly in front of the Pope and kisses his slipper; getting up] I’m glad to see His Holiness is in good health. Heaven agrees with him very well. [Approaches the Statue.] How are you doing, Alice—Alice d’Or, isn’t it? Remember our orgies in that marvelous dive—what was it called? [He squeezes the Statue’s hand.] statue: Perdition Gardens. [Ella turns around at the sound of her voice.] hyrcan iv: Exactly. ella: [Pointing at the Statue] She was the one who was here! It was her voice I kept hearing as though it was in me. It’s not nice to eavesdrop on our conversation that way!

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statue: It’s not my fault that you didn’t see me, Ella . . . ella: Please don’t call me by my first name. I’m asking you to leave this house. I’m staying here with Paul now. [To Rockoffer] Who is that woman? rockoffer: My former mistress. I’m letting her live in this room. I was a little afraid in this huge house and that’s why . . . ella: You don’t have to justify yourself. From now on I’m going to be here and I’m asking you to get rid of that lady immediately. julius ii: Not so fast, my daughter. You may overreach yourself. ella: I don’t want her here and that’s all there is to it. Paul, did you hear me? [She sits down in the armchair to the left.] rockoffer: Certainly, my dear. That’s no problem. [Goes toward the Statue.] My Alice, we must part. Get down off that pedestal and clear out. This is the end. You’ll get money from my bank. [He pulls out a check book and begins to write. (+)] hyrcan iv: [To Rockoffer] If I may be permitted to ask—who’s that broad? [He indicates Ella.] Is she your new mistress, or is she the fiancée I’ve been hearing about? rockoffer: [He stops writing and remains indecisive.] My fiancée. hyrcan iv: [To Ella] Oh—in that case perhaps you’ll allow me to introduce myself: I’m Hyrcan IV, king of the artificial kingdom of Hyrcania. You’ll be so kind as not to order my friend about, or you’ll find I make short work of things. statue: You talk marvelously, Hyrcan. hyrcan iv: I don’t need your advice either, Alice. I’ll settle things with you too at the proper time. The situation—apart from my kingdom, which is the only really unusual thing—is the tritest in the world: a friend decided to free his friend from women—the ordinary bags, masculettes, and battle-axes who’ve infested him. rockoffer: To prove what? Isn’t your kingdom only a badly disguised form of insanity, my friend? hyrcan iv: You’ll find out soon enough. You’re already suffering from a prison psychosis, living in freedom. Overintellectualized sex combined with fluctuation between decadence and classicism in art. First of all, to hell with art! There’s no such thing as art. julius ii: Excuse me, sire. I won’t allow maître Paul to be made an ordinary pawn in the hands of Your Royal Highness. He’s got to go to pieces in a creative way. ella: I’ve been saying the same thing . . . hyrcan iv: [Speaks to the Pope without paying any attention to what she has said.] He doesn’t have to go to pieces at all. That’s just the way perverse young girls jabber when they sniff for carrion or the way depraved patrons

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of the arts think. Paul won’t go to pieces: he’ll make himself into someone new and different. None of you have any idea what conditions are like in my country. It’s the sole oasis left in the whole world. julius ii: The world is by no means limited to our planet. . . hyrcan iv: Holy Father, I don’t have time to plumb the depths of Your Holiness’s posthumous knowledge. I am a real man, or rather a real superman. I create a reality which is the incarnation of Hyrcanian desires. statue: There’s no such thing as Hyrcanian desires . . . julius ii: [Politely to the Statue] That’s just what I wanted to say. [To Hyrcan] That word doesn’t even exist, it’s just an empty sound without meaning. hyrcan iv: Once I give it a definition, this empty sound will become a concept, and from then on it will exist in the world of ideas for all eternity. julius ii: [Laughing] But only ahead in time, not backward, sire. hyrcan iv: That’s just the point. No behinds for me. I reverse events, and life too only goes ahead, and not backward. rockoffer: You know, Hyrcan, you’re beginning to interest me. hyrcan iv: Experience it—it’s wonderful. Once you experience it, you’ll be so thrilled and have such a sense of power, you’ll go out of your mind. [To the Pope] You see—I call Hyrcanian desire the desire for putting the absolute into effect in life. Only by believing in the absolute and in its realization can we create something in life. julius ii: And what good will that be to anyone? What will come of it? hyrcan iv: That’s senile skepticism, or rather senile doddering. Oh, that’s right—I forgot that Your Holiness is practically six hundred years old. What’ll come of it is that we’ll experience our life on the heights of what’s possible on this damned small globe of ours, and not waste away in a continual compromise with the ever-growing strength of social stickingtogetherness and regimentation. Some consider me an anarchist. I spit on their rancid opinions. I’m creating supermen. Two, or three—that’s enough. The rest is a pulpy mass—cheese for worms. ‘‘Our society is as rotten as a cheese.’’ Who said our society is as rotten as a cheese? julius ii: Never mind about that, sire. I came here for a serious discussion on saving art from a total decline and fall. The fight against so-called pureblaguism.9 It’s finally got to be proved that Pure Blague is impossible. Even God, although he’s all-powerful, wouldn’t really be able to blague anything perfectly and completely. hyrcan iv: Humbug. As I was coming here, I gave some thought to the problem of Art. Art has come to an end and nothing will ever revive it. There isn’t any sense to our discussion. 9. Pure humbug, or pure hoax, was itself a hoax by Witkiewicz. In the early twenties he announced a new theory of art called ‘‘Pur-blaguism’’ and anonymously published a small pamphlet which purported to contain works by various authors in the new pure-blague style.

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julius ii: But, sire, as I see it, Your Royal Highness is a follower of Nietzsche, at least in social questions. Nietzsche himself recognized Art as the most important stimulus for personal power. hyrcan iv: [Threateningly] What? Me a follower of Nietzsche? Please don’t insult me. He was the life philosophy for a bunch of dunderheads willing to drug themselves with absolutely anything. I don’t accept any drugs, and therefore I don’t accept art either. My ideas arose completely independently. I didn’t read any of that trash until after I’d created my country. That’s enough. Our conversation is over. julius ii: All right. But just one more thing: such a formulation of the question, with your goal already in mind, isn’t that Pure Pragmatism? You can believe in the absolute in life or not, but to believe in it as a preconceived theory for experiencing on the heights, as Your Royal Highness put it, this wretched life of ours on our small globe—likewise your expression, my son—is a self-contradiction and a devaluation of Hyrcanian—yes, I repeat Hyrcanian—desires themselves! Ha, ha! hyrcan iv: That’s pure dialectics. Maybe in Heaven it’s worth something. I’m a creator of re-al-i-ty. Understand, Holy Father. And now that’s enough—don’t get me upset. julius ii: Sire, I beg you, just one more question. hyrcan iv: Well? julius ii: How’s religion doing over there in your country? hyrcan iv: Everyone believes whatever he wants. Religion has come to an end too. julius ii: Ho, ho! That’s rich. And he wants to create old-time power without religion. Really, sire, that strikes me as a stupid farce. Look at the most savage tribes, at the aboriginal Arunta or whoever they are. Even they have religion. Without religion there are no countries in the old sense of the word. There can only be an anthill. hyrcan iv: No, no—not an organized anthill, only a great herd of straggling cattle, over which I and my friends hold power. julius ii: But what do you believe in, my son? hyrcan iv: In myself, and that’s good enough for me. But if I ever need to, I’ll believe in anything at all, in any old fetish, in a crocodile, in the Unity of Being, in you, Holy Father, in my own navel, what difference does it make?! Is that clear? julius ii: You, sir, are a combination of a very clever but ordinary bandit and the worst kind of pragmatist. You’re not a king at all, at least not for me. From now on we won’t have anything more to do with each other. [He goes to the left and sinks exhausted into his armchair. Hyrcan stands there looking angry, leaning on his sword.]

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statue: Well, they demolished you, my petty chieftain. The Holy Father is really a first-class dialectician. rockoffer: You know, Hyrcan, actually His Holiness is partly right in all this. Besides, I must point out that the tone of our group deteriorated as soon as you came in. The conversation became downright crude. julius ii: You’re quite right, my son; to talk to slobs you’ve got to talk like a slob. rockoffer: [To Hyrcan] I don’t entirely agree with you in the matter of fundamental principles either. ella: Oh, Paul, then all’s not lost yet. hyrcan iv: [Waking up from his meditation] Yes—I’m a slob, but I’m what I am and there’s no one else like me. Listen to me. I’m talking to all of you as an equal with equals for the last time. Paul—make up your mind. Alexander the Great was a slob too. And anyhow, we have a ruler here with us. You can read about Mr. della Rovere and his doings in any outline of history. julius ii: [Getting up] Shut up! Shut up! rockoffer: [Quietly to Hyrcan] Leave him alone. [Aloud] I won’t allow anyone to insult the Holy Father in my house, not even the King of Hyrcania. julius ii: Thank you, my son. [Sitting down] A pragmatist on the throne! No—this is absolutely unheard of. It’s actually funny. Ha-ha-ha! hyrcan iv: Well, Paul, go ahead. Maybe your objections will be somewhat more to the point. Believe me, I only want your happiness. If you don’t leave with me now for Hyrcania on the eleven o’clock express, you’re through. I won’t come back here again. I’ll break off diplomatic relations and start a series of wars. Digging up and burning down anthills and moronhills. A lovely business. rockoffer: You’ve already done one thing for me. All the little problems I used to be concerned with seem completely insignificant to me now. ella: [Sits in the armchair to the left; suddenly wakes up from her stupefied condition.] And the problem of love, too? rockoffer: Wait a minute, Ella, I’m in a different dimension right now. [To Hyrcan] But I must confess I don’t see greatness on your side either. hyrcan iv: What do you mean? rockoffer: His Holiness used a word that I can’t get out of my head—but you won’t be offended, will you, Hyrcan? hyrcan iv: At you—never. Go ahead. What word? rockoffer: Bandit. You’re actually a petty robber baron, not an important ruler. You’re only great given the extremely low level of civilization in your country. Nowadays, Nietzsche’s superman can’t be anything more than a small-time thug. And those who would have been rulers in the

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past are the artists of our own times. Breeding the superman is the biggest joke I’ve ever heard of. hyrcan iv: You’re talking like a moron. You don’t understand the first thing about my concept of Hyrcanian desires. You’re living your life as an absolutist—that’s a fact. You’re too much either for yourself or for socalled society. You’re a perfect specimen of ‘‘moral insanity,’’ but you’ve got the strength of at least four normal people, according to the standards of our time. rockoffer: Yes, that’s a fact. That’s why I’ve decided to end it all right now by committing suicide. ella: [Getting up] Paul, what’s happening to you? Am I dreaming? statue: He’s right. I never dared tell him that, but it’s the only, really obvious, trite solution. hyrcan iv: Shut up, you broads! One’s worse than the other. [ To Rockoffer] You fool, did I come here from my Hyrcania to see the downfall of my only friend? I’ve already got two strong types. I’ve absolutely got to have a third. You’re the only one who can do it. rockoffer: But what’s a regular work day like in this Hyrcania of yours? What do you really occupy yourselves with there? hyrcan iv: Power—we get drunk on power in all its forms from morning till night. And then we feast in an absolutely devastatingly glorious fashion, discussing everything and viewing everything from the unattainable heights of our reign. rockoffer: A reign over a heap of idiots incapable of organizing themselves. An ordinary military dictatorship. Under favorable conditions a really radical state socialism can do the same thing. hyrcan iv: But what was humanity in the past but a heap of beings, a formless pulpy mass without any organization? In order to hold on to their power, the pseudo-Titans evolved by socialism have to lie. We don’t. Our life is Truth. rockoffer: So it’s a question of Truth. Is Truth also an integral part of the Hyrcanian worldview? hyrcan iv: Of course. But if all humanity wears a mask, the problem of Truth will disappear all by itself. I and my two friends, Count de Plignac and Rupprecht von Blasen, are creating just such a mask. Society masked and we alone who know everything. rockoffer: But isn’t there something of a comedy in it all? You know what’s chiefly discouraged me? Your costume. hyrcan iv: But that’s nothing. I thought you were more impressed by ‘‘scenery,’’ and that’s why I dressed up this way. I can take this fancy stuff off. [He goes on talking as he takes his clothes off. Under his coat he reveals a golden garment. He throws it off and stands in a well-tailored, normal

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cutaway. He takes off his helmet as well. He puts the clothes in the middle of the stage. He continues to hold his sword in his hand.] But you know what greatness consists of ? Attaining isolation. To create such an island of brutalized, bestial spirits amid the sea of regimentation engulfing everything—now, that takes a little more strength than Mr. della Rovere had in the sixteenth century. Not to speak of the Borgias—they were just common clowns. grumpus: Most gracious lord—I’ll go to Hyrcania too. If you’re going to serve, you might as well serve real masters. hyrcan iv: [To Rockoffer] See? That dolt’s recognized my true worth, but you won’t even try to understand me. rockoffer: Wait; my daimon has split in two. It’s an unheard-of event in the history of mankind. I hear two secret voices telling me two parallel truths which will never meet. The contradiction between them is of an infinite order. hyrcan iv: I keep a certain philosopher in my court, one Chwistek10 by name. On the basis of his concept of ‘‘the plurality of realities’’ he’s establishing the systematic relativization of all Truth. He’ll explain the rest to you. He’s a great sage. I’m telling you, Rockoffer, come with me. rockoffer: My conscience as a former artist is growing to the dimensions of an all-encompassing tumor. A new monster feeds on itself. Monsters, till now tormented in cages, have conquered unknown areas of my disintegrating brain. ella: [Getting up] He’s simply gone mad. Most gracious lord, ask whatever you will, but don’t take him away from me. Now that he’s a madman, he’ll create wonderful things as long as he’s with me. rockoffer: You’re mistaken, little girl. I’m clear-headed as never before. Long ago I recognized my madness—for me it was much less interesting than my extremely cold, clear consciousness. [Ella sits down, stunned.] statue: That’s the Truth. Once, when I was with him, he overcame a fit of madness. It was metaphysical madness, of course, but my life was also hanging by a thread. He’s a psychic athlete, and a physical one, too— sometimes. hyrcan iv: Alice, believe me, for him you were only a sort of vinegar in which he preserved himself until my arrival. I’m grateful to you for that. You can come with me to Hyrcania. statue: [Climbing down from the pedestal ] All right—you can make me into the priestess of whatever cult you want. I’m ready for anything. 10. Leon Chwistek (1884–1944), Polish logician, esthetician, mathematician, essayist, painter, and close friend of Witkiewicz. In The Plurality of Realities (1921) he postulated four different kinds of reality which give rise to four different kinds of art.

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julius ii: So you’ve also become a pragmatist, my daughter. I didn’t expect that. statue: But Holy Father, in the depths of your soul aren’t you really a pragmatist, too? julius ii: [Getting up] Perhaps, perhaps. Who’s to say? My worldview is subject to constant transformations. hyrcan iv: To have my concept recognized, I’m even willing to let art disappear from my realm for good. I appoint you patron of the dying arts, Holy Father, on condition that you won’t tempt Paul Rockoffer. He can be an absolutist only in life, not in art. julius ii: All right, all right. I give in. In any case, you’ve opened up new perspectives for me. Just between you and me, you have no idea how madly, hopelessly bored I’ve been in Heaven. Starting today I’m extending my leave for at least three hundred years. [Hyrcan and Rockoffer whisper.] statue: Julius della Rovere, you can count on me: With my dialectics, I’ll make twenty of those three hundred years a delight for you. In the evening, after a tiring day’s work, you’ll tell me all about it and have a really serious talk with a woman who’s both wise and moderately perverse. julius ii: Thanks, daughter. I’m going to Hyrcania. ella: [Getting up] I can’t take any more! This is some ghastly nightmare, all these discussions of yours. I’m not at all good and noble, and I feel as though I’ve been asphyxiated by some hideous poison gas. And besides, all this is boring. You’re tearing my heart apart just as a game, a stupid, boring game. I want to go to Hyrcania, too. When Paul feels unhappy, at least he’ll have me, and I’ll save him. Sire, will Your Royal Highness take me with him? hyrcan iv: Out of the question. Paul must forget his former life. You’ll start tempting him right away to make artistic excuses for why he fell or who the hell knows what. All creative impulses must be stifled in embryo. ella: And how’s it all finally going to end? What then? hyrcan iv: Then, as usual, death takes over, but along with it the feeling that life has been experienced on the heights, and not in the filthy cesspool of society, where there’s art instead of morphine. rockoffer: So you’re opposed to drugs? I can’t get along without them. hyrcan iv: I still approve of the alkaloids, but I have the greatest contempt for all psychic drugs. Aside from the fact that you won’t create anything, you can do whatever you want. [Ella approaches Paul and they whisper.] julius ii: Your Hyrcania, Sire, strikes me as a kind of sanitorium for people sick of society. The way you describe it, of course. Actually it’s the lowest kind of whorehouse for the playboys in life . . .

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hyrcan iv: But they’re absolutists, every one of them—if they don’t manage to get through the wall, at least they leave the bloody marks of a smashed skull on it. That’s where my greatness lies. julius ii: But after all, you could have been a pickpocket, Sire, like the duke in Manon Lescaut. hyrcan iv: I could have been, but I’m not. I’m the king of the last real kingdom on earth. Greatness lies only in what succeeds. If I’d been completely unsuccessful, I’d have only been ridiculous from the very start. julius ii: You still can fall. And then what? hyrcan iv: I’ll fall from a certain height. After all, there’s never been a tyrant who didn’t fall. julius ii: That’s just where the pettiness lies: in the idea of a certain height. hyrcan iv: I can’t fall through Infinity. Even in the world of physics we have finite speed, since there’s nothing beyond the speed of light. Practically speaking, it’s infinite. julius ii: [Ironically] Practically speaking! Pragmatism’s at the bottom of everything. But it doesn’t matter. For the time being, I prefer that to Heaven. hyrcan iv: Rockoffer, did you hear that? No one has ever received a greater compliment. The Holy Father is with us. ella: [Clinging to Paul] Answer me, at least make up your mind. rockoffer: I’m going. It’s always worth abandoning the foreseeable for the unknown. Besides, it’s the basis for the New Art, the art of vile surprises. hyrcan iv: Thanks, but don’t even compare Hyrcanianness and art. Hyrcania must be experienced. rockoffer: The Dadaists said the same thing about Dadaism, until they were all hanged. No—that’s enough. I’m yours. Everything’s so disgusting that there isn’t any stupidity great enough not to be worth sacrificing everything in our lives for it. Let me die, but not in all this petty shabbiness. I had intended to die in Borneo or Sumatra. But I prefer the mystery of becoming to the mystery of staying the same. I’m coming. ella: Paul, I beg you. I won’t bother you. Take me with you. rockoffer: No, child. Let’s not even talk about it. I know your spiritual traps. As a woman, you don’t exist for me at all. ella: Paul, Paul—how cruelly you’re tearing me apart inside! I’ll die. Think of our poor, lonely little apartment, and my unhappy mother. rockoffer: I’m terribly sorry for you. Now I really love you for the first time . . . ella: Paul! Wake up from this hallucination. If you can’t stay, at least let me go to my death and destruction!

11. Bezobrazia, which is Russian for ‘‘disgrace,’’ is a common expression of indignation and outrage.

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hyrcan iv: [Pushing her away from Rockoffer] Lay off him. She’s a cuttlefish, not a woman. Did you hear me? This is the last time I’m telling you this. ella: [Flaring up] Then kill me—I won’t leave him myself. [From the right enter two matrons and two old men elegantly dressed in black.] mother: Ellie, let me introduce you to two of your uncles you don’t know. They’re the ones who are financing your marriage with Paul. Mr. Ropner and Mr. Stolz—my daughter—my daughter’s fiancé, the well-known painter Mr. Paul Rockoffer. [The two old men greet Ella.] rockoffer: First of all, I’m no longer her fiancé, and secondly, in introductions a person’s first name and occupation should never be mentioned, particularly since I’ve changed my occupation. You’ll have to pardon me, Maria, but unknown perspectives are opening up before me. I’ll be something along the line of a cabinet minister in Hyrcania. Hyrcanian desires gratified at last! It would take too much time to try to explain it all at once now. I hardly understand it myself. mother: I can see that. You must be drunk, Paul. Ella, what does this mean? ella: Mama, it’s all come to nothing. He’s not drunk, and he hasn’t gone mad. It’s the most obvious, cold, cruel truth. The king of Hyrcania is taking him with him. He’s stopped being an artist. [The Mother is dumbfounded.] hyrcan iv: Yes, ma’am, and we’ll settle things amicably. I don’t like big scenes in the grand manner when I’m not on my own home ground. I’ll pay you whatever damages you ask. mother: I’m not concerned about money, but about my daughter’s heart. hyrcan iv: Don’t be trite, please. And besides, I’m not just any lord or master, I’m a king. mother: I’ve read about that Hyrcania of yours in the newspapers. It’s the theater critics who write about it. Not one decent politician even wants to hear it mentioned. It’s an ordinary theatrical hoax, that Hyrcania of yours. A depraved and degenerate band of madmen and drunkards took it into their heads to simulate a regime in the old style! You ought to be ashamed, Mister! Hyrcania! It’s simply a disgrace, ‘‘bezobrazia’’ à la manière russe.11 hyrcan iv: [Throwing his sword on the pile of clothes] The old lady’s gone crazy. Be quiet. Rockoffer’s agreed and I’m not going to let any mummified battle-axes get him in their clutches. Let’s go. [Paul remains undecided.] ella: Mama, I won’t live through this. I want to go too.

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mother: What? So you’re against me too? Aren’t you ashamed in front of your uncles you’ve just met? If you keep behaving this way, we won’t get a single cent. Ella, come to your senses. ella: [Clutching her head] I don’t want to live! I can’t! Only I don’t have the courage to die. [To the king] Hyrcan, most poisonous of civilized reptiles, crowned slob, kill me. I want pain and death—I’ve already suffered too much today. mother: Ella, what a way to talk! Who taught you such dreadful expressions? ella: I don’t even know myself. I’m playing a role—I know that—but I’m suffering terribly. [To the king] I beg you—kill me. hyrcan iv: You want me to? That won’t cost me anything. In Hyrcania everything is possible. The absolute in life—can you understand that, you vile dishwashers of plates others licked long ago? rockoffer: Wait—maybe it can all still be settled by a compromise. I can’t stand scenes and rows. Ella will go quietly back to her mother, and I’ll at least leave with a clear conscience. ella: No, no, no—I want to die. mother: Do you want to poison the last days of my old age? And what about our little apartment, and our nice evenings together, just the three of us, and later surrounded by children: yours and Paul’s, my darling grandchildren. ella: Mama, don’t torture me. I’ll poison your life worse if I stay with you than if I die right now at the hands of the king. mother: [In despair] What difference does it make who kills you. You die only once, but my old age will be poisoned to the very end. ella: No—I must die right away. Every minute of life is unbearable anguish. hyrcan iv: Do you mean that seriously, Miss Ella? [—] ella: Yes. I was never so serious. hyrcan iv: All right, then. [He picks up his sword, which is lying on the pile of royal robes, and strikes Ella on the head with it. Ella falls without a groan.] mother: Oh!!! [She falls on Ella’s corpse and remains there until almost the end of the play. Hyrcan stands leaning on his sword. The old men whisper vehemently among themselves. Matron II remains calm. (+)] rockoffer: I’m just beginning to understand what the Hyrcanianness of Hyrcanian desires actually is. Now at last I know what it means to put absolutism into practice in real life. [He clasps Hyrcan’s hands in his.] julius ii: I’ve committed many atrocities, but this pragmatic crime has moved me deeply. I bless you, poor mother, and you, spirit of a maiden pure and lofty beyond all earthly conception. [He blesses the group on Hyrcan’s left.] Well, sire, she lived her life as an absolutist, too—you’ve got to admit that.

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hyrcan iv: Her death has moved me too. I’ve come to recognize a new kind of beauty. I didn’t know that there could be anything quite so unexpected outside of Hyrcania. one of the old men: [Drawing near] Well, all right, gentlemen, but what now? How are we going to settle all this? We understand, or rather we can guess what it’s all about. Actually it’s a trite story, but how can it all be explained and justified? julius ii: Well, gentlemen. I’m a tolerant person, but I can’t stand your company any longer. You understand—I was the Pope. Kiss me quickly on the slipper and clear out, while you’re still in one piece. I can’t stand dull, commonplace thinking masquerading as phony good nature. [The old men kiss his slipper and, crumpling their hats in their hands, go out to the right with astonished faces. Meanwhile, the others continue talking.] hyrcan iv: Paul—go with this flunkey right now and get ready for the trip. The Hyrcania Express leaves in an hour. I’m here incognito and don’t have my special train with me. rockoffer: All right—Grumpus, leave these ladies here and come along. [He and Grumpus pass to the right. Matron II comes up to Hyrcan. Rockoffer and Grumpus stop on the threshold.] matron ii: Hyrcan—don’t you recognize me? I’m your mother. hyrcan iv: I recognized you instantly, Mama, but you’re the one hidden shame in my life. I’d prefer not to apply the Hyrcanian worldview to my own mother. My mother, mother to a king—an ordinary whore! How ghastly! julius ii: And so even you have sacred treasures hidden in the depths of your pragmatic-criminal heart? I didn’t expect that. hyrcan iv: Holy Father—don’t meddle in what’s none of your business. [To Matron II] Mama, I advise you, get out of here and don’t cross my path ever again. You know, I inherited a bloody and violent disposition from my father. matron ii: But couldn’t I be a priestess of love in your country? In olden times the daughters of Syrian princes deliberately offered up their virginity to an unknown stranger for a couple of copper pieces. hyrcan iv: That was in olden times and that made it beautiful. You didn’t get started that way. You were the mistress of our idiotic aristocrats and obese Semitic bankers. I don’t even know whose son I am—me, a king. What a nasty mess. matron ii: Why should you care? All the more credit to you that starting from nothing you’ve raised yourself up to the height of a throne. A ridiculous one, but still a throne. hyrcan iv: Still, I’d prefer to know my genealogy and not get lost in guesswork.

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matron ii: You’re funny. What difference does it make whether you’re Aryan or Semitic or Mongolian? Prince Tseng, ambassador of the Celestial Empire, was one of my lovers, too. Nowadays . . . hyrcan iv: Shut up—don’t get me in a rage! julius ii: Common pragmatic snobism. So even in Hyrcania there are irrelevant issues. Yes—Napoleon was right: recherche de paternité interdite. statue: Ha, ha, ha! Hyrcan and the mother problem, that’s a good one! hyrcan iv: I’m leaving. I don’t want to have a new row. If I weren’t here incognito, you’d see it would all end quite differently. [He goes to the door and leaves at the same time as Rockoffer and Grumpus.] matron ii: [Running toward the door] Hyrcan, Hyrcan! My son! [She runs out ] julius ii: [To the Statue] That’s a fine kettle of fish! And what do you say to that, my daughter! statue: I knew we couldn’t get off without a few discordant notes. [Behind the scenes, a shot is heard, and then a dreadful roar from Hyrcan IV.] julius ii: What’s that now? Some fiendish surprise. My stay in Heaven has made my one time nerves-of-steel too sensitive. I’ve grown unaccustomed to shots. [Ella’s mother doesn’t even bat an eyelash.] statue: Quiet. With Paul, anything is possible. Let’s wait: this is a really strange moment. I feel an extraordinary, non-Euclidean tension throughout all space. The whole world has shrunk to the dimensions of an orange. julius ii: Quiet—they’re coming. [Rockoffer runs in with a revolver in his hand, followed by Matron II.] rockoffer: I’ve killed him. I’ve avenged the death of poor Ella. julius: Who? Hyrcan? rockoffer: [Embracing Matron II] Yes. And you know what alienated me from him most? That scene with his mother. I don’t remember my mother, but I feel sure I wouldn’t have treated her that way. If you want absolutism in life, there’s absolutism in life for you. He drove me to it himself, the dog. julius ii: Well, fine—that’s very nice of you, my son. But what’s going to come of it? rockoffer: [To Matron II] Just a minute. First of all, I ask you, in memory of your son and my friend, to consider me as your second son. He was unworthy of you. A matron—a whore—where could I find a better mother? matron ii: [Kissing him on the head] Thank you, Paul—my son, my true, dear son!

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rockoffer: That’s enough. Let’s go. julius ii: But where? What’ll we do without that thug Hyrcan? Worse still— what’ll we do without Hyrcania? Now that our Hyrcanian desires have reached their peak and, so to speak, run absolutely wild? rockoffer: Oh—I see Your Holiness has really lost all his wits. Is there anyone who deserves to be king of Hyrcania more than I do? Is there any absolutist who’s carrying out his ideas in real life more than I am? Give me the whole world and I’ll smother it with kisses. Now we’ll create something diabolical. I feel the strength of a hundred Hyrcans in me. I, Paul Hyrcan V. I won’t be a joker the way he was. Out with this junk. [He kicks the royal robes and sword on the floor.] I’ll create a really cozy little nook in the Infinity of the world. Art, philosophy, love, science, society— one huge mishmash. And not like groveling worms, but like whales spouting with sheer delight, we’ll swim in it all up to our ears. The world is not a rotten cheese. Existence is always beautiful if you can only grasp the uniqueness of everything in the universe. Down with the relativity of truth! Chwistek’s the first one I’ll knock off ! We’ll forge on in the raging gale, in the very guts of absolute Nothingness. We’ll go on burning like new stars in the bottomless void. Long live finiteness and limitations. God isn’t tragic; He doesn’t become—He is. Only we are tragic, we, limited Beings. [In a different tone] I’m saying this as a good Catholic, and I hope I won’t offend Your Holiness’s feelings by doing it. [In his former tone] Together, we’ll create pure nonsense in life, not in Art. [Again in a different tone] Hmm—it’s revolting! They’re all different names for the same gigantic, disgusting weakness. Completely new— everything new. [Clutches his breast ] I’m getting tired. Poor Ella! Why couldn’t she have lived till now? [He falls into deep thought.] statue: Didn’t I say that with good old Paul you can expect anything? julius ii: But you won’t leave me for him, my daughter? statue: Never. Paul is too intense for me—and too young. [She kisses Julius II’s hand.] julius ii: I’m only afraid that the actual results may not live up to such a promise. I’m afraid of humbug. statue: I am, too—a little. But it’s always worth trying. rockoffer: [Waking up from his meditation] And you, Holy Father, will you go with us? In Heaven, will they grant you an extension of your leave? julius ii: To tell the truth—in Heaven they think I really belong in Hell. But you see, as a Pope they can’t decently do . . . that to me . . . you know? That’s why I can get a leave to any planet I want without any difficulties whatever. rockoffer: That’s great. Without you, infernal old man, I wouldn’t be able to take any more. You appealed to me because your inner transformations were sincere. But poor Ella—if it were only possible to bring her

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back from the dead! What wouldn’t I give for that right now! He was the one who made me do it: that damned Hyrcan. [Ella springs up suddenly, pushing her Mother aside.] ella: I’m alive! I was only knocked out. I’m going with you! I’ll be queen of Hyrcania! rockoffer: [Embracing her] What happiness, what endless happiness! My most dearly beloved, forgive me. [He kisses her.] Without you, even Hyrcania would be only a ghastly dream. mother: [Getting up in tears] You’re a good man, Paul. I knew you wouldn’t abandon poor Ella. [Paul goes over to her and kisses her hand.] rockoffer: Adopted mother and mother-in-law, I’ll take both of you with us to Hyrcania. I know how to value the advice of older women who’ve experienced a great deal. Even the uncles—those two old idiots, we’ll take them with us too. Let’s go—whatever he’s done, Hyrcan opened a new way for us. May his memory be sacred to us. julius ii: What generosity, what generosity! This is one of the most beautiful days of my life beyond the grave. In any case, God is an inscrutable mystery. [—] Come, my daughter. rockoffer: Matrons, let’s get a move on—the Hyrcania Express leaves in ten minutes—we’ve got to hurry. [The Matrons leave, passing by Grumpus] grumpus: His Royal Highness just breathed his last in my arms. rockoffer: [Offering his arm to Ella] Well, may he rest in peace. Now I am king of Hyrcania. And even if I have to stand on my head and turn my own and other people’s guts upside down, I’ll carry out my mission on this planet. Understand? grumpus: Yes, Your Royal Highness. [Rockoffer goes out with Ella. Julius II goes out after them with the Statue. (+)] julius ii: [As he leaves] Even the worst fraud that scoundrel perpetrates on society has the strange charm of a finished work of art. I wonder if I’ll be able to create a new artistic center in this infernal Hyrcania. statue: In artistic matters, you’re the almighty power, Holy Father . . . [They go out, followed by Grumpus. The packages and the clothing of the king remain in the middle of the stage.]

On a New Type of Play Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz

‘‘On a New Type of Play’’ is the last section of An Introduction to the Theory of Pure Form in the Theater, which first appeared in 1920 in numbers 1, 2, and 3 of Skamander, a leading Polish avant-garde literary magazine of the 1920s and 30s. Coming to the theater from painting, and strongly influenced by nonrepresentational modern art, Witkiewicz was able to develop a complete aesthetic theory of nonrealistic drama early in his own career as a playwright. His quest for ‘‘pure form’’ in the theater makes Witkiewicz part of the avantgarde European reaction against the realistic, psychological drama and social problem play which had dominated the stage since the 1890s. Before the First World War, Jacques Copeau, the guiding force behind modern French drama, attacked the socially constructive theater based on observation of real life as philistine and bourgeois, an adjunct of journalism, not art. The aim of the theater, Copeau argued, is not to make the spectator think, but to ‘‘ ‘make him dream,’ by evoking and suggesting the multiplicity and mystery of life.’’1 By the middle twenties, Gabriel Marcel suggested that ‘‘the future belongs to the theater of pure fantasy,’’2 and Benjamin Crémieux talked of the idea of ‘‘pure theater,’’ which like pure poetry would have a technique of its own that would free it of the social content of realistic drama Reprinted from ‘‘The Madman and the Nun’’ and Other Plays by Stanis™aw Ignacy Witkiewicz, ed. Daniel C. Gerould and C. S. Durer; trans. Daniel C. Gerould and C. S. Durer (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968), 291–97. Reprinted by permission of the University of Washington Press. 1. Jacques Copeau, Critiques d’un autre temps (Paris: Editions de la Nouvelle Revue Française, 1923), p. 230. 2. Gabriel Marcel, ‘‘La crise de la production dramatique,’’ L’Europe Nouvelle 39 (September 29, 1923), p. 1255.

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and give it independent life as pure movement.3 In the 1930s, Antonin Artaud, in the manifestoes collected in The Theater and Its Double, formulated his theory of the theater of cruelty which rejects psychology and logic for violence, dreams, and the internal world of ‘‘man considered metaphysically.’’4 Witkiewicz anticipated many of these ideas and quite independently came to conclusions similar to those of his Western European contemporaries. It is important to note that Witkiewicz’s idea of pure theater is inclusive; he wishes not to rid the theater of reality, but to transpose it into a new dimension. Pure Form can absorb all kinds of material; the internal arrangement is simply freed from traditional discursive and didactic demands. [Translators’ note] Theater, like poetry, is a composite art, but it is made up of even more elements not intrinsic to it; therefore, it is much more difficult to imagine Pure Form on the stage, essentially independent, in its final result, of the content of human action. Yet it is not perhaps entirely impossible. Just as there was an epoch in sculpture and painting when Pure Form was identical with metaphysical content derived from religious concepts, so there was an epoch when performance on stage was identical with myth. Nowadays form alone is the only content of our painting and sculpture, and subject matter, whether concerned with the real world or the fantastic, is only the necessary pretext for the creation of form and has no direct connection with it, except as the ‘‘stimulus’’ for the whole artistic machine, driving it on to creative intensity. Similarly, we maintain that it is possible to write a play in which the performance itself, existing independently in its own right and not as a heightened picture of life, would be able to put the spectator in a position to experience metaphysical feeling, regardless of whether the fond of the play is realistic or fantastic, or whether it is a synthesis of both, combining each of their individual parts, provided of course that the play as a whole results from a sincere need on the part of the author to create a theatrical idiom capable of expressing metaphysical feelings within purely formal dimensions. What is essential is only that the meaning of the play should not necessarily be limited by its realistic or fantastic content, as far as the totality of the work is concerned, but that the realistic element should simply exist for the sake of the purely formal goals—that is, for the sake of a synthesis of all the elements of the theater: sound, décor, movement on the stage, dialogue, in sum, performance through time, as an uninterrupted whole—so transformed, when viewed realistically, that the performance seems utter nonsense. The idea is to make it possible to deform either life or the world of fantasy with complete freedom so as to create a whole whose meaning would be 3. Benjamin Crémieux, ‘‘Chronique dramatique,’’ Nouvelle Revue Française 27 (August 1, 1926), 233–37. 4. Antonin Artaud, The Theater and Its Double, trans. M. C. Richards (New York: Grove Press, 1958), p. 92.

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defined only by its purely scenic internal construction, and not by the demands of consistent psychology and action according to assumptions from real life. Such assumptions can be applied as criteria only to plays which are heightened reproductions of life. Our contention is not that a play should necessarily be nonsensical, but only that from now on the drama should no longer be tied down to pre-existing patterns based solely on life’s meaning or on fantastic assumptions. The actor, in his own right, should not exist; he should be the same kind of part within a whole as the color red in a particular painting or the note C-sharp in a particular musical composition. The kind of play under discussion may well be characterized by absolute freedom in the handling of reality, but what is essential is that this freedom, like ‘‘nonsensicality’’ in painting, should be adequately justified and should become valid for the new dimension of thought and feeling into which such a play transports the spectator. At present we are not in a position to give an example of such a play, we are only pointing out that it is possible if only foolish prejudices can be overcome. But let us assume that someone writes such a play: the public will have to get used to it, as well as to that deformed leg in the painting by Picasso. Although we can imagine a painting composed of entirely abstract forms, which will not evoke any associations with the objects of the external world unless such associations are self-induced, yet it is not even possible for us to imagine such a play, because pure performance in time is possible only in the world of sounds, and a theater without characters who act, no matter how outrageously and improbably, is inconceivable, simply because theater is a composite art, and does not have its own intrinsic, homogeneous elements, like the pure arts: Painting and Music. The theater of today impresses us as being something hopelessly bottled up which can only be released by introducing what we have called fantastic psychology and action. The psychology of the characters and their actions should only be the pretext for a pure progression of events: therefore, what is essential is that the need for a psychology of the characters and their actions to be consistent and lifelike should not become a bugbear imposing its particular construction on the play. We have had enough wretched logic about characters and enough psychological ‘‘truth’’—already it seems to be coming out of our ears. Who cares what goes on at 38 Wspólna Street, Apartment 10, or in the castle in the fairy tale, or in past times? In the theater we want to be in an entirely new world in which the fantastic psychology of characters who are completely implausible in real life, not only in their positive actions but also in their errors, and who are perhaps completely unlike people in real life, produces events which by their bizarre interrelationships create a performance in time not limited by any logic except the logic of the form itself of that performance. What is required is that we accept as inevitable a particular movement of a character, a particular phrase having a realistic or only a formal meaning, a particular change of lighting or décor, a particular musical accompaniment, just as we accept as

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inevitable a particular part of a composition on a canvas or a sequence of chords in a musical work. We must also take into account the fact that such characters’ thoughts and feelings are completely unfettered and that they react with complete freedom to any and all events, even though there is no justification for any of this. Still, these elements would have to be suggested on the same level of formal necessity as all the other elements of performance on the stage mentioned above. Of course, the public would have to be won over to this fantastic psychology, as with the square leg in the painting by Picasso. The public has already laughed at the deformed shapes on the canvases of contemporary masters; now they will also have to laugh at the thoughts and actions of characters on the stage, since for the time being these cannot be completely explained. We believe that this problem can be resolved in exactly the same way as it has been in contemporary painting and music: by understanding the essence of art in general and by growing accustomed to it. Just as those who have finally understood Pure Form in painting can no longer even look at other kinds of painting and cannot help understanding correctly paintings which they laughed at before as incomprehensible, so those who become used to the theater we are proposing will not be able to stand any of the productions of today, whether realistic or heavily symbolic. As far as painting is concerned, we have tested this matter more than once on people who were apparently incapable of understanding Pure Form at the beginning, but who after receiving systematic ‘‘injections’’ over a certain period of time reached a remarkably high level of perfection in making truly expert judgments. There may be a certain amount of perversity in all this, but why should we be afraid of purely artistic perversity? Of course, perverseness in life is often a sad affair, but why should we apply judgments which are reasonable in real life to the realm of art, with which life has essentially so little in common. Artistic perversity (for example, unbalanced masses in a pictorial composition, perversely tense movements or clashing colors in a painting) is only a means, and not an end; therefore, it cannot be immoral, because the goal which it enables us to attain—unity within diversity in Pure Form—cannot be subjected to the criteria of good and evil. It is somewhat different with the theater, because its elements are beings who act; but we believe that in those new dimensions which we are discussing even the most monstrous situations will be no less moral than what is seen in the theater today. Of course, even assuming that a certain segment of the public interested in serious artistic experiences will come to demand plays written in the style described above, such plays would still have to result from a genuine creative necessity felt by an author writing for the stage. If such a work were only a kind of schematic nonsense, devised in cold blood, artificially, without real need, it would probably arouse nothing but laughter, like those paintings with a bizarre form of subject matter which are created by those who do not suffer from a real ‘‘insatiable pursuit of new forms,’’ but who manufacture

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them for commercial reasons or pour épater les bourgeois. Just as the birth of a new form, pure and abstract, without a direct religious basis, took place only through deforming our vision of the external world, so the birth of Pure Form in the theater is also possible only through deforming human psychology and action. We can imagine such a play as having complete freedom with respect to absolutely everything from the point of view of real life, and yet being extraordinarily closely knit and highly wrought in the way the action is tied together. The task would be to fill several hours on the stage with a performance possessing its own internal, formal logic, independent of anything in ‘‘real life.’’ An invented, not created, example of such a work can only make our theory appear ridiculous, and, from a certain point of view, even absurd (for some, even infuriating or, to put it bluntly, idiotic), but let us try. Three characters dressed in red come onstage and bow to no one in particular. One of them recites a poem (it should create a feeling of urgent necessity at this very moment). A kindly old man enters leading a cat on a string. So far everything has taken place against a background of a black screen. The screen draws apart, and an Italian landscape becomes visible. Organ music is heard. The old man talks with the other characters, and what they say should be in keeping with what has gone before. A glass falls off the table. All of them fall on their knees and weep. The old man changes from a kindly man into a ferocious ‘‘butcher’’ and murders a little girl who has just crawled in from the left. At this very moment a handsome young man runs in and thanks the old man for murdering the girl, at which point the characters in red sing and dance. Then the young man weeps over the body of the little girl and says very amusing things, whereupon the old man becomes once again kindly and good-natured and laughs to himself in a corner, uttering sublime and limpid phrases. The choice of costumes is completely open: period or fantastic—there may be music during some parts of the performance. In other words, an insane asylum? Or rather a madman’s brain on the stage? Perhaps so, but we maintain that, if the play is seriously written and appropriately produced, this method can create works of previously unsuspected beauty; whether it be drama, tragedy, farce, or the grotesque, all in a uniform style and unlike anything which previously existed. On leaving the theater, the spectator ought to have the feeling that he has just awakened from some strange dream, in which even the most ordinary things had a strange, unfathomable charm, characteristic of dream reveries, and unlike anything else in the world. Nowadays the spectator leaves the theater with a bad taste in his mouth, or he is shaken by the purely biological horror or sublimity of life, or he is furious that he has been fooled by a whole series of tricks. For all its variety, the contemporary theater almost never gives us the other world, other not in the sense of being fantastic, but truly that other world which brings to us an understanding of purely formal beauty. Occasionally something like this happens in the plays of writers of previous

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ages, plays which after all have their significance and greatness that we certainly do not want to deny them with any fanatical fury. This element which we are discussing can be found in some of the plays of Shakespeare and S™owacki, for example, but never in its purest form, and, therefore, despite their greatness, these plays do not create the desired effect. The climax and the conclusion of the kind of play which we are proposing may be created in a complete abstraction from what might be called that debasing feeling of pure curiosity about real life, that tension in the pit of the stomach, with which we watch a drama of real life, and which constitutes precisely the one and only appeal of plays today. Of course we would have to break this bad habit, so that in a world with which, on the realistic level, we have no contact, we could experience a metaphysical drama similar to the one which takes place among the notes of a symphony or sonata and only among them, so that the denouement would not be an event of concern to us as part of real life, but only as something comprehensible as the inevitable conclusion of the purely formal complications of sound patterns, decorative or psychological, free from the causality found in real life. The criticism of absolute freedom made against contemporary artists and their works by people who do not understand art can also be applied here. For example, why three characters, not five? Why dressed in red, not green? Of course, we cannot prove the necessity for that number and color, but it should appear inevitable insofar as each element is a necessary part of the work of art once it has been created; while we are watching the play unfold, we ought not to be able to think of any other possible internal interrelationships. And we maintain that, if the work is to be created with complete artistic sincerity, it will have to compel the spectators to accept it as inevitable. It is certainly much more difficult with the theater than with other arts, because, as a certain expert on the theater has asserted, the crowd as it watches and listens is an essential part of the performance itself, and moreover the play has to be a box-office success. But we believe that sooner or later the theater must embark upon the ‘‘insatiable pursuit of new forms,’’ which it has avoided up until now, and it is to be hoped that extraordinary works, within the dimensions of Pure Form, still remain to be created, and that there will not simply be more ‘‘renaissance’’ and ‘‘purification’’ or repetition ad nauseam of the old repertoire which really has nothing at all to say to anybody. We must unleash the slumbering Beast and see what it can do. And if it runs mad, there will always be time enough to shoot it before it is too late.

part nine French Surrealism

r

oger Vitrac (1899–1952) was one of the original signers of the First Surrealist Manifesto (1924), but along with Antonin Artaud, he was later expelled from official Surrealist circles because he pursued commercial theater opportunities for his work. In 1926, he founded the Théâtre Alfred Jarry in Paris with Artaud and Robert Aron and produced his first two full-length plays, The Mysteries of Love (written in 1924 and first produced in 1927) and Victor, or The Children Take Over (1928), which combine farce and fantasy with the darker sensibility of tragedy. Artaud directed the original productions of both dramas. In The Mysteries of Love, one of the first plays to use the Surrealist technique of automatic writing, a pair of lovers continually change their relationship and interact with other characters whose identities shift frequently. Like Vitrac’s later plays, Mysteries places greater emphasis on the suggestive sounds of words than on their literal meaning. Vitrac’s absurdist vision and flights of imagination made him an important predecessor to the Theater of the Absurd, his influence particularly evident in the works of Eugène Ionesco. He was the only person associated with Surrealism who ever sought a career as a dramatist.

Roger Vitrac and The Mysteries of Love

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n 1930 appeared a brochure called Le théâtre Alfred Jarry et l’hostilité publique. It is almost certain that this document, generally attributed to Antonin Artaud, was written by Roger Vitrac. For this reason, the statement it contains on Les mystères de l’amour is especially interesting to us, particularly since—despite Vitrac’s recent quarrel with Breton’s group—it reflects no inclination to uproot the play from the context to which it belongs: ‘‘An ironical work which renders concrete on stage the disquiet, double solitude, dissembled criminal thoughts, and eroticism of lovers. For the first time, a real dream was realized in the theater.’’ The operative words here are ‘‘real dream,’’ ‘‘renders concrete,’’ and ‘‘realized in the theater.’’ Les mystères de l’amour illustrates its author’s viewpoint on life by making audible human responses usually not articulated, and by acting out subconscious relationships not always of necessity rationally explicable. In putting his characters’ fantasies on stage, without troubling to distinguish dream from reality and nightmare from diurnal activity, Vitrac proceeds much further than in his one-act Entrée libre (1922). He now locates drama in confrontations precipitated by desire or fear, longing or revulsion, where dialogue delivers words normally unvoiced, so that his characters can ‘‘live as we dream’’ and ‘‘dream as we live,’’ as Vitrac put it in his note to the 1948 Gallimard edition of his plays. Les mystères de l’amour invites us into the realm where Surrealism reigns and where we come to understand what Breton meant when he spoke in his Nadja of ‘‘descending truly into the lowest depths of the mind, where it is no longer a matter of night falling or rising again (is this then daylight?).’’ Like the ready-made phrases conventionally employed to transmit the conditioned reflex of familiar emotional response, the banalities of polite conversation go by the board. They succumb in Vitrac’s play to explosive language and gesture that revitalize human attitudes by releasing them from habit and stereotyped courtesy. In Les mystères de l’amour the playwright wants to revitalize the conventions of courtship, love, and marriage, to undermine the mythology of romance—through language and action, by dream and by vision—so that it is no longer possible to take it or them for granted. To achieve this aim, Vitrac juxtaposes unlike elements throughout the play: reality against dream, chaos against order, the mundane against the fantastic, the modes of Surrealism against those of traditional or well-made drama. The very structure of Les mystères de l’amour exemplifies these juxtapositions: although it consists of a clearly defined prologue and three acts, with a prosaic story—the courtship, marriage, unhappiness, separation, and reconciliation of a young couple—continuing through the first scene of each act, oneiric elements insistently intervene in the form of Léa’s dreams and Patrice’s visions. To confound reality and dream still further, and to convey a sense of disjunction Excerpted from J. H. Matthews, Theatre in Dada and Surrealism (Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 1974), 119–27. By permission of the publisher.

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that denies rationally simplified correspondences or oppositions between dream and reality, the play’s scene divisions—‘‘tableaux’’—are numbered consecutively, one to five, ignoring the work’s three-act division entirely. Moreover, scenes that take place between two people, with minimal stage directions, on sets that are essentially bare, alternate with elaborately staged scenes filled with impossibly grotesque events, objects, and characters. Following a brief prologue, showing Patrice tracing lines in the mud of a public square after a rainstorm, the first tableau begins. It takes place in a stagebox, opening while the house lights are still on. Throughout this part of the drama Patrice and Léa [Patrick and Leah] occupy an intermediary position between the public and the stage where the spectator anticipated seeing the drama enacted, when he took his seat. Action has been displaced, brought forward, and is now under way closer than he expected. If without difficulty he can identify a stock situation, when he sees Patrice kneeling at Léa’s feet and saying, ‘‘Accept these flowers,’’ no theatrical precedent exists to reassure him before the gesture accompanying these words: Patrice slapping Léa’s face. The young woman calls for her mother, not to complain, but to whisper the good news—‘‘Mama! if you only knew, Patrice loves me.’’ Patrice, meanwhile, has announced that he is going for a walk by the seaside and has sat down facing the audience. Within a few moments he is directing offensive remarks at members of the public. Patrice’s conduct at this point sets a precedent to be followed quite often as the drama unfolds. In this play, where action begins in a stage-box, moving up only later to the stage, the barrier separating the public from the spectacle frequently tumbles. The spectator finds himself denied the comfortable feeling of distance that is, he used to believe, an invariable condition of watching events enacted beyond the safety zone of the footlights. Patrice confides in the audience, ‘‘Léa loves me,’’ delivering this aside at the top of his voice. At his urging, Léa makes a similar confession, shouting, ‘‘I love Patrice. Oh! I love his guts. Oh! I love this buffoon. Oh! I love this buffoon. From all aspects, from every seamy side, in all his shapes. Look at them, Patrice. Listen to them. Ha! ha! ha!’’ A voice from out front expresses a sense of outrage in which every member of the audience shares to some extent: ‘‘But why! Merciful heaven! Why? Is there something wrong with you?’’ As other spectators begin to intervene, their cries are punctuated by revolver shots, before the lights at last go down and silence is restored, temporarily. Nothing, so far, marks a significant departure in Les mystères de l’amour from effects tried out by Breton and Soupault in S’il vous plaît. Very soon, however, the concept of theatrical dialogue is broadened. When someone in the audience declares aggressively, ‘‘Mr. Patrice, you are a criminal,’’ Patrice responds. Before long, Vitrac is questioning the fundamental convention of dramatic presentation when he allows his hero to say, ‘‘They are waving at us,’’ and permits Patrice and Léa to wave back in friendly fashion. Involving his public directly, the playwright takes a significant step. He deliberately brings the ‘‘dream’’ onstage face to face with the ‘‘reality’’ in the auditorium, or, as Breton puts it in Nadja, ‘‘that which is very summarily opposed’’ to dream ‘‘under the name of reality.’’ Practicing provocation as he elects to do, Vitrac increases the public’s feeling of disorientation

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before the dislocated conversations of Patrice and Léa, in which at times neither seems to hear what the other is saying. In short, he draws his audience into the action so as to make them more keenly aware of being left out of things. Although the lights have come on again, revealing that action is still confined to the stage-box, Léa behaves as if in her own dining room when warning Patrice and a rival, Dovic, to watch out for the furniture as they roll on the floor in a brutal fight. A few minutes later, she speaks to Patrice of being in their bedroom. Only now do the house lights go out and the footlights come up. There follows a brief illogical sequence involving an old and a young man whom we never see again, which could well have been modeled on the last act of S’il vous plaît. Understandably, a few spectators express disapproval. The theater manager comes on stage to announce that the play is over. Unfortunately, we are informed, the author, a Mr. Théophile Mouchet, has just killed himself. When the manager has gone off, someone out front calls for the author: The curtain rises. The author appears. He is in shirt sleeves. His face and clothes are covered with blood. He is roaring with laughter. He is laughing with all his might and holding his sides. The two curtains fall suddenly.

To leave the theater at this point, as one seems to have been invited to do, means missing the second tableau. This takes place on a stage divided into three sets. On the Quai des Grands-Augustins in Paris, Patrice is seen as a lieutenant of Dragoons. Léa is carrying a doll. She says it is his child, but Patrice drops the baby in the Seine anyway. In his bedroom Lloyd George (played by Dovic, he looks like a certain British prime minister) lifts the sheets on a bed, showing Léa, who recognizes it with horror, the head of a little girl resting on the pillow. When he pulls the sheets right back to uncover the child, ‘‘It is naturally only a bust of flesh sawn off at shoulder level.’’ In the presence of Léa and Patrice, Lloyd George proceeds to demonstrate his skill by sawing off the head of a young boy he has carried in under his arm: ‘‘That’s quite a job, or I’m no judge.’’ This whole tableau is situated in a twilight zone where horror and laughter commingle—Vitrac, we notice, specifies that the flesh bust’s role is a mute one— and where the dead and the living converse. Léa’s mother and her late father join her and Lloyd George for dinner, while, upon the advice of Lloyd George, their daughter places Patrice’s knees under the flesh bust to conceal that a crime has taken place. Patrice’s head is now at liberty to withdraw to the top of a mirrorwardrobe from which it observes the domestic scene. To her dead father’s annoyance, Léa finds the antics of Patrice’s head so distracting that she finally has to cover it with a sheet of newspaper. ‘‘You’ll really have to take an interest in my stories,’’ Mr. Morin comments petulantly, after being interrupted while telling one that begins quite promisingly: ‘‘Well, that night the sea was bad. We were catching sardines by the netful. But the darkness, the thunder, the lightning, and especially the niggers in the stokehold, not to mention the leopard . . .’’ Lloyd George goes off with him in the direction of the Quai des Grands-Augustins, agreeing that Léa is mad. Left alone, Léa and Madame Morin walk over to the bed, from which slowly rise ‘‘two arms like two dead branches, but on which two

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enormous very white hands have blossomed.’’ In spite of her mother’s warning (‘‘Oh! my child! Don’t go near. She has leprosy’’), Léa kneels by the bed, recognizes the victim’s resemblance to herself, and concludes, ‘‘You really must agree that one doesn’t die of love.’’ One finds it easiest perhaps to accept the second tableau as a nightmare dreamed by Léa. She has the last word, and we see her lying in bed as the next tableau opens the second act. But Vitrac, we notice, does not tell us this is the case, in the way that he took care to do when including dreams in Entrée libre. He has given up establishing boundaries between the true and the false, the fanciful and the factual because, apparently, such boundaries no longer have any validity in his estimation. This would explain why, after letting us see cotton wool take fire in Lloyd George’s bedroom when Patrice’s head passed close by in a dream sequence, now, in the real world of a conventionally decorated hotel room, Vitrac shows us Léa’s hands burning Patrice’s lips as he kisses them, and smoking as she goes over to the washbasin to plunge them into water. Neither of the lovers, we observe, finds this phenomenon any more difficult to accept than Léa’s mother and dead father found events in the second tableau. A butcher arrives to collect a parcel tied with string, left for him on the kitchen table. He grumbles that it is not worth his while to call again for so little: ‘‘Even if you were to give me the skin with the nails and hair, I’d not give you a penny more,’’ he declares. Léa’s evasiveness under Patrice’s questions about this man and the reasons for his visit adds to the mystery pervading Vitrac’s drama, just as the butcher’s complaint contributes to the heavy atmosphere of monstrous violence in Les mystères de l’amour. The third tableau may provide less striking visual manifestations of mystery than when Lloyd George was on stage, but the behavior of Patrice and Léa is no less disturbing, in its way. Léa examining sights visible in Patrice’s right eye, Patrice’s account of a cryptic conversation with a neighbor in the middle of the night, the slaps he gives Léa, and, above all, the freedom granted words (the basic elements of conversation) in the remarks he makes to her—all this points to an emancipation of dramatic form to which Vitrac is evidently dedicated. Meanwhile, summoned by Patrice, Dovic, and Madame Morin while Léa is off stage (giving birth to a son), the author has no helpful answer to give to Patrice’s questions about how this play is to end: ‘‘Listen, my boy, your case interests me hardly at all. It hardly interests the public, either.’’ The most the author will admit is that ‘‘in this case, I’d behave like you. But, in this case, permit me to withdraw.’’ His brief visit has explained nothing, least of all Patrice’s violent attack with a chair, which leaves Dovic and Madame Morin stretched out on the floor and the stage spattered with blood. Patrice’s only excuse is the one he gives Léa: ‘‘Yes, that’s the way it is. I’m left alone and you see what happens.’’ Even when he is not alone, however, Patrice is somewhat unpredictable. Attempting to set his son on a pedestal over the fireplace, he allows the child to fall from his perch and kill himself. Evidencing a bewildering jumble of emotional responses, Léa exclaims, ‘‘Ha! Ha! Ha! . . . Murder! Murder! He over there, my lover, my Papa, my Papa, my Patrice, he’s killed my Guigui, my Guigui, my Guillotin. (Changing her tone.) Incidentally, you could have given him another name.

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Infanticide.’’ This final exclamation does not prevent her, of course, from telling a policeman who comes to investigate that the child caught measles when it fell. The fourth tableau shows us Patrice as Mussolini and Madame Morin as a stranger in mourning. Madame Morin disappears as soon as she has entrusted her two dogs and child to someone she does not know—Léa, who finds the little boy looks like ‘‘the one I have at home, like my Patrice.’’ Unable to get rid of the child, she gives us a chance to observe that, as she remarks, ‘‘A love is always a big nuisance.’’ But this whole sequence, which lacks the inventiveness of the Lloyd George interlude, brings us nothing new. It was omitted from Artaud’s 1927 production of Les mystères de l’amour. Also omitted, more surprisingly, was the fifth tableau, which constitutes the whole of the third and final act. As the fifth tableau begins, Léa is being brought down by hotel elevator, between two policemen, her hands bloody, her white dress in shreds. We learn that she has broken the mirror-wardrobe, demolished the dressing table, set fire to the drapes in her room, and strangled the goldfish. She has done all this, it appears, because Patrice did not keep a few impractical promises, like taking her to the North Pole and giving her stars of his own fabrication. In the vestibule Léa demonstrates strange faculties, giving testimony to the magic power of words. She announces that a door will open of its own accord; it does so. She tells the policemen that they are going to say the word ‘‘light’’; they do so in unison. As is the case with a similar prediction in Breton’s Nadja, the door’s obedience may seem a coincidence. Meanwhile the policemen’s willingness to humor a prisoner they think mad leads them to repeat readily enough the words ‘‘light’’ and ‘‘night,’’ which she forecasts. But neither coincidence nor indulgence explains how Léa succeeds in summoning Patrice merely by pronouncing his name. Patrice’s arrival frightens the policemen off, literally freeing Léa and introducing an interlude involving several children. Now the conversation takes the direction followed later in ‘‘Le dialogue en 1928’’ and ‘‘Le dialogue en 1934’’: First Child Mr. Patrice, what do you bring in your shoes? Patrice Elephants under the palm trees. Second Child And what about that lion looking at us? Patrice That, my child, is liberty. Third Child And what about the automobile, is it for us? Patrice It is unbreakable and deep. First Child Are you giving us some new perfume? Patrice Take these birds.

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The first child is the son of the bakery’s horse, while the second is the offspring of his mother’s sewing machine. The third, father of a colonel in the Zouaves, shoots the other two, then remarks to Patrice, ‘‘What do you expect, Papa, I was the father of a colonel of Zouaves by accident, but I will always be the son of love.’’ After listening to all this, the spectator may feel entitled to ask, as Patrice now does, ‘‘What is going to become of me in this whole business?’’ Whatever answer suggests itself, it is clear that nothing is to be gained by looking to Patrice for elucidation of Les mystères de l’amour. He tells a strange tale about the harvesting of factory smokestacks. Then he tries to shoot the author with a revolver handed him by the latter, who comments, ‘‘Useless, my dear Patrice! Your bullets don’t penetrate. And that’s a pity!’’ When Patrice tries to return the revolver because it is of no use to him, the author insists on his retaining it: ‘‘If you don’t want to do this for me, do it in the interest of the drama you are playing. I assure you that a last revolver shot is indispensable to the denouement.’’ Soon after presenting Léa with a revolver of her own, the author leaves, first whispering to Patrice, ‘‘A bit of good advice, my friend, use the piece. Your future depends on it.’’ Has he told the truth? We are free to make up our own minds about this, since the play comes to a close before Patrice has the chance to use his weapon. During his final discussion with her, Léa fires her revolver and he cries, just before the curtain falls, ‘‘What have you done, Léa? What have you done? You have just killed a spectator.’’ A bullet pronounced harmless during an anti-Pirandellian conversation between Patrice and the author, on stage, becomes lethal when it passes the footlights on its way into the audience. Vitrac’s parting shot is not pointlessly confusing, a mere gesture of defiance. Rather, it brings into focus the moral implications of his drama of frustrated love, while showing that the spectator’s passive role in the theater is no guarantee of safety where dream and reality cannot be kept apart. By the time Les mystères de l’amour is over, the public has been made to realize that, in the dream played out before them, verisimilitude has been sacrificed to the release of an emotional experience that makes its effect felt in the so-called real world. By the effort he brings to dispelling the illusion that his dream is to be treated as mere amusement, Roger Vitrac prepares the way in Les mystères de l’amour for Victor, ou Les enfants au pouvoir (1928). That Lloyd George and Mussolini form part of the cast is further evidence that Vitrac wants to dispel the illusion that his violent dream should be treated as mere amusement. For these two characters point the way, respectively, back to the mechanized carnage of World War I (Lloyd George was British prime minister from 1916 to 1922) and forward to the atomic holocaust as well as the ethnic genocide of World War II (Mussolini ruled Italy from 1922 to 1943). In the second tableau of Les mystères de l’amour, however, Lloyd George performs acts of gruesome butchery—sawing off heads, trying to dispose of the fragments of corpses— in a more or less domestic setting, in the company of Léa and Patrice. And in the fourth tableau Mussolini makes the argument that Léa should share her life with ‘‘a man, a child, and dogs’’—in other words, with a family, the Fascist symbol for which, insidiously, was the fascio (a tightly wound bundle or close-knit group).

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Thus does Vitrac himself implicitly make the argument that the personal is the political, and he does so in appositely dreamlike fashion: that is, where past, present, and future can merge; where the actual and the potential are inextricably interwoven; where antithetical images of eroticism and death, laughter and lamentation, words and weaponry, parenthood and infanticide, homicide and suicide, authorship and autocracy can be freely juxtaposed; and where the otherwise invisible connections between illusion and reality, thought and act, inner life and exterior landscape can be made frighteningly tangible. As in the first tableau, where Patrice’s reduction of Léa to the parts of her body (‘‘All these constructions of chalk, wax, wood, bone, and flesh should be incinerated’’), even to a discarded fishhead, is thematically related to Lloyd George’s, and later Mussolini’s, literal reduction of the human body to inanimate object, ash, or sheer waste. The mysteries of love, indeed.

Select Bibliography on Vitrac Auslander, Philip. ‘‘Surrealism in the Theatre: The Plays of Roger Vitrac.’’ Theatre Journal 32 (Oct. 1980): 357–69. Crombez, Thomas. ‘‘Artaud, the Parodist? The Appropriations of the Théâtre Alfred Jarry, 1927–1930.’’ Forum Modernes Theater 20 (2005): 33–51. Levitt, Annette S. ‘‘Artaud, Vitrac, and the Cruelty of Theatre.’’ In The Genres and Genders of Surrealism. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999: 27–48. ———. ‘‘Roger Vitrac and the Drama of Surrealism.’’ In Aeolian Harps: Essays in Literature in Honor of Maurice Browning Carter, ed. Donna G. Fricke and Douglas C. Fricke. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Press, 1976. 247–72. ———. ‘‘The Domestic Tragedies of Roger Vitrac.’’ Modern Drama 30.4 (Dec. 1987): 514– 27. See also Balakian, Surrealism; Benedikt and Wellwarth, Modern French Theatre; Bigsby; Esslin, The Theatre of the Absurd; Hedges; Melzer; Nadeau; Sandrow; and Zinder in the General Bibliography.

The Mysteries of Love A Surrealist Drama Roger Vitrac to suzanne —The women who love us renew the true Sabbath. —Alfred Jarry (L’amour absolu)

Characters patrick, twenty-three years of age leah, twenty-one years of age mrs. morin, Leah’s mother first friend of patrick second friend of patrick third friend of patrick dovic (diminutive of Ludovic), thirty years old the neighbors the virgin (not a speaking part) the young man, an actor the old man, an actor the theater manager théophile mouchet, author of the drama the lieutenant of dragoons (role taken by Patrick) lloyd george (role taken by Dovic) the child of red and yellow cloth (not a speaking part) the child sawed off at the shoulders (not a speaking part) Reprinted from Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada, and Surrealism; An Anthology of Plays, ed. Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth; trans. Ralph J. Gladstone (New York: Dutton, 1964), 227–67.

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the woman in black (role taken by Mrs. Morin) the man with a military haircut and checkered trousers: Mr. Morin the butcher the author guillotin, son of Patrick and Leah (not a speaking part) a white fox terrier a gray bulldog mussolini (role taken by Patrick) the conductor the chambermaid two cooks (not speaking parts) a man in evening dress the woman who sells yard goods several ghosts (not speaking parts) hotel lodgers two policemen the hotel manager three children a spectator (not a speaking part) Prologue The stage represents a public square. The weather is cloudy. It has been raining. On the wall of a house is painted the portrait below. The mouth is black. The cheeks are red like lips. The eyes are pale. As the curtain rises, Patrick, crouching, is tracing sinuous lines in the mud with a stick. A Policeman enters. the policeman: You there! What are you doing? patrick: As you see, sir, I am just finishing off her hair. He leaves, tracing a sinuous line. The curtain slowly falls. end of the prologue ACT I First Tableau A box overhanging the stage. The proscenium lights are out. The house lights, a chandelier above the audience, are lighted. To the right and left: black draperies. Framing the box: white lace, in festoons. As the curtain rises, Leah is seated. Patrick is at her knees.

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patrick: For heaven’s sake! Confess, Leah. leah: You’re right. patrick: Aren’t I, Leah? Now at last you’re being reasonable. Confess it, then. Believe me, sooner or later, you would have to. Don’t be obstinate like a child. You don’t want to make me angry, do you? leah: Patrick! What are you doing? patrick (still kneeling): Why, nothing, Leah, nothing. You can see: I’m out for a walk. Ah! But will you confess now? leah: No. patrick: Then do accept these few flowers. (He slaps her.) leah (laughing): Mama, Mama, Mama! patrick: (cupping his hands as a megaphone): Mrs. Morin! Mrs Morin! Enter Mrs. Morin. mrs. morin: Excuse me, Madame, Sir, if I am disturbing you. leah: Oh, Mother! patrick: I’m in the way, aren’t I? mrs. morin: What! You young snake! Tell me right off to go away. (To Leah.) He’s as cool as a coconut. patrick (holding out a chair to her): As for me, I’m going to take a stroll down by the waterside. (He sits down and looks at the audience.) leah (softly): Mother! If you only knew how Patrick loves me. patrick (shouting): Look out! You’re going to fall. mrs. morin: Why, that’s fine, my dear. patrick (still shouting): Is it you, the ox? mrs. morin: And you, do you love him? leah: Why, naturally. patrick (still shouting): Go blow that lobster your father’s nose, Girlie! mrs. morin: Perhaps he will grow up, dear. But as for me, I have too much to do with my dogs. Six little dogs, Leah! leah: Now you’re getting on my nerves. Is it my fault if Old Man Morin wouldn’t let me take my first communion? How spiteful! mrs. morin: You will nevertheless have to decide. leah: I don’t dare. patrick: Aha! Now it’s the goat! mrs. morin: Do you want me to speak for you? leah: Pretty smart; you’ll take him from me. mrs. morin: Take that. She slaps her, then goes off. leah (crying): Patrick! Patrick! Patrick!

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patrick: Devil take animals and the dining room. leah: You are alone in the world, Patrick. patrick: Oh, you! Have respect for those who are close to me! leah: Ah! I hear you quite well now. Therefore I’ll tell you everything. patrick: Well, well, well . . . leah: It’s up to you to question me. patrick: That doesn’t matter; Mrs. Morin, you certainly do have a thick navel. leah: Is that all? You’re cruel! patrick: I like that! That’s a good one. What do you mean, Leah? leah: I confess. patrick: Ah! A thousand thanks, Leah. Thank you, thank you a thousand times. Enter Patrick’s three friends. first friend: I’m happy, you know. (They shake hands.) patrick: Thanks a lot. second friend: Pity. She was made for me. Must be made of wood, Patrick. patrick: Thanks a lot. (They shake hands.) third friend: Ah! The children’s children. Save one for me. patrick: Thanks, and you? The three friends go off. I’ll have the necktie. The circular saw-toothed necktie. And I’ll make a bridge out of my blood, Leah. leah: You are good. patrick: Do you see, for a moment I took the lamb’s part. It was bleating. Baa . . . Baa . . . Baa . . . The grass was getting off the train. It was putting on airs. The lamb pissed all over it. That’s what it’s like to be young. (Pause.) Oh, but pardon me! You confessed. Didn’t you confess? leah: Yes. But to what? patrick: That’s true, to what? leah: Will you wait for me a moment? (She goes off and returns immediately with a basket filled with small dogs.) My mother is dogging you this basket for the way. patrick: Thanks. (He throws both dogs and basket into the audience.) Because I, you know, and religion . . . (A pause. Gesticulating.) What beautiful sunshine! What beautiful sunlight! (Pause.) Really, Leah? May I die of it on the spot! Oh! My friends. Enter the three friends. (Still gesticulating.) Will you leave, all you others? The three friends leave. Do you see, Leah, I’m happy. I don’t need anything else. I’m stifling. It’s

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the oysters. Do you hear? (Shouting.) It’s the oysters. But what is the lemon doing? Ah, Leah, will you hide that leg, that knee! Will you hide that thigh! (Screaming.) Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! I will shout it out. I will shout it out from the rooftops, from the stars, from above the stars! (Taking the audience into his confidence.) Leah loves me, Leah loves me, Leah loves me. She confessed it. She loves me. (To Leah.) It’s your turn now. Shout it out, Leah. Go on my little Leah, my Lele, my Leah-Leah. Shout it out, now, shout it, my Leahleahleah. leah (to the audience): I love Patrick. Oh! I love his guts. Oh! I love the clown. I love the clown. From every viewpoint, from every seam, from every form. Look at them, Patrick. Listen to them. Oh! Oh! Oh! . . . (She burst into laughter.) a voice (in the audience): But why? Merciful heavens! Why? Are you both ill? leah: Madly. the voice: Are you both mad? patrick: Madly. a voice (in the audience): Do you hear them, Martine? A shot. another voice: Do you hear them, Marie? A shot. another voice: Do you hear them, Julie? A shot. another voice: Do you hear them, Theresa? A shot. another voice: Do you hear them, Michelle? A shot. another voice: Do you hear them, Esther? A shot. several voices: Kill me! Kill him! Kill her! Mercy! Pardon! The Child! Tumult, cries, shots. Suddenly the house lights go off. Instant silence. The box alone is half-lighted. patrick: Listen. A stroll in the mountains. The spruce trees are frozen. Ah, youth! Chandeliers under ice. And then the swamps! The swamps? So many beds with childless women. And suddenly there’s the sparrowhawk. It’s he. He is dead, I tell you. He falls like a flashing of lightning. There are no wings on either side of his naked body on the ground. There are two eyes. Isn’t it so, Leah? leah: It isn’t Leah. patrick: And yet it is she. The rest of the body, you’ll say? Oh! See! She flies an ensign of blood. Do as she does, ladies. Hold onto your skin while removing your black mourning furs. Let it remain attached. You, Leah,

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above all, don’t do it. Don’t do it here. Your muscles would get cold and your nerves would become consumed. Oh, it’s just that I don’t allow myself to be surprised, that’s all. Not me. Don’t worry, my bed will smell neither of fulminate nor of powder, the way it does here. leah: What! It already smells like brains. patrick: Some good advice. Throw some sound and sweep under the armchairs. This mud is an infection. leah: Stop it, Patrick. patrick: Order, damn it all! Tidy things up a bit. The women, please, lay them out on the right. The men standing on the left. And the children in the middle, in the sauce. leah: My big hero is right. patrick: Shut up. And now, Commissioner, please chain all these fine people up for me. a voice (in the audience): Mr. Patrick, you are a criminal. patrick I, sir? No, sir. Are you deaf ? I love Leah. You should have shouted out that you love Julie, Marie, Theresa, Michelle, or Esther, and Leah would naturally have been among them. And I would experience a voluptuous pleasure in my wrists. leah: And I wouldn’t have to sleep with phosphorus tonight. patrick: You little bird-brain. leah: Stop, Patrick. patrick (very casually): My dear, there will be a lot of people here tonight. leah: So much the better, so much the better. patrick: They’re all signaling to us. Leah and Patrick make friendly gestures to the audience. The house lights come on. leah: And the face? patrick: Come, now! You remind me of a slashing knife. A wound. leah: Ah! That animal that pissed, how dear it is to your heart. patrick: No, Leah. I swear it. It was right in the forehead. Besides, it’s of no importance. leah: The face, Patrick? patrick: Oh! Sirens! You all have it, you’re all fishheaded. leah: Be a little discreet. If you force me to it, I’ll be stark naked. patrick: How useless it all is. Only clothing interests me. An empty dress or suit or shirt walking about. All these constructions of chalk, wax, wood, bone, and flesh should be incinerated. A hat gliding along six feet above the sidewalk, have you ever seen that? leah: What shitabed notions! And help!

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patrick: Leah! Leah! leah: What’s the matter? patrick: Nothing to worry about. My plaster hurts. leah: Your plaster? patrick: My hollow space. leah: So? patrick: Oh! So you can take your place at the pump. leah: Why, Patrick? patrick: Why, to pump up the red, my dear child. leah: Bladders and lanterns, my love? patrick: Isn’t that always the way with bearded women! The intelligence of the extremities. Pause. Enter Dovic. Patrick looks at Leah dully. He is entirely indifferent to the scene that is to follow. dovic (to Leah): Absolutely, positively, no. leah: What’s all this fuss? dovic: You jealous liar, that’s it. leah: And all a-tremble, and all a-sweat, and all in tears. dovic: Now, which one did you want, the animal, machinery, or the child? leah: But he was opening up my belly, that one. dovic: You mean your noodle. leah: With his beard. dovic: Oh, no! No scandal here, right? I protest, Leah. (Slapping her.) I’ve always loved you. (Pinching her.) I still love you. (Biting her.) Give me credit for that? (Pulling her ears.) Did I have cold sweats? (Spitting in her face.) I caressed your breasts and your cheeks. (Kicking her.) Everything I had was yours. (Making as though to strangle her.) You left me. (Shaking her violently.) Did I hold it against you? (Striking her with his fist.) I am good-natured. (Throwing her on the ground.) I have already forgiven you. (He drags her around the box by the hair.) Patrick rises. leah (presenting Dovic to him): You know, Patrick, Dovic is a real gentleman. patrick: Who is this Dovic? dovic: That’s me, sir. leah (whispering to Patrick): He has ants on the back of his head. patrick: Very good. And what interests you in life, Mr. Dovic? dovic: Love. Love really. patrick: Funny idea, coming to call. For without doubt you are dining with us?

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leah: Did I invite him? dovic: I’m used to the stairs, and the key is always in the door. patrick: Perfect. (To Leah.) Close the windows and set the table. (To Dovic.) And love in what aspect? dovic (pointing to Leah): See for yourself. Without another word, Patrick and Dovic come to blows. They roll on the ground and strike each other violently. leah ( following the combat ): Look out for the statue. Lean over to the right or you’ll knock the armchair over. Now to the left. You’re rolling into the fireplace. Look out for the plants, Patrick! Dovic, your nose is bleeding, you’re getting spots on the tablecloth. The dishes are in pieces. Oh, my God! Bravo, both of you. A doorbell rings. Patrick, Dovic, stop it right now. Someone’s ringing. Get up, Patrick! Get up, Dovic! Enter a few neighbors. Patrick and Dovic get up. Dovic is bloody. patrick (to Dovic): Go away. (To the neighbors.) And you too. dovic (showing a place in the box): That palm is mine. Exit Dovic and the neighbors shrugging their shoulders. leah: I’ve got a migraine. patrick: Never mind. Look, what sunshine! leah: Tell me: You won’t ask me anything about my past life, Patrick? patrick: No. Pause. Enter a woman dressed in a long nightgown. Her face, hands, and feet are blue. patrick: Good day, Madame. leah: In our room? What are you doing there, Patrick? patrick: Why not? leah: Who’s this tart? patrick: She’s the virgin, Leah; she’s the virgin. Are you happy? Exit the woman in the nightgown. The three knocks, traditional to French stagecraft, are heard. The house lights go off. The proscenium lights go on. The box is plunged into darkness. For a few seconds the curtain is strangely shaken. With each shake, the most diverse cries are uttered in the audience. Finally the curtain rises slowly. The stage is white. On the backdrop appears this inscription: IT’S ALWAYS POSSIBLE TO DIE TWO HOURS AT A TIME CIGARETTES: SILK From the left, enter a Young Man in evening dress. From the right, an Old Man with his beard trailing on the ground. The Young Man divests himself

Second Tableau The stage represents, on the left, the Quai des Grands-Augustins in Paris. To the right, a bedroom. In the center stands a small cabin with a porthole overlooking the Seine. In the background, in the space which should be occupied by the Palais de Justice, stands an advertising sign bearing this inscription in large blue letters: Le Petit Parisien. On the parapet, booksellers’ stalls affecting the shape of coffins. Above, red tugboat stacks. The bedroom has closed windows, formed like narrow arches, the tops of which are lost in obscurity; they are adorned with very white muslin curtains. In front of the fireplace and a couple of yards from the entrance to the room stands a stove of the ‘‘salamander’’ variety. But it is from the fireplace that, from time to time, blue flames emerge. The bed is entirely covered by the sheets. A table. Chairs. A pedestal lamp with a green shade on the table. A glass-fronted sideboard is filled with dishes. In a corner, some old newspapers. A package of medicated cotton wool stands in front of the stove. I quai des grands-augustins Enter the Lieutenant of Dragoons and Leah, carrying in her arms a cloth doll, half red, half yellow.

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of his cane, his hat and his gloves, which he places on the floor of the stage. The Old Man raises his arms heavenward, and smiles. the young man (pulling a bird out of his pocket ): Dad, you have before you one who is about to die. the old man: Then you will spread out my beard on the sheet. It needs to dry out. the young man: Don’t you ever wash it? Look how dirty it is! the old man: Ah! When I was a child, Justin, it was as white as milk. The Young Man opens his hand. The bird flies off. Both go off stage to the left, weeping. The curtain falls abruptly. A shot is heard. A few protests arise in the audience. The Theater Manager appears immediately. the theater manager: Ladies and gentlemen, the play is over. The drama which it has been our privilege to present to you is by Mr. Théophile Mouchet. Mr. Théophile Mouchet has just killed himself. The Manager disappears. Stupor, then sudden and increasing laughter. a voice: Author! Author! all the audience (in chorus): Author! Author! Author! The curtain rises again. The Author appears. He is in his shirtsleeves. His face and clothing are covered with blood. He laughs. He laughs heartily. He laughs with all his might, holding his sides. Both curtains suddenly fall.

patrick (as the Lieutenant of Dragoons): I don’t like people’s children. leah: Look at her, Patrick. She has my eyes, my nose, my mouth. They’ve cut her hair like this. It’s sad. Is she a little Chinese girl? I happen to be a blonde. But you know that she’s really yours. She blows into a child’s toy trumpet. The doll weeps. Enter Lloyd George. He looks like the former English prime minister. lloyd george: Psstt . . . Pstt . . . Pstt . . . Pstt . . . patrick: Ah! What a terribly tragic conclusion. He seizes the doll, deposits it in the river, and disappears. Lloyd George goes into his room. Leah follows him.

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II lloyd george’s room leah: I’m frightened, Dovic. Lloyd George crosses the room, raises the bedsheets, and reveals to a horrified Leah a little girl’s head resting on the pillow. leah: Mr. Lloyd George—I recognize her! With a sudden gesture, Lloyd George completely removes the sheets and uncovers the child. Naturally, it is only a bust of flesh which has been sawed off at the shoulders; the rest of the body has disappeared. Enter Patrick as the Lieutenant of Dragoons. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes deeply sunken. Leah rushes into the small cabin and begins to utter piercing shrieks, for the space of a few seconds. Lloyd George and Patrick remain facing each other, petrified. Leah rejoins them. (To Patrick.) Go on, go on, I can see you’re not a party to these goings-on. Patrick slips into the bed beside the girl’s bust. lloyd george (to Leah): Ah! Now let’s see a sample of my savoir-faire. He goes off stage to the right and returns immediately carrying a young man under his arm. He deposits him on the table, and saws off his head. During this operation, terrifying crashing sounds, and the sound of bells, are heard. (Carrying off the pieces.) There’s a tidy bit of work, if I do say so myself. Leah shrugs her shoulders. She bends over the bed and removes the little girl’s eyes. They are as big as ostrich eggs. leah: My eyes, Patrick! My eyes! patrick (turning toward the wall ): I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see it. Enter Lloyd George. He is carrying a black suitcase, which he holds out to Leah. lloyd george: Here, Madame, are the miraculous remains of the wellbeloved. Leah crosses the Quai des Grands-Augustins. She weeps and disappears. Enter Mrs. Morin, in mourning; and the late Mr. Morin. He has a mili-

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tary haircut and wears checkered trousers. The lamp lights of itself. All sit at the table. Patrick alone remains lying in the bed. Lloyd George sets four places. He brings numerous dishes: lobsters, chickens, dressed roasts, sherbets, pyramids of fruit. From time to time, he releases some birds. Leah returns. She takes her place. All eat and gesticulate in silence. Mr. Morin has removed his coat and is in his shirtsleeves. Mrs. Morin, her lips outrageously made up, a crepe hat on her head, remains motionless. lloyd george (to Leah): Go over and arrange the Young Officer of Dragoons’ knees below the little girl’s shoulders. No one must notice that the child has been sawed off at the shoulders. The sheets, fallen in where the thighs and legs ought to produce natural protuberances, might give away the crime. leah: That’s true. (She rises and arranges the knees of the Young Officer of Dragoons as Lloyd George has directed her. Then she returns to the table. Mr. Morin and Mrs. Morin have been pretending not to see anything.) lloyd george (to Leah): Madame, kindly look at the sideboard. Leah raises her eyes and sees Patrick’s head looking at her from on top of the sideboard. (Lloyd George rises, takes Leah by the arm, pulls her to the front of the stage, and says to her): How hard it’s raining! I won’t repeat it again. You are my unwilling accomplice, and if you talk, you will be handed over to the police. Besides, we must put an end to this. I propose the river. leah: Decidedly, this is becoming a mania with you. What I would prefer are those booksellers’ chests along the Seine that close with a padlock and are covered over with a sheet of zinc. lloyd george: My, my, can you see that? leah: Too late! Patrick as the Officer of Dragoons comes down from his observation point and goes over to the fire. The package of medicated cotton wool catches ablaze. Mrs. Morin utters a loud cry. Patrick calmly returns to his place on top of the sideboard. lloyd george (laughing): Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! The assassination victims themselves fail in their attempt. All resume eating. Lloyd George rises only to fetch new dishes. mr. morin: However, that evening the sea was rough. Sardines were being taken by the netful. But the night, the thunder, the lightning, and especially the Negroes in the boiler room, not to mention the leopard . . . Eh, my wife? Surely you won’t deny, Mrs. Morin, my wife, that one’s ever eaten so well. lloyd george: I know quite well, sir, how to handle all this. But tell me— which way is the harbor? Leah suddenly rises and, with the gestures of a sleepwalker, without being noticed, draws her chair near the dresser and covers Patrick’s head over

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with a newspaper. She returns to the table and continues eating with the others. mr. morin: Still, you must take some interest in my stories. However, that evening, the sea was rough. Sardines were being taken by the netful. But the leopard and the captain’s knife and all the glasses were shattered . . . At that moment the wind carries off the newspaper covering Patrick’s head. Leah utters a loud cry. Mr. Morin rises and, taking Lloyd George by the arm, pulls him off toward the Quai des Grands-Augustins. She’s mad, sir. What, ho! See the crazy woman! See the crazy woman! lloyd george: Oh, my! The crazy woman! Oh! The crazy woman! They go offstage. mrs. morin: I’ve seen everything. Leah, come on over here. They go toward the bed where two arms are being raised which resemble two dead branches, but whereon are flowering two enormous, very white hands. Ah! My daughter! Don’t come any closer. She has leprosy. Leah kneels. leah: She has my slanted eyes. My blond hair. My gleaming mouth. You must agree that you don’t die of love. end of the second tableau and of the first act. ACT II Third Tableau The stage represents a hotel room. A bed. A table. Chairs. A wardrobe, and so on. Leah is stretched out on the bed. Patrick is at her bedside. patrick: It’s turning. It’s turning. leah: What’s turning? patrick: Not the table, obviously. leah: The earth is turning. patrick: Be quiet. The daylight is in my left eye. leah: Oh!—he’s starting that again! patrick: I said, the daylight is in my left eye. leah: Did I say it wasn’t? (A pause.) And in your right eye, Patrick? patrick: There is a mountain. leah: Can I see? patrick: If you want. Leah bends over Patrick’s eye, and looks. leah: What is it? patrick: It’s a wheel. leah: And behind it?

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patrick: Behind it, there’s a white quarry. leah: Yes, the workers are taking it easy. patrick: Aren’t they, though! leah: What’s that shining among the stones? patrick: Their tools. They’re pretty, aren’t they? They’re made of nickel. The smallest one looks like a pink fingernail, and the biggest one like an ax. One of the men is holding the ax. Do you see him, Leah? leah: Very well. He seems tired. patrick: Still, he’s got food and drink there. leah: He’s taking a bath. That’s curious. patrick: What’s so curious about that? leah: He’s melting. He’s white. Now the animals are eating him. patrick: Poor creatures. leah: Poor creatures? Those vipers? Those flaming, scaly things? patrick: They haven’t done anything to you. leah: In that case, kiss my hands. Patrick kisses her hands but suddenly leaps back. patrick: Ouch! leah: What have I done? patrick: You’ve burned me. Smoke is rising from Leah’s hands. Leah goes toward the washstand and plunges them into the water. leah: And you—you frightened me! patrick: So in the future take care of your eyes, and leave mine alone. Leah weeps. That’s no reason to cry. leah: The world bores me. patrick: Where is this world? leah: Here I am, Patrick; here I am. patrick: Pardon, Leah. The world, if you please. Leah stretches out on the bed. leah: Come, Patrick. patrick: Oh! How long it is. (Pointing to an electric lamp.) The equator on a grid. And what lands have you protected, Madame? Tahiti, Tahiti, where change purses drop like ripe bananas? Where lace is a valued auxiliary on the ambassadors’ legs, Tahiti the shoe of spring? leah: Tahiti? My hips. You boor! patrick: Pull yourself together a bit, Leah. It’s turning. leah: Not the table, obviously, you idiot. patrick: The earth is turning. The daylight is in my left eye.

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leah: Why don’t you get a grip on yourself and listen to me? patrick: And yet it does turn. leah: You’re imagining things. patrick: I’m not doing anything any more. I am the machine that is to turn in a vacuum. That’s the brain, you say? It’s poisoned by work. It’s at the stage of tetanus. A nice animal, that one. Only yesterday I could still eat. Today, Leah, it’s all over. The brain is in the belly. We let that outcast do anything. The heart? You can look for it in the bed. The stomach? It licks my feet beneath the table. The liver makes faces in the mirrors. The spleen is in the drawer next to the corkscrew, and my lungs are having fun making holes in your canaries. My poor brain, that divine dough, bends under any yoke. It’s not Leah who’s complaining, is it? leah: Well! There’s one who turns quickly, yet not at all awkwardly. Nevertheless, I didn’t want this warfare. The doorbell rings. patrick: Come in. Enter the Butcher. the butcher: Is there anything for me, little lady? leah: Yes, Casper. You will find everything wrapped up on the kitchen table. the butcher: Very good, Miss Leah. Exit the Butcher. patrick: Who is that fellow? leah: He’s a man of sorrows. patrick: And what does he do? leah: He slaughters cattle. patrick: Poor creatures! leah: No calling is to be despised. Re-enter the Butcher. the butcher: Well now, Miss Leah, I’ll not be coming to your place any more. Not worth the bother. Just some bones where even a whore wouldn’t find a pittance! You can keep your garbage for the soldiers. You could give me the skin with the hair and nails on it now, and I still wouldn’t give you another penny. You robber! Exit the Butcher. patrick: What does that man come to do here? leah: Nothing, dear. He’s very talented, Casper is. He reupholsters the chairs and replaces the windowpanes. patrick: It seems to me I’ve seen his face before. leah: Come now, Patrick, don’t say that. You always insist that I have to turn out the light before you go to bed. patrick: Who, me?

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leah: Yes, you. And that brain that you’re so proud of. There’s certainly a good-time Charlie: before a meal, all he dreams about is knife wounds, animals dying in the forest—and such language! And after that there’s the prairie, the country with its delicate herbs where Mr. Patrick lies down like the cloud called cirrus which in shape looks like a pike and in color like fire. patrick: Go on! Next time our drainpipes won’t dry up quite so quickly. leah: So it would seem. patrick: Only last night, someone was shouting: ‘‘Are you through cutting each other’s throats up there?’’ I get up in my nightshirt and I answer, ‘‘This is August, dear sir, the month of the shower of stars.’’ And do you know what our neighbor answers? leah: What did our neighbor answer? patrick: ‘‘When you have enough blood to go into business you should become a painter, not go around scandalizing people!’’ leah: You see. patrick: You, naturally, are going to suppose that he’s being reasonable. leah: What are you talking about? patrick: The reasons of lodgers. leah: Pardon me, I misunderstood. patrick: Would you dare suppose that I don’t have my reason? leah: Far from it. Reason is balance, isn’t it? You climb ladders well enough. patrick: Oh! That hair, what battles! leah: But how cosmetic! patrick: You said it. You could have seen through every pore in the skin. A diamond millstone, that chest. And it’s fortunate. Women today select pink underthings! You, it’s the mouth that lights your way. It’s like a quarry of blood. leah: What nonsense! What about poetry? patrick (slaps her): Take that! leah: I’m not happy with you. patrick: (slaps her again): And now? leah: I’m unhappy. patrick (dragging her around by the hair): I’d be interested to know if I’ll be a clock all my life. Or rather a clock’s pendulum, or even pendent from a clock. leah: Have mercy, Patrick; have mercy! I won’t start up again. I’ll always be happy. patrick: Look at me, Leah. I’m not bad-looking—maybe I have something missing?

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leah: What would that be? patrick: Fortune. Fortune for every care and garments for the skin. Fortune? Did I say fortune, Leah? Yes, I said fortune. What’s most important of all is underwear. I go into a café. Faces are hidden behind pulled-up skirts. They are on the ceiling like pears. And suddenly everyone’s kissing. They stick pins into the fleshy parts of their legs, and I hear on all sides: ‘‘How good-looking he is!’’ Chance, that pearl—I find it on the staircase. No, Leah, it’s the fragrance that guides me. That house, I gild it every morning, for the evening before it is a ship in which we have both gone down. Open the door, for God’s sake! And let the gesture accompany it. I said fortune. Fortune for every care and garments for the skin. leah: The skin! patrick: Ah! Don’t touch on that one. My skin! My parchment? And also, skin yourself. leah: You’re hard, Patrick. You’re heartless. patrick: Well, I get along as I can—that’s no one’s lookout but my own. My behavior is my own. What was it someone once said? Love: the need to come out of oneself, someone once said. And that is why I ask you this: Are you through looking for what has been left me? Are you through looking at my skeleton? You’re certainly quite an X-ray. leah: What I have to listen to! patrick: Ah, bah! What are you listening to? Are you really listening to this walking scaffold? A spinning top! Oh! The Skeleton and the Spinning top (a fable): A skeleton six feet tall Happened to run out of plaster The worms no longer cared for it it had become so brittle and lovely And the rest what did you do with it When sitting down at the table We made animals out of it And the reason is this speed supplied By the momentum of my darling’s heart That top (The heart or the darling? —Both.) leah: Think of the future, rather. patrick: The child you bear in your bosom, Leah, infinitely disturbs me. You may remove it. leah: Rest assured, it’s only temporary. Exit Leah. patrick (alone): What a business! But what sunlight! Enter Mrs. Morin.

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mrs. morin: Good day, Mr. Patrick. patrick: Mrs. Morin! I’m happy to see you. mrs. morin: You may believe that your pleasure is shared, my dear son-in-law. patrick: Son-in-law, do you say? Please be seated, and remain calm. You’re no doubt bent on death. mrs. morin: On life, do you mean? patrick: On life, on death, I know that tune. Your daughter, Mrs. Morin, is an eel on that theme. mrs. morin: She has someone to take after. patrick: I have hinted at it, Madame: she takes after death. mrs. morin: But what sort of man are you, Mr. Patrick? patrick: Ah there we are! Enter Dovic. mrs. morin: There’s Dovic. (To Dovic.) Good day, son-in-law. dovic: Leave me alone, you. (To Patrick.) Patrick, I’m quite fond of you. patrick: Just one question, Mr. Dovic. You doubtless know the author of this play? dovic: He’s my father. patrick: No. dovic: At any rate, he’s my best friend. patrick: Well, then, please have him step over here a moment. dovic: Hey, there! Author! Author! all (singing in chorus): Why, there’s the author, how are you, old lady? Why, there’s the author, how are you, my love? Enter the Author. the author: Good day, Mrs. Morin. Good day, Dovic; and good day to you, Patrick. patrick: You’ve come just at the right time: how do you want all this to end? the author: Well now, my lad, you seem quite involved in this. patrick: Don’t I, though? One word more. the author: Go ahead. patrick: You betray yourself, sir. Am I to conclude that we are to go ahead? the author: Resolutely. patrick: Then it’s useless to talk. No one here may have the floor. the author: Listen, my boy, your case doesn’t interest me very much. It doesn’t interest the public very much, either. patrick: You don’t think so? the author: I understand myself as well as you understand me, and as well as you understand it.

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dovic: I beg your pardon? patrick: You leave us alone. Tend to the women. I am speaking with the gentleman. (To the Author.) Just one little word of advice, if you please? the author: My friend, do you really want me to tell you something? Well, I am about to reveal my greatest weakness: in this particular case, I would behave as you do. But, in this particular case, permit me to withdraw. Exit. patrick: By Hercules! Let’s go ahead. He seizes a chair and breaks up everything. He knocks down Dovic and Mrs. Morin. The stage is spattered with blood. The light goes out. He continues to flail about furiously in the dark. leah: (offstage): Ah! Ah! Mo—Mo—Mother, Mother, Mother, Mother, Mother, aaaaah . . . The light goes on again. Patrick is in tatters. Dovic and Mrs. Morin are stretched out on the floor. Enter Leah, a child in her arms. leah ( joyfully): It’s a boy. (Taken aback with shock.) Oh, our apartment! And while I was giving birth to your son! patrick: Yes, now you see. You leave me alone and you see what happens. Let’s see the child. leah: It didn’t take me too long? patrick: He seems well enough put together. Don’t you think he’ll be too cold on the marble mantelpiece? leah: I’ll clean the mirror and I’ll make a fire every morning. But he’d be better off in the bed, between us. patrick: It’s warm enough right there! You can sweep away the broken statues. (Taking his son and raising him up above him.) Guillotin, you will be called Guillotin, and all your life you will occupy the place of a masterpiece, there, between our two rooms, on the pedestal of the Venus de Milo. leah: What do you mean to do with your son? With your little sonny-boy, your Gui-gui, your Guiguillollo, your Guillo? patrick: Well, that’s a nice role you’ve got ready for me. (Placing the child on the mantelpiece.) Hold steady. And now, Guillotin, come into my arms. The child risks a movement, loses its balance, falls and is killed. leah: Ah! Ah! Ah! . . . Murder! Murder! That one, my lover, my daddy, my daddy, my Patrick, who’s gone and murdered my Guigui, my Guigui, my Guillotin. (Her tone changes.) By the way, you could have given him some other name. You infanticide! patrick: Enough, Leah. You will light the torches and prepare my traveling gear. I have things to do in the neighborhood. leah: Good night, Patrick. Exit Patrick.

a policeman (entering): Are you the one that’s making all the noise? What’s the matter with you, Madame? You’re crying? Has someone beaten you? leah: Oh, it’s nothing, Officer; it’s the little one who fell and caught the scarlet fever. The curtain falls abruptly. end of the third tableau

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The stage simultaneously represents a railway station, a dining car, the seashore, a hotel lobby, a yard goods shop, the main square of a provincial town. To be suitably arranged are signal discs, telegraph wires, several laid tables, large pieces of cotton wool to simulate the foaming waves, ships’ masts, green plants, garden chairs, a sign bearing the inscription ‘‘Yard Goods,’’ and an explorer’s statue. A projector will light up each part of the stage according to the location of the action. As the curtain rises, Leah is alone in the center of the stage. Enter Mrs. Morin in full mourning. She is holding a child in her arms. By her side, both tied to the same leash, trot two dogs: a white fox terrier and a gray bulldog. mrs. morin: Pardon me, Madame, would you hold my child a moment? leah: I should hardly think so, Madame; my train leaves in five minutes. mrs. morin: Have no fear! I’ll be back soon. Just long enough to pick up tickets for my dogs, and then I’ll be back. Besides, what are you afraid of ? My husband is in this coach. Darkness, then light. Mussolini is seated at a table. Enter Leah, the child in her arms and the dogs following her. Several passengers are eating. Leah sits, and the two dogs stretch out at her feet. A Conductor passes. leah: Is it luncheon time already? the conductor: It’s five after twelve. leah: At what time will we arrive? the conductor: At three. Whistles. Steam noises. The train starts. leah (at the door): Stop! Stop! Stop! I’ve been given a child. . . . Yes, the child isn’t mine . . . the woman . . . there! the conductor (laughing): Come now, Madame, that one’s been tried on us before. You keep the child; you’d come to regret it later on. Leah sits down again. leah: What have they done? Me, a child-stealer? I should say not! But now how to get rid of it? A cherub is such a nuisance! mussolini ( from his place): The sea air will do the child good. leah: That’s true. mussolini: You understand, you can’t . . .

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leah (interrupting him): Excuse me, sir, but you are mistaken. Your wife, I suppose it was, entrusted me with this child and these animals. Only you will readily understand that I cannot be burdened with a child, with dogs, and with a man, at my age. mussolini: Well! You could say a man, a child, and dogs. Darkness, then light. mussolini (alone): The sea! What foam! Not a drop of water. Just foam. Foam up to the roofs of the houses. It rises at regular intervals. I’ve never seen anything so impressive! And this town, built on a bridge! The sea, where is the sea? It’s two feet below, the sea. I’m frightened. Darkness, then light. Enter Leah from the left with the child and the dogs. An old Chambermaid enters from the right. leah: Funny country. the chambermaid (sitting on one of the steps to the stage): You’re not obliged to stay here. leah: Could I have a few bones for my dogs? A Cook enters from the left. He is peeling some vegetables. A second Cook follows him; he too is peeling vegetables. Finally, the last to enter is a Man in Evening Dress, with white gloves, also peeling vegetables. the man in evening dress (to the Chambermaid): Answer the lady! Yes, Madame, you’ll be given some bones. Leah manifests great joy. She places the child and the dogs underneath her dress (without being afraid to show her legs) and shakes them in all directions. leah: The bulldog is unhappy. Why, I hadn’t noticed his paws. He has paws like a tiger’s. Enter Mussolini; the Cooks and the Man in Evening Dress, who seemed interested in Leah’s actions, are seized with panic, and flee. Leah places the dogs on the floor. She keeps the child in her lap. Mussolini kicks the fox terrier and sends it rolling into the wings. You brute! You’ve bashed his snout in, and his ear! mussolini: Doctors aren’t for dogs: better have him taken care of. Leah places the child on the floor. leah: Oh, how horrible are these black shoes, these laced shoes, and these black stockings! I’m going to buy him some others. mussolini: No, it’s useless. leah: You’re right: I’d better go. Darkness followed by light. The yard goods shop. leah: I’d like some white leather booties for the child. the shopkeeper: Sky blue would be prettier. leah: No, white! I want white booties! the shopkeeper: What taste!

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leah: Everyone to his taste. (She examines the booties.) Why! The soles are made of cork. They can’t be very practical. They’d soak up the water. the shopkeeper: And what about wine-bottle corks when you push them under water? leah: All right, I’ll take the sky blue ones. Darkness followed by light. leah (seated): I’m going to Saint Affrica, in Africa. I can’t take you. mussolini: Complain! I advise you to complain. A husband without looking for one, a child you haven’t borne, and dogs you haven’t bought. leah: He has curls. He’s blond. He has large black eyes. He looks like the one I have at home, like my Patrick. I’m keeping the child. He’s too pretty. Darkness, then light. leah (holding the child by the hand): The light is opaque; the atmosphere is heavy. It is the city of wills-o’-the-wisp. And those people, those black phantoms. It is all very disturbing. (She runs.) There! I’ve got one! It’s Mussolini. mussolini: Well! It’s obvious you’ve never had a child before. You’re running like a madwoman, running as though you were alone, and you’re dragging the brat on the floor. leah: Yes, you’re right. I’d forgotten him. I was holding him by the hand. But, first, please call me ‘‘Madame.’’ I can’t stand disrespect. mussolini: There she goes again! Mussolini, the child, and the dogs begin to weep. leah: What’s wrong with you? Why are you crying? mussolini: Ah, I don’t hold it against you. (Taking the child’s black shoes from his pocket.) Here, put his old shoes, his black shoes, back on him. Someday he may be able to race along with you. But just now he needed them. leah: Oh, my God! If I could only change my heart! (She throws away the blue shoes and places the black ones on the child’s feet.) And the hair falling straight down over his forehead—where are his lovely blond curls? mussolini: Yes, he had on a wig. Leah begins to walk rapidly around the stage holding the child by the hand and saying: leah: Oh—it’s true! Now he runs as fast as I, he runs as fast as I, he runs as fast as I. (She stops and takes the child into her arms.) My little one, my little one, now we will never part again. You will have no more wigs. And so that you may pass unrecognized I will dye your hair black. Exit Leah followed by the dogs. Mussolini sits down and holds his head in his hands. The curtain slowly falls. end of the fourth tableau and of the second act

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ACT III Fifth Tableau The stage represents a hotel lobby at midnight. As the curtain rises, a clock is heard to strike, bells ring, there are footsteps and shouts on the stairs. The elevator filled with lodgers goes up and down at full speed. People in evening gowns, evening dress, shirtsleeves, and so on. several voices: —It’s number 53. —It’s on the fourth. —On the fourth. —53? —A woman. —Do they know who she is? —She’s living alone. —She’s an actress. —An American. —A housewife. —A prostitute. —The poor woman; what’s wrong with her? —She’s gone mad. —There’s nothing wrong with her. —She’s hysterical. —She’s wrecking everything. —She’s wrecking the furniture. —She’s breaking the windows. —She’s about to set fire to the whole building. one louder voice ( from above): We can’t get it open. Will you open up? (A pause.) No? (A pause.) Break down the door. A loud cry, followed by absolute silence. The elevator comes down. Leah, her hands dripping blood, her white dress in tatters, is in it between Two Policemen. Jostling on the stairs as the lodgers rush down to watch. first policeman (to the Manager): What’s her name? the manager: We don’t know. Here we call her Madame Leah. second policeman: Hasn’t she filled in a police form? the manager: Police matters are your concern. first policeman: That’s right. In that case, Madame Leah—since Madame Leah it is—kindly follow us. leah (exaltedly): I will follow you to the ends of the earth, to the ends of the earth. (Bursts of laughter.) second policeman: Either she’s crazy or she’s drunk. Do you know if she has any vices, sir? the manager: I’ve been trying to tell you that I don’t know her at all. first policeman: That’s no answer. Couldn’t she be injecting herself or inhaling drugs? the manager (to Leah): Do you inject yourself ? Do you inhale drugs? leah: I neither inject myself nor do I inhale drugs. first policeman (to the lodgers): Does anyone here know Madame Leah? Is there someone here who can tell us anything about her? all: Madame Leah? Madame Leah? Madame Leah? . . . first policeman: Now, then, what has she done, this Madame Leah? the manager: She smashed the wardrobe. She made a shambles of the bathroom. She strangled the goldfish in their tank. She set fire to the curtains in her room. That’s what she’s done, this Madame Leah. She’ll have to pay for it too, this Madame Leah.

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first policeman: Did you hear what he said, Madame? You will admit these facts, I assume? leah (to the Manager): I did not come here, sir, to occupy a number, not even Number 53. You say I smashed the wardrobe: Patrick had promised to take me to the pole. Did he do it? You say I made a shambles of the bathroom? Patrick had promised me some stars which he had made himself. You press on a coiled spring: you’re supposed to see the sea, the trees, and the clouds. What did I see? You say I strangled the goldfish in their tank? I sold all I could of Saint Patrick’s body. The rest had gone on a trip. Has the rest come back? If it has, why hasn’t someone told me? I will build you artificial grottoes at my own expense and I will buy you clocks made of silk and human flesh. And I will stock your holy-water pond in which carp and Holy Sacraments will swim. As for your curtains, sir, I set them ablaze to please you. Marlborough, Marlborough died in the wars. It’s only right that you should resurrect his mouth on the balcony of your hotel. I did what I could to open his eyes. But your walls are of iron, sir, your walls have nickel pupils. They have stripped off the flesh from my insect hands, my little Frenchwoman’s frogs. several voices: Charming! Mad? Charming! Mad, but charming. The lodgers slowly withdraw. the manager: Ladies and gentlemen, kindly, I beseech you, return to your apartments. May I ask that you be a little discreet? I myself am mortified by this scandal. Happily, it’s all over. All’s well that ends well, isn’t that right, gentlemen? Good night, ladies. (To the Policemen.) See what you can do with her. No more scenes, right? I don’t want to make an issue of this. I just want to be left in peace. Good night. first policeman: Madame Leah, please come with us. second policeman: Come with us. leah: Officers! (Pointing to the door.) Look at that door. first policeman: So what? second policeman: I see it. leah: It’s about to open. It must open. first policeman: That’s right, it must open. I’m going to open it myself right away. leah (sadly): Don’t trouble yourself, Officer. It will open by itself. The door opens by itself. Just look at the power of words. policemen (together): What about the power of words? leah: You’ll see. Say the word ‘‘light.’’ policemen (together): Light. leah (disconcerted): Now you have followed the light. Not a thing changed. The light keeps shining. It keeps shining all by itself.

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The Policemen shrug their shoulders. And now, say: ‘‘the night.’’ policemen (together): Let’s humor her. The night. leah: It’s waiting for you, just as your shadows wait for you to follow you. The night gets along without us. It passes all by itself. But I, I say, I am going to say, that I carry him . . . and he passes . . . as though molded by my throat and sprung from my mouth: ‘‘Patrick.’’ Enter Patrick. The Policemen flee in terror. Ah! Patrick, what joy! They kiss. patrick: Weren’t you still waiting for me? Were you still waiting for me? leah: I was hardly waiting for you at all. Still, yesterday while I was eating strawberries, I said to myself: ‘‘Will I ever see the cream on the table again? Patrick in his place?’’ And I took some sugar. patrick: And you took some sugar? leah: I took some. Ah! All that sugar I wasted! patrick: And the house? leah: Now it’s in the hands of the electricians. Clap of thunder. patrick: What is that sound? leah: It’s thunder. patrick: But the sky is like lead. leah: Today is Corpus Christi day. patrick: Today is Corpus Christi day. Enter some Children. first child: Mr. Patrick, what did you bring in your shoes? patrick: Elephants beneath the palms. second child: And that lion looking at us? patrick: That, my boy, is liberty. third child: And the automobile, is it for us? patrick: It’s unbreakable and deep. first child: Are you giving us any new scents? patrick: Take these birds. second child: Give us something more. patrick: Leah, don’t you have anything for these children? leah: Children, leave your father alone. the children: But Patrick isn’t our father! patrick: Who is your father, then, children? first child: Mine is the bakery’s horse. second child: Mine is my mother’s sewing machine.

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patrick (to the Third Child): And who is yours? third child: My father, Mr. Patrick? Rather say my son who is off fighting the Arabs. He has a large face like an apple tart and giant’s ears. My son’s beard grows in his wallet and he has eyes in all his pockets. They say he’s quite a character. But, then, what don’t they say? Isn’t that right, Mr. Patrick? They also say you buy Negresses to make grape preserves and that you sell the leavings to the goldsmiths. Such a disgusting trade fairly makes me retch. My son will never get over it when he finds out. He’s a good friend of Leah’s, isn’t he, my girl? This is what he said to me before he went away: ‘‘Be happy, little father! Leah is the finest of the finest, and it won’t be long before Patrick smashes the terrace of the house against her face.’’ I didn’t say anything to such nonsense. Leah forbids me to talk about it, but she thinks a lot of characters like me. Isn’t that right, children? the children (together): Yes, sir. Long live the colonel’s father! patrick: Ah! sir! Your son is a colonel? third child: We’ve been knocking ourselves out repeating it. My son is a colonel of Zouaves. patrick: Go on, dear child, assemble your troops and leave me in peace. third child: By my command! Fall in! The Children line up side by side. The colonel’s father pulls a revolver from his pocket and kills them point-blank. Write that down in your hunting record, Mr. Patrick! patrick: Oh, my son, my son! Think of the future of our line! Come here and let me decorate and embrace you properly. third child: What do you want, Papa? I was the father of a colonel of Zouaves by accident, but I’ll always be a child of love. Clap of thunder. patrick: Begin reading the proclamation. leah: My God, you’ve given me the breasts of a cow—give me today the crested helmet of rebellion, for Patrick and my child have forsaken me. Clap of thunder. third child: Rise, Madame. Your Patrick has lost nothing in his travels. The Nile flows through many lands, and I was my family’s joy before the age of reason. Give thanks to your son while you accept mine. If Patrick had met the colonel of Zouaves, he would have lacked for nothing. He would have been restored to you a eunuch, Leah. And my father would today have that bayonet-like voice which is the sign of imminent genius. leah: Thank you, little one. You speak like a book. third child: Mother, books don’t speak. patrick: What do they do, my son? third child: They read. Clap of thunder.

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patrick: Go away, you swarm of flies. Miniature graybeards. Go blow your noses. They get on my nerves, these children. They exasperate me. leah: Yes, they’re killing each other. I’m fed up with it too. patrick: A fine bonnet, that crown of newborn babes, one of whom already has a son who is a colonel of Zouaves. But how do I fit into the story? And the final outcome? leah: You’ve put on weight, Patrick. patrick: The outcome? leah: Ah! I’ve waited so long already! patrick: The outcome? leah: How impatiently! patrick: Yes, that’s right. But to conclude . . . leah: To conclude what? patrick: To love each other. leah: I’m hungry. patrick: Oh, my dear, what big teeth you have! leah: The better to rock you with, my child. patrick: Well, then, let’s go to sleep. leah: No, I want you to tell me a story. patrick: Well, then, I’ll tell you one. It will be the last. The factory chimneys are harvested at the end of November. First they are polished by being rolled in sand. They come out smooth and bright after that operation. Some are set aside for reproduction, on the right; the others are placed on the left. The latter are divided into two parts. One part is for armaments. Cannons are made from them. The rest are sold at auction. These are therefore scattered. But as they change hands, they wear out, and soon nothing is left of these former factory chimneys. All that remains is the factories and the cannons. Then the cannons are aimed at the factories. A cannon is given away to every lady who asks for one, so that finally not a single cannon remains. leah: And, dear Patrick, what do the ladies do with all those cannons? patrick: My dear, you don’t have to believe me—but they eat them. leah: It’s not true. Enter the Author. the author: Hey there! Patrick! leah: Who are you? patrick: He’s the Author. the author: Do you need me? patrick: No, thank you. the author (handing him a revolver): Here, take this; you’ll need it.

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patrick: You’re right. (He fires at the Author.) the author: It’s no use, my dear Patrick! Those bullets can’t penetrate me. And it’s a shame! patrick: Well, then, keep the thing. I have no use for it. the author: Please. If you won’t do it for me, then do it for the sake of the drama you are enacting. I assure you that a shot at the end of the play is absolutely necessary for the development of the plot. patrick: Do you think so? the author: I’m sure of it. patrick: Then I will obey you. Good-bye, sir. the author: Farewell, Patrick. leah (to the Author): Tell me something. the author: Madame? leah: Aren’t you going to give me anything? the author: That’s a reasonable question. Take this. (He hands her another revolver.) leah: Is it loaded, at least? (To Patrick.) I’m sure you haven’t examined your weapon. the author: Have no fear; they are both suitably provided [equipped]. leah (to Patrick): Don’t you think the gentleman takes after Dovic a little? patrick: The gentleman has all his parts properly in place. That’s enough, Leah. the author: You should make allowances, Patrick. Leah is a woman. patrick: What did you say? the author: I said: Leah is a woman. patrick: I’m a woman too, then. What would you say to that? the author: What I say is this: I know more about it than you do, but I must say I didn’t think you’d turn out so well. patrick: See how white my skin is. the author: That wouldn’t prove very much. patrick: It wouldn’t prove anything, actually, if it were not for the perpetual snows. The perpetual snows, sir, if you care to know, have taught me to see clearly into this. The mountains, it is true, did somewhat disturb me. But do you know what I did with the mountains? the author: What did you do with the mountains? patrick: I turned them into men. the author: Your words make everything impossible, my friend. patrick: Well, then, write plays without words. the author: Did I ever intend to do otherwise? patrick: Yes, you put words of love into my mouth.

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the author: You should have spat them out. patrick: I tried to, but they turned into gunshots or dizzy spells. the author: That’s hardly my fault. Life is like that. patrick: Leave life alone, then, and increase the size of your brain. the author: Without fail. patrick: When it gives birth, save a little brain for me. the author: You can count on me. patrick: I can really do without it, but it will amuse Leah’s child. the author: Don’t you have anything else to ask me? patrick: No. leah: May I ask you for something too? the author: If you don’t ask for too much. leah: Then give us two little brains. One for the child and the other for me. the author: For you? leah: Yes, that will give me three. the author: How is that? leah: Mine, Patrick’s, and yours. the author (hastily): Count on me, count on me. (To Patrick, in low tones.) One bit of good advice, my friend; use that thing you’re holding. Your future depends on it. (He runs away.) patrick: Where are you running off to? Where are you running off to? the author: I’m going to give birth. Good night. A long pause. Patrick and Leah look at each other. patrick: Ah, Leah, there’s still love! leah: Love worn down to the bare rope, and the rope to hang yourself. Love: the secret work of wear. There’s just you, Patrick. patrick: Me, let’s talk about it! Me, a little cork of marrow bobbing on a string. There’s you, Leah. leah: Ah, Patrick: the beautiful architecture of wrath! I would be quite willing to live on roses: they have a flowery odor. I need coal and bedsheets. There is pain, Patrick. patrick: Pain? A burning drop of oil engendering a body. The curving of the earth is the pain of the world, as the tongue is the pain of thought, as the isthmus of the neck is the pain of the body and, when it is sliced through, the most painful criminals are severed from life. Pain? The great genesis. But there is kindness, Leah. leah: Kindness? No, Patrick. Kindness, a gift at the end of a rubber band, the flabby malady of death. Fat cheeks and overburdened knees. Don’t try to touch me with that. The trained-dog factory. But there is forgiveness, Patrick.

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patrick: Forgiveness, like the sun. Forgiveness, like returning. Forgiveness, like a boomerang. Forgiveness, like births. Forgiveness, like the seasons. Forgiveness, without any ill feelings. leah: There is death. patrick: Yes, death. But death like forgiveness. Like snow on the mountain. Forgiveness, like fire you slice with a knife. Forgiveness, like the water houses are made of. Forgiveness, like the murderer other crimes are made of. Forgiveness, like the living other dead are made of. Forgiveness, like the secret the storms are made of. Forgiveness, like the horse fortunes are made of. Forgiveness, like the old man the clouds are made of. Forgiveness, like me, whom I am making a criminal of. Forgiveness, like you whom I am making a deadly acid of. The heart is red already. Flow. Leah. Hands on the copper of shadows. The heart is red already as far as the end of the theater, where someone is about to die. leah: Enough, Patrick! (She fires a shot.) patrick: What have you done, Leah? What have you done? You’ve just killed a spectator. end of the fifth tableau and the third act

a

ndré Breton (1896–1966) was the leader of the Surrealist movement. The earliest influence on his poetry was Symbolism, particularly the poetry of Paul Valéry and Arthur Rimbaud. By 1916, he had joined the Dada movement, but by the time he co-founded and edited the magazine Littérature, Breton had started to develop his own artistic theories and separate from the Dadaists. He contributed to the demise of Dada when, in 1924, he and Jacques Vaché founded Surrealism. The Magnetic Fields (1920), a book on which Breton collaborated with Philippe Soupault, is generally regarded as the first genuine Surrealist work (though it predates the founding of Surrealism), and their subsequent play, If You Please (1920), remains one of the earliest and best examples of ‘‘automatic writing,’’ a technique that the Surrealists further developed to help them bypass their brains’ logical functions. Breton published three theoretical documents central to the development of Surrealism: First Surrealist Manifesto (1924), Second Surrealist Manifesto (1930), and What Is Surrealism? (1934). In the first, he defined Surrealism as ‘‘pure psychic automatism’’ and proclaimed that Surrealism’s central goal was to bridge the gap between the waking moments of reality and the dream state of sleep. (Although he never practiced medicine, Breton attended medical school and worked in a neurological ward, and his study of mental illness and exposure to the writings of Sigmund Freud fueled his interest in dreams and the unconscious.) Further, he advocated the denial of logic and even morality in the creation of art. In 1927, communism became the central focus of the Surrealists’ agenda until 1935, when Breton broke with this political movement. He remained a Marxist and Surrealist, however, and while he was in exile in New York during World War II, he lectured about Surrealist techniques at several American universities, Yale among them. The influence of his years in America can be seen in the work of the New York School of painters, including Jackson Pollock and Robert Motherwell.

First Surrealist Manifesto André Breton

We are still living under the reign of logic, but the logical processes of our time apply only to the solution of problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism which remains in fashion allows for the consideration of only those facts narrowly relevant to our experience. Logical conclusions, on the other hand, escape us. Needless to say, boundaries have been assigned even to experience. It revolves in a cage from which release is becoming increasingly difficult. It too depends upon immediate utility and is guarded by common sense. In the guise of civilization, under the pretext of progress, we have succeeded in dismissing from our minds anything that, rightly or wrongly, could be regarded as superstition or myth; and we have proscribed every way of seeking the truth which does not conform to convention. It would appear that it is by sheer chance that an aspect of intellectual life— and by far the most important, in my opinion—about which no one was supposed to be concerned any longer has, recently, been brought back to light. Credit for this must go to Freud. On the evidence of his discoveries a current of opinion is at last developing which will enable the explorer of the human mind to extend his investigations, since he will be empowered to deal with more than merely summary realities. Perhaps the imagination is on the verge of recovering its rights. If the depths of our minds conceal strange forces capable of augmenting or conquering those on the surface, it is in our greatest interest to capture them; first to capture them and later to submit them, should the occasion arise, to the control of reason. The analysts themselves can only gain by this. But it is important to note that there is Excerpt reprinted from Avant-Garde Drama: A Casebook, ed. Bernard F. Dukore and Daniel C. Gerould; trans. Patrick Waldberg (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1976), 563–72.

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no method fixed a priori for the execution of this enterprise, that until the new order it can be considered the province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success does not depend upon the more or less capricious routes which will be followed. It was only fitting that Freud should appear with his critique on the dream. In fact, it is incredible that this important part of psychic activity has still attracted so little attention. (For, at least from man’s birth to his death, thought presents no solution of continuity; the sum of dreaming moments— even taking into consideration pure dream alone, that of sleep—is from the point of view of time no less than the sum of moments of reality, which we shall confine to waking moments.) I have always been astounded by the extreme disproportion in the importance and seriousness assigned to events of the waking moments and to those of sleep by the ordinary observer. Man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all at the mercy of his memory, and the memory normally delights in feebly retracing the circumstance of the dream for him, depriving it of all actual consequence and obliterating the only determinant from the point at which he thinks he abandoned this constant hope, this anxiety, a few hours earlier. He has the illusion of continuing something worthwhile. The dream finds itself relegated to a parenthesis, like the night. And in general it gives no more counsel than the night. This singular state of affairs seems to invite a few reflections: 1. Within the limits to which its performance is restricted (or what passes for performance), the dream, according to all outward appearances, is continuous and bears traces of organization. Only memory claims the right to edit it, to suppress transitions and present us with a series of dreams rather than the dream. Similarly, at no given instant do we have more than a distinct representation of realities whose coordination is a matter of will.* It is important to note that nothing leads to a greater dissipation of the constituent elements of the dream. I regret discussing this according to a formula which in principle excludes the dream. For how long, sleeping logicians, philosophers? I would like to sleep in order to enable myself to surrender to sleepers, as I surrender to those who read me with their eyes open, in order to stop the conscious rhythm of my thought from prevailing over this material. Perhaps my dream of last night was a continuation of the preceding night’s, and will be continued tonight with an admirable precision. It could be, as they say. And as it is in no way proven that, in such a case, the ‘‘reality’’ with which I am concerned even exists in the dream state, or that it does not sink into the immemorial, then why should I not concede to the dream what I sometimes refuse to reality—that weight of self-assurance which by its own terms is not exposed to my denial? Why should I not expect more of the dream sign than * We must take into consideration the thickness of the dream. I usually retain only that which comes from the most superficial layers. What I prefer to visualize in it is everything that sinks at the awakening, everything that is not left to me of the function of that preceding day, dark foliage, absurd branches. In ‘‘reality,’’ too, I prefer to fall.

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I do of a daily increasing degree of consciousness? Could not the dreams as well be applied to the solution of life’s fundamental problems? Are these problems the same in one case as in the other, and do they already exist in the dream? Is the dream less oppressed by sanctions than the rest? I am growing old and, perhaps more than this reality to which I believe myself confined, it is the dream, and the detachment that I owe to it, which is aging me. 2. I return to the waking state. I am obliged to retain it as a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the mind show a strange tendency to disorientation under these conditions (this is the clue to slips of the tongue and lapses of all kinds whose secret is just beginning to be surrendered to us), but when functioning normally the mind still seems to obey none other than those suggestions which rise from that deep night I am commending. Sound as it may be, its equilibrium is relative. The mind hardly dares express itself and, when it does, is limited to stating that this idea or that woman has an effect on it. What effect it cannot say; thus it gives the measure of its subjectivism and nothing more. The idea, the woman, disturbs it, disposes it to less severity. Their role is to isolate one second of its disappearance and remove it to the sky in that glorious acceleration that it can be, that it is. Then, as a last resort, the mind invokes chance—a more obscure divinity than the others— to whom it attributes all its aberrations. Who says that the angle from which that idea is presented which affects the mind, as well as what the mind loves in that woman’s eye, is not precisely the same thing that attracts the mind to its dream and reunites it with data lost through its own error? And if things were otherwise, of what might the mind not be capable? I should like to present it with the key to that passage. 3. The mind of the dreaming man is fully satisfied with whatever happens to it. The agonizing question of possibility does not arise. Kill, plunder more quickly, love as much as you wish. And if you die, are you not sure of being roused from the dead? Let yourself be led. Events will not tolerate deferment. You have no name. Everything is inestimably easy. What power, I wonder, what power so much more generous than others confers this natural aspect upon the dream and makes me welcome unreservedly a throng of episodes whose strangeness would overwhelm me if they were happening as I write this? And yet I can believe it with my own eyes, my own ears. That great day has come, that beast has spoken. If man’s awakening is harsher, if he breaks the spell too well, it is because he has been led to form a poor idea of expiation. 4. When the time comes when we can submit the dream to a methodical examination, when by methods yet to be determined we succeed in realizing the dream in its entirety (and that implies a memory discipline measurable in generations, but we can still begin by recording salient facts), when the dream’s curve is developed with an unequaled breadth and regularity, then we can hope that mysteries which are not really mysteries will give way to

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the great Mystery. I believe in the future resolution of these two states— outwardly so contradictory—which are dream and reality, into a sort of absolute reality, a surreality, so to speak. I am aiming for its conquest, certain that I myself shall not attain it, but too indifferent to my death not to calculate the joys of such possession. They say that not long ago, just before he went to sleep, Saint-Pol-Roux placed a placard on the door of his manor at Camaret which read: the poet works. There is still a great deal to say, but I did want to touch lightly, in passing, upon a subject which in itself would require a very long exposition with a different precision. I shall return to it. For the time being my intention has been to see that justice was done to that hatred of the marvelous which rages in certain men, that ridicule under which they would like to crush it. Let us resolve, therefore: the Marvelous is always beautiful, everything marvelous is beautiful. Nothing but the Marvelous is beautiful. . . . One night, before falling asleep, I became aware of a most bizarre sentence, clearly articulated to the point where it was impossible to change a word of it, but still separate from the sound of any voice. It came to me bearing no trace of the events with which I was involved at that time, at least to my conscious knowledge. It seemed to me a highly insistent sentence—a sentence, I might say, which knocked at the window. I quickly took note of it and was prepared to disregard it when something about its whole character held me back. The sentence truly astounded me. Unfortunately I still cannot remember the exact words to this day, but it was something like: ‘A man is cut in half by the window’; but it can only suffer from ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the feeble visual representation of a walking man cut in half by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body.* It was probably a simple matter of a man leaning on the window and then straightening up. But the window followed the movements of the man, and I realized that I was dealing with a very rare type of image. Immediately I had the idea of incorporating it into my poetic material, but no sooner had I invested it with poetic form than it went on to give way to a scarcely intermittent succession of sentences which surprised me no less than the first and gave me the impression of such a free gift that the control which I had had over myself up * Had I been a painter, this visual representation would undoubtedly have dominated the other. It is certainly my previous disposition which decided it. Since that day I have had occasion to concentrate my attention voluntarily on similar apparitions, and I know that they are not inferior in clarity to auditory phenomena. Armed with a pencil and a blank sheet of paper, it would be easy for me to follow its contours. This is because here again it is not a matter of drawing, it is only a matter of tracing. I would be able to draw quite well a tree, a wave, a musical instrument—all things of which I am incapable of furnishing the briefest sketch at this time. Sure of finding my way, I would plunge into a labyrinth of lines which at first would not seem to contribute to anything. And upon opening my eyes I would experience a very strong impression of ‘‘jamais vu.’’ What I am saying has been proved many times by Robert Desnos. To be convinced of this, one has only to thumb through No. 36 of Feuilles Libres, which contains several of his drawings (Romeo and Juliet, A Man Died This Morning, etc.). They were taken by this review as drawings of the insane and innocently published as such.

* Knut Hamsun attributes the kind of revelation by which I have just been possessed to hunger, and he may well be right. (The fact is that I was not eating every day at that period.) Unquestionably the manifestations that he describes below are the same as mine: The next day I awoke early. It was still dark. My eyes had been open for a long time when I heard the clock in the flat overhead sound five o’clock. I wanted to go back to sleep, but had no success. I was completely awake and a thousand things ran through my mind. All of a sudden several good pieces came to me, just right for use in a sketch or article. I found abruptly, and by chance, very beautiful phrases, phrases such as I had never written. I repeated them to myself slowly, word for word: they were excellent. And they kept coming. I rose and took a piece of paper and pencil to the desk behind my bed. It was as though a vein had burst in me, one word followed another, set itself in place, adapted itself to the situation, scenes accumulated, action unfolded, replies surged in my brain. I enjoyed myself prodigiously. Thoughts came to me so rapidly and continued to flow so abundantly that I lost a multitude of delicate details because my pencil could not go fast enough, and even then I was hurrying, my hand was always moving. I didn’t lose a minute. Sentences continued to be driven from me, I was at the heart of my subject. Apollinaire affirmed that Chirico’s paintings had been executed under the influence of cenesthesiac pains (migraines, colic).

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to that point seemed illusory and I no longer thought of anything but how to put an end to the interminable quarrel which was taking place within me.* Totally involved as I was at the time with Freud, and familiar with his methods of examination, which I had had some occasion to practice on the sick during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what one seeks to obtain from a patient—a spoken monologue uttered as rapidly as possible, over which the critical faculty of the subject has no control, unencumbered by any reticence, which is spoken thought as far as such a thing is possible. It seemed to me, and still does—the manner in which the sentence about the man cut in two came to me proves it—that the speed of thought is no greater than that of words, and that it does not necessarily defy language or the moving pen. It was with this in mind that Philippe Soupault (with whom I had shared these first conclusions) and I undertook to cover some paper with writing, with a laudable contempt for what might result in terms of literature. The ease of realization did the rest. At the end of the first day we were able to read to each other around fifty pages obtained by this method, and began to compare our results. Altogether, those of Soupault and my own presented a remarkable similarity, even including the same faults in construction: in both cases there was the illusion of an extraordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, a considerable assortment of images of a quality such as we would never have been capable of achieving in ordinary writing, a very vivid graphic quality, and here and there an acutely comic passage. The only difference between our texts seemed to me essentially due to our respective natures (Soupault’s is less static than mine) and, if I may hazard a slight criticism, due to the fact that he had made the mistake of distributing a few words in the way of titles at the head of certain pages—no doubt in the spirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give him credit for maintaining his steadfast opposition to the slightest alteration in the course of any passage

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which seemed to me rather badly put. He was completely right on this point, of course.* In fact, it is very difficult to appreciate the full value of the various elements when confronted by them. It can even be said to be impossible to appreciate them at the first reading. These elements are outwardly as strange to you who have written them as to anyone else, and you are naturally distrustful of them. Poetically speaking, they are especially endowed with a very high degree of immediate absurdity. The peculiarity of this absurdity, on closer examination, comes from their capitulation to everything—both inadmissible and legitimate—in the world, to produce a revelation of a certain number of premises and facts generally no less objective than any others. In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire—who died recently, and who appears to have consistently obeyed an impulse similar to ours without ever really sacrificing mediocre literary means—Soupault and I used the name surrealism to designate the new mode of pure expression which we had at our disposal and with which we were anxious to benefit our friends. Today I do not believe anything more need be said about this word. The meaning which we have given it has generally prevailed over Apollinaire’s meaning. With even more justification we could have used supernaturalism, employed by Gérard de Nerval in the dedication of filles du feu.† In fact, Nerval appears to have possessed to an admirable extent the spirit to which we refer. Apollinaire, on the other hand, possessed only the letter of Surrealism (which was still imperfect) and showed himself powerless to give it the theoretical insight that engages us. Here are two passages by Nerval which appear most significant in this regard: I will explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of which you spoke above. As you know, there are certain storytellers who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the characters from their imagination. You know with what conviction our old friend Nodier told how he had had the misfortune to be guillotined at the time of the Revolution; one became so convinced that one wondered how he had managed to stick his head back on. And since you have had the imprudence to cite one of the sonnets composed in this state of supernaturalist reverie, as the Germans would say, you must hear all of them. You will find them at the end of the volume. They are hardly more obscure than Hegel’s metaphysics or Swedenborg’s memorables, and would lose their charm in explication, if such a thing were possible, so concede me at least the merit of their expression.‡ * I believe increasingly in the infallibility of my thought in regard to myself, and it is too accurate. Nevertheless, in this writing down of thoughts, where one is at the mercy of the first exterior distraction, ‘‘transports’’ can be produced. It would be inexcusable to seek to ignore them. By definition, thought is strong and incapable of being at fault. We must attribute those obvious weaknesses to suggestions which come from outside. † And also by Thomas Carlyle in Sartor Resartus (chap. 8, ‘‘Natural Supernaturalism’’), 1833–34. ‡ See also l’idéoréalisme by Saint-Pol-Roux.

q. ‘‘How old are you?’’ a. ‘‘You.’’ (Echolalia.) q. ‘‘What is your name?’’ a. ‘‘Forty-five houses.’’ (Ganser syndrome, or beside-the-point replies.)

There is no conversation in which some trace of this disorder does not occur. The effort to be social which dictates it and the considerable practice we have at it are the only things which enable us to conceal it temporarily. It is also the great weakness of the book that it is in constant conflict with its best, by which I mean the most demanding, readers. In the very short dialogue that I concocted above between the doctor and the madman, it was in fact the madman who got the better of the exchange—because, through his replies, he obtrudes upon the attention of the doctor examining him—and

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It would be dishonest to dispute our right to employ the word surrealism in the very particular sense in which we intend it, for it is clear that before we came along this word amounted to nothing. Thus I shall define it once and for all: Surrealism, noun, masc., Pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing, the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations. Encycl. Philos. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of association heretofore neglected, in the omnipotence of the dream, and in the disinterested play of thought. It leads to the permanent destruction of all other psychic mechanisms and to its substitution for them in the solution of the principal problems of life. .... The forms of Surrealist language adapt themselves best to dialogue. Here, two thoughts confront each other; while one is being delivered, the other is busy with it; but how is it busy with it? To assume that it incorporates it within itself would be tantamount to admitting that there is a time during which it is possible for it to live completely off that other thought, which is highly unlikely. And, in fact, the attention it pays is completely exterior; it has only time enough to approve or reject—generally reject—with all the consideration of which man is capable. This mode of language, moreover, does not allow the heart of the matter to be plumbed. My attention, prey to an entreaty which it cannot in all decency reject, treats the opposing thought as an enemy; in ordinary conversation, it ‘‘takes it up’’ almost always on the words, the figures of speech, it employs; it puts me in a position to turn it to good advantage in my reply by distorting them. This is true to such a degree that in certain pathological states of mind, where sensory disorders occupy the patient’s complete attention, he limits himself, while continuing to answer the questions, to seizing the last word spoken in his presence or the last portion of the Surrealist sentence some trace of which he finds in his mind.

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because he is not the person asking the questions. Does this mean that his thought at this point is the stronger? Perhaps. He is free not to care any longer about his age or name. Poetic Surrealism, which is the subject of this study, has focused its efforts up to this point on reestablishing dialogue in its absolute truth, by freeing both interlocutors from any obligations of politeness. Each of them simply pursues his soliloquy without trying to derive any special dialectical pleasure from it and without trying to impose anything whatsoever upon his neighbor. The remarks exchanged are not, as is generally the case, meant to develop some thesis, however unimportant it may be; they are as [disinterested] as possible. As for the reply that they elicit, it is, in principle, totally indifferent to the personal pride of the person speaking. The words, the images are only so many springboards for the mind of the listener. In Les champs magnétiques, the first purely Surrealist work, this is the way in which the pages grouped together under the title Barrières must be conceived of— pages wherein Soupault and I show ourselves to be impartial interlocutors.

part ten The Theater of Cruelty

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ntonin Artaud (1896–1948) stands as one of the most significant influences on avant-garde theater. Starting in 1921, he worked as an actor for some of the most respected and influential avant-garde directors in Paris, including Aurélien Lugné-Poë, Charles Dullin, and Georges Pitoëff. Then in 1924, Artaud joined the Surrealist movement and, in 1925, served as director of the Bureau of Surrealist Research. But because of what André Breton considered to be Artaud’s unorthodox interest in occultism, mysticism, and Oriental religion, and his devotion to live theater—a theater that Breton found too oriented toward commercial production—Artaud split with the Surrealists. During the 1920s, Artaud wrote plays characterized by violent images in disconnected sequences that defy conventional logic: The Spurt of Blood (a.k.a. The Jet of Blood, 1925), The Philosopher’s Stone (1926), and The Burnt Belly, or The Crazy Mother (1927). With Roger Vitrac and Robert Aron, he founded the Théâtre Alfred Jarry in 1926, for which he directed plays by August Strindberg and Paul Claudel, as well as the premieres of Vitrac’s The Mysteries of Love (1927) and Victor, or the Children Take Over (1928). Not even the success of the latter could save the theater, which closed after two seasons. Artaud started another theater, the Theater of Cruelty (Paris) in 1935, yet its only production, his adaptation of Percy Shelley’s The Cenci, received poor reviews and closed quickly. Over the course of his erratic career, Artaud attempted to work as a playwright, poet, screenwriter, actor, and director. However, it is as a theorist rather than a theater artist that Artaud’s influence is most strongly felt to this day. In The Theater and Its Double (1938), his seminal book of theories about theater, he articulated his concept of a language dependent on the body rather than the word as its primary unit of expression. He coined the term ‘‘theater of cruelty’’ to capture his vision of theater, in which a

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visceral attack on the senses would be used to confront what he saw as a diseased society. His theories were heavily influenced by the physical style of a Balinese dance company he saw at the Colonial Exposition of 1931 in Paris, as well as by his own battles with what might now be diagnosed as schizophrenia, and his addiction to opiates, which were originally prescribed to combat his chronic clinical depression. He was first institutionalized at the age of 18 and then confined to sanatoriums from 1937 until 1946, two years before his death from cancer. Following his death, Artaud’s writings inspired many avant-garde theater artists, including Jean Genêt, Eugène Ionesco, Jerzy Grotowski, the Living Theater, Peter Brook, and several American experimental theater and performance artists, Richard Foreman, Joseph Chaikin, Sam Shepard, Karen Finley, and Spaulding Grey among them. His influence extended well beyond theater, too, inspiring the work of poets such as Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, and rock musician Jim Morrison of The Doors.

Antonin Artaud and the Theater of Cruelty

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ew contemporary directors have totally escaped Artaud’s influence, but there has only been one consistent attempt to test Artaud’s theories in practice. Unlike such self-styled disciples as Schechner, or Beck and Malina, who adapted what ideas they borrowed to hybrid forms of their own, Peter Brook and Charles Marowitz specifically took Artaud’s writings as the basis for their work in 1964. Their ‘‘Theater of Cruelty’’ experiment was designed as a training for actors, and culminated in a series of demonstration performances that included the first staging of Artaud’s surrealist playlet, The Spurt of Blood. The results were incorporated into a production of Genet’s The Screens and Brook’s striking interpretation of Weiss’ Marat/ Sade. Interestingly, the conclusion that Brook came to was indeterminate: ‘‘you should take Artaud unadulterated as a way of life, or say that there is something in Artaud that relates to a style of theater.’’ This ‘‘something’’ was defined as being ‘‘certain limited, specific—almost technical—things, the use of yoga and breathing exercises, the expression of emotion by imaginatively locating specific feelings in different parts of the body’’1 (in other words those suggestions contained in Artaud’s essays which have at least to do with metaphysics or the state of western culture, ‘‘An affective athleticism’’ and ‘‘The seraphim theater’’). If Artaud’s essays have eclipsed his practical achievements, it is as much as anything else because they promise something much grander than could ever be achieved in practice. Artaud had the habit of exaggerating to an extreme degree: indeed, in an illuminating postscript to a letter—asking Jean Paulhan not to publish one of his theater reviews since what he had written bore little relation to what he had seen—he commented, ‘‘I cannot write without enthusiasm and I always go too far.’’2 This, rather than any lack of financial backing, is the reason for the gulf between Artaud’s theory and his practice; and a good example of this gulf is the emphasis on drama as ‘‘process,’’ not finished product, in what is commonly considered ‘‘Artaudian’’ theater. His essays (and his disciples) claim ‘‘direct staging’’ and improvisation as the basis of ‘‘true’’ theater. In his outlines for productions and his own actual stagings, however, Artaud stressed that a performance should only seem to be improvised and merely ‘‘give us the impression of not only being unexpected but also unrepeatable’’3 —a normal indeed conventional standpoint. Even his attack on language in the theater is not what it appears. With the possible exception of Yeats, who once expressed the frustrated desire that his actors rehearse their lines in barrels (in order to make it impossible for them to substitute gestures and movements for the rhythms and sense of his poetry), one can hardly imagine any director or playwright believing that the logical meaning of words is the sole means of theatrical communication. Yet it is this (non-existent) attitude that Artaud seems to be attacking. In fact his aim was to bring every element of a performance, including the script, under his rigid control; and his rejection of Excerpted from Christopher Innes, Avant Garde Theatre 1892–1992 (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 62–64.

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dramatic texts is really an argument for a more exclusive method of recording the totality of a production. Hence his wish for a system of notating gestures, facial expressions, attitudes, movements, tonal variations and breathing, and his search for ways of making these subtleties of expression exact, controllable and reproducible. What he wanted was ‘‘a work written down, fixed in its least details’’ so that the ‘‘final result’’ would be ‘‘as strict and calculated as that of any written work’’ since ‘‘the theater, less than any other means of expression, will not suffer improvisation.’’4 This did not mean that Artaud approached a script with a preconceived interpretation, or with moves already blocked out. According to actors who worked with him, he required that initially every line become a basis for ‘‘free fantasizing,’’ and that whatever emotional states might be evoked were translated directly into physical terms. Yet free expression was not encouraged. Rather he acted out all the roles himself, and imposed a uniform (if highly idiosyncratic) style by demonstration. The moves, gestures and intonations arrived at were then carefully noted and rehearsed so that there was nothing accidental about the final performance, however frenetic and arbitrary the effect might have seemed. As Raymond Rouleau, who acted the part of the Officer in Artaud’s production of A Dream Play, noted: He did not prepare his productions in any precise way . . . His direction was a kind of introspection; he seemed to listen attentively to the promptings of his subconscious. At the first rehearsal, Artaud rolled around on the stage, assumed a falsetto voice, contorted himself, howled, and fought against logic, order, and the ‘‘well-made’’ approach . . . When he felt that he had found the truth, which his interior voyage had disclosed to him, he fixed it very meticulously.5

From Artaud’s early programs of the Théâtre Alfred Jarry to Roger Blin’s production notes in the prompt book of The Cenci,6 what was stressed was disciplined precision and strictly organized performance. Even Balinese theater was not just an ideal example of magical and mythological drama. It was equally valuable to Artaud for the ‘‘reflective mathematics’’ of its precise gestures, regulated and impersonal, ‘‘all producing methodically calculated effects which forbid any recourse to spontaneous improvisation.’’7 In the light of his stage work, it becomes clear that, even when he refers to theater as ‘‘not . . . an end but a means,’’8 Artaud is simply transferring the emphasis from the play as such, to its effect on the audience’s imagination. A performance still has to be a finished product: the ‘‘process’’ takes place in the spectator’s perception of it.

Notes 1. ‘‘Marat/Sade Forum,’’ TDR, vol. 10, no. 4, p. 226. See also Michael Kustow, ‘Sur les traces d’Artaud,’ Espirit, May 1965, pp. 958ff; and Charles Marowitz, ‘‘Notes on the Theatre of Cruelty,’’ TDR, vol. 11, no. 2, pp. 161ff. 2. 16 October 1934, OC, vol. 3, p. 308. 3. ‘‘Théâtre Alfred Jarry . . . saison 1926–7,’’ OC, vol. 2, p. 15. 4. The Theatre and Its Double, p.111, and letter to Louis Jouvet, 29 April 1931, OC, vol. 3, p. 206. 5. Raymond Rouleau, Letter on Artaud’s Dream Play production, in A. Swerling, Strindberg’s

Impact in France 1920–1960, Cambridge 1971, p. 175. See also Tania Balachova, in From Script to Stage, ed. R. Goodman, San Francisco 1971, p. 150. 6. In the possession of Roger Blin. Act I, sc. iii has been published in Cahiers Renaud-Barrault, vol. 51, November 1965. 7. Artaud, The Theatre and Its Double, pp. 55 and 58. 8. OC, vol. 2, p. 27.

See Ahrends; Benedikt and Wellwarth, Modern French Theatre; Finter; Hayman; Kott; Matthews, Theatre in Dada and Surrealism; Plunka; Torelli; Torn; and Wellwarth, in the General Bibliography.

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Barber, Stephen. Artaud: Blows and Bombs. Updated ed. London: Creation Books, 2002. Bermel, Albert. Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty. 1977. London: Methuen, 2001. ———. Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty, 47–54, 62–64. New York: Taplinger, 1977. Cohn, Ruby. ‘‘Artaud’s Jet de sang: Parody or Cruelty?’’ Theatre Journal 31 (1979): 312–18. Costich, Julia F. Antonin Artaud. Boston: Twayne, 1978. Crombez, Thomas. ‘‘The Dismembered Body in Antonin Artaud’s Surrealist Plays.’’ In Dismemberment in Drama / Dismemberment of Drama. Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars, 2008: 27–43. Esslin, Martin. Artaud. London: Calder, 1976. Goodall, Jane. Artaud and the Gnostic Drama. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994. Greene, Naomi. Artaud: Poet Without Words. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1970. Jannarone, Kimberly. Artaud and His Doubles. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2010. Knapp, Bettina. Antonin Artaud: Man of Vision. 1969. Chicago: Swallow, 1980. Sellin, Eric. The Dramatic Concepts of Antonin Artaud. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1968.

The Theater of Cruelty

Select Bibliography on Artaud

The Spurt of Blood Antonin Artaud

characters a young man a young girl a knight a wet-nurse a priest a cobbler a beadle a bawd a judge a peddler a huge voice young man: I love you and everything is beautiful. young girl: [With quavering voice] You love me and everything is beautiful. young man: [In a lower tone] I love you and everything is beautiful. young girl: [In an even lower tone] You love me and everything is beautiful. young man: [Leaving her abruptly] I love you. [Silence] Face me. Reprinted from A Treasury of the Theatre, vol. 2, 4th ed., ed. John Gassner and Bernard F. Dukore; trans. Ruby Cohn (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1970), 705–6.

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young girl: [As before, standing opposite him] There. young man: [In an exalted, high-pitched voice] I love you, I am great, I am lucid, I am full, I am dense. young girl: [In the same high-pitched voice] We love each other. young man: We are intense. Ah, how beautifully the world is built. [Silence. There is a noise as if an immense wheel were turning and moving the air. A hurricane separates them. At the same time, two stars are seen colliding, and from them fall a series of legs of living flesh, with feet, hands, scalps, masks, colonnades, porticos, temples, alembics, falling more and more slowly, as if in a vacuum; then three scorpions one after another, and finally a frog and a beetle which come to rest with desperate slowness, nauseating slowness] young man: [Crying with all his strength] The sky has gone mad. [He looks at the sky] Let’s hurry away from here. [He pushes the Young Girl before him] [Enter a medieval Knight in gigantic armor, followed by a Wet-Nurse holding her breasts in her hands, and puffing because her breasts are swollen] knight: Let go of your tits. Give me my papers. wet-nurse: [Screaming in high pitch] Ah! Ah! Ah! knight: Damn, what’s the matter with you? wet-nurse: Our daughter, there, with him. knight: Quiet, there’s no girl there. wet-nurse: I’m telling you that they’re screwing. knight: What the Hell do I care if they’re screwing? wet-nurse: Incest. knight: Midwife. wet-nurse: [Plunging her hands deep into her pockets, which are as big as her breasts] Pimp. [She throws his papers at him] knight: Let me eat. [The Wet-Nurse rushes out ] [He gets up, and from each paper he takes a huge hunk of Swiss cheese. Suddenly he coughs and chokes] knight: [With full mouth] Ehp. Ehp. Show me your breasts. Show me your breasts. Where did she go? [He runs out ] [The Young Man comes back] young man: I saw, I knew, I understood. Here on a public street, the priest,

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the cobbler, the peddler, the entrance to the church, the red light of the brothel, the scales of justice. I can’t stand it any longer! [Like shadows, a Priest, a Cobbler, a Beadle, a Bawd, a Judge, a Peddler, arrive on stage] young man: I’ve lost her; give her back to me. all: [In different tones] Who, who, who, who? young man: My wife. beadle: [Very fat] Your wife, you’re kidding! young man: Kidding! Maybe she’s yours! beadle: [Tapping his forehead] Maybe she is. [He runs out ] [The Priest leaves the group and puts his arm around the neck of the Young Man] priest: [As if confessing someone] To what part of your body do you refer most often? young man: To God. [Confused by the reply, the Priest immediately shifts to a Swiss accent ] priest: [In Swiss accent ] But that isn’t done any more. We no longer hear through that ear. You have to ask that of volcanoes and earthquakes. We wallow in the little obscenities of man in the confession box. That’s life. young man: [Much impressed] Ah that’s life! Then everything is shot to hell. priest: [Still with Swiss accent ] Of course. [At this moment, night suddenly falls onstage. The earth quakes. There are furious thunder and zigzags of lightning in every direction; through the zigzags all the characters can be seen running around, bumping into each other and falling, then getting up and running about like crazy. Then, an enormous hand seizes the Bawd by her hair, which bursts into flame and grows huge before our eyes] huge voice: Bitch, look at your body! [The Bawd’s body is seen to be absolutely naked and hideous beneath her blouse and skirt, which become transparent as glass] bawd: Leave me alone, God. [She bites God in the wrist. An immense spurt of blood lacerates the stage, and through the biggest flash of lightning the Priest can be seen, making the sign of the cross. When the lights go on again, all the characters are dead, and their corpses lie all over the ground. Only the Young Man and the Bawd remain, devouring each other with their eyes. The Bawd falls into the Young Man’s arms] bawd: [With the sigh of one having an orgasm] Tell me how it happened to you. [The Young Man hides his head in his hands. The Wet-Nurse comes back, carrying the Young Girl under her arm like a bundle. The Young Girl is

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dead. The Bawd takes her and drops her on the ground, where she collapses and becomes flat as a pancake. The Wet-Nurse no longer has her breasts. Her chest is completely flat ] knight: [In a terrible voice] Where did you put them? Give me my Swiss cheese. wet-nurse: [Boldly and gaily] Here you are. [She lifts up her dress. The Young Man wants to run away, but he is frozen like a petrified puppet ] young man: [As if suspended in the air, and with the voice of a ventriloquist ] Don’t hurt Mommy! knight: She-devil! [He hides his face in horror. A multitude of scorpions crawl out from beneath the Wet-Nurse’s dress and swarm between her legs. Her vagina swells up, splits, and becomes transparent and glistening, like a sun. The Young Man and Bawd run off as though lobotomized] young girl: [Getting up, dazed] The virgin! Ah, that’s what he was looking for.

No More Masterpieces Antonin Artaud

One of the reasons for the asphyxiating atmosphere in which we live without possible escape or remedy—and in which we all share, even the most revolutionary among us—is our respect for what has been written, formulated, or painted, what has been given form, as if all expression were not at last exhausted, were not at a point where things must break apart if they are to start anew and begin fresh. We must have done with this idea of masterpieces reserved for a selfstyled elite and not understood by the general public; the mind has no such restricted districts as those so often used for clandestine sexual encounters. Masterpieces of the past are good for the past: they are not good for us. We have the right to say what has been said and even what has not been said in a way that belongs to us, a way that is immediate and direct, corresponding to present modes of feeling, and understandable to everyone. It is idiotic to reproach the masses for having no sense of the sublime, when the sublime is confused with one or another of its formal manifestations, which are moreover always defunct manifestations. And if, for example, a contemporary public does not understand Oedipus Rex, I shall make bold to say that it is the fault of Oedipus Rex and not of the public. In Oedipus Rex there is the theme of incest and the idea that nature mocks at morality and that there are certain unspecified powers at large which we would do well to beware of, call them destiny or anything you choose. There is in addition the presence of a plague epidemic which is a physiReprinted from Antonin Artaud, The Theater and Its Double, trans. Mary Caroline Richards (New York: Grove, 1958), 74–83. Used by permission of Grove Atlantic, ∫ 1958.

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cal incarnation of these powers. But the whole in a manner and language that have lost all touch with the rude and epileptic rhythm of our time. Sophocles speaks grandly perhaps, but in a style that is no longer timely. His language is too refined for this age; it is as if he were speaking beside the point. However, a public that shudders at train wrecks, that is familiar with earthquakes, plagues, revolutions, wars; that is sensitive to the disordered anguish of love, can be affected by all these grand notions and asks only to become aware of them, but on condition that it is addressed in its own language, and that its knowledge of these things does not come to it through adulterated trappings and speech that belong to extinct eras which will never live again. Today as yesterday, the public is greedy for mystery: it asks only to become aware of the laws according to which destiny manifests itself, and to divine perhaps the secret of its apparitions. Let us leave textual criticism to graduate students, formal criticism to aesthetes, and recognize that what has been said is not still to be said; that an expression does not have the same value twice, does not live two lives; that all words, once spoken, are dead and function only at the moment when they are uttered; that a form, once it has served, cannot be used again and asks only to be replaced by another; and that the theater is the only place in the world where a gesture, once made, can never be made the same way twice. If the public does not frequent our literary masterpieces, it is because those masterpieces are literary, that is to say, fixed; and fixed in forms that no longer respond to the needs of the time. Far from blaming the public, we ought to blame the formal screen we interpose between ourselves and the public, and this new form of idolatry, the idolatry of fixed masterpieces which is one of the aspects of bourgeois conformism. This conformism makes us confuse sublimity, ideas, and things with the forms they have taken in time and in our minds—in our snobbish, precious, aesthetic mentalities which the public does not understand. How pointless in such matters to accuse the public of bad taste because it relishes insanities, so long as the public is not shown a valid spectacle; and I defy anyone to show me here a spectacle valid—valid in the supreme sense of the theater—since the last great romantic melodramas, i.e., since a hundred years ago. The public, which takes the false for the true, has the sense of the true and always responds to it when it is manifested. However, it is not upon the stage that the true is to be sought nowadays, but in the street; and if the crowd in the street is offered an occasion to show its human dignity, it will always do so. If people are out of the habit of going to the theater, if we have all finally come to think of theater as an inferior art, a means of popular distraction,

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and to use it as an outlet for our worst instincts, it is because we have learned too well what the theater has been, namely, falsehood and illusion. It is because we have been accustomed for four hundred years, that is since the Renaissance, to a purely descriptive and narrative theater—storytelling psychology; it is because every possible ingenuity has been exerted in bringing to life on the stage plausible but detached beings, with the spectacle on one side, the public on the other—and because the public is no longer shown anything but the mirror of itself. Shakespeare himself is responsible for this aberration and decline, this disinterested idea of the theater which wishes a theatrical performance to leave the public intact, without setting off one image that will shake the organism to its foundations and leave an ineffaceable scar. If, in Shakespeare, a man is sometimes preoccupied with what transcends him, it is always in order to determine the ultimate consequences of this preoccupation within him, i.e., psychology. Psychology, which works relentlessly to reduce the unknown to the known, to the quotidian and the ordinary, is the cause of the theater’s abasement and its fearful loss of energy, which seems to me to have reached its lowest point. And I think both the theater and we ourselves have had enough of psychology. I believe furthermore that we can all agree on this matter sufficiently so that there is no need to descend to the repugnant level of the modern and French theater to condemn the theater of psychology. Stories about money, worry over money, social careerism, the pangs of love unspoiled by altruism, sexuality sugar-coated with an eroticism that has lost its mystery have nothing to do with the theater, even if they do belong to psychology. These torments, seductions, and lusts before which we are nothing but Peeping Toms gratifying our cravings, tend to go bad, and their rot turns to revolution: we must take this into account. But this is not our most serious concern. If Shakespeare and his imitators have gradually insinuated the idea of art for art’s sake, with art on one side and life on the other, we can [stick to] this feeble and lazy idea only as long as the life outside endures. But there are too many signs that everything that used to sustain our lives no longer does so, that we are all mad, desperate, and sick. And I call for us to react. This idea of a detached art, of poetry as a charm which exists only to distract our leisure, is a decadent idea and an unmistakable symptom of our power to castrate. Our literary admiration for Rimbaud, Jarry, Lautréamont, and a few others, which has driven two men to suicide, but turned into café gossip for the rest, belongs to this idea of literary poetry, of detached art, of neutral spiritual activity which creates nothing and produces nothing; and I can bear witness that at the very moment when that kind of personal poetry which involves only the man who creates it and only at the moment he creates it

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broke out in its most abusive fashion, the theater was scorned more than ever before by poets who have never had the sense of direct and concerted action, nor of efficacity, nor of danger. We must get rid of our superstitious valuation of texts and written poetry. Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others. Then we might even come to see that it is our veneration for what has already been created, however beautiful and valid it may be, that petrifies us, deadens our responses, and prevents us from making contact with that underlying power, call it thought-energy, the life force, the determinism of change, lunar menses, or anything you like. Beneath the poetry of the texts, there is the actual poetry, without form and without text. And just as the efficacity of masks in the magic practices of certain tribes is exhausted—and these masks are no longer good for anything except museums—so the poetic efficacity of a text is exhausted; yet the poetry and the efficacity of the theater are exhausted least quickly of all, since they permit the action of what is gesticulated and pronounced, and which is never made the same way twice. It is a question of knowing what we want. If we are prepared for war, plague, famine, and slaughter we do not even need to say so, we have only to continue as we are; continue behaving like snobs, rushing en masse to hear such and such a singer, to see such and such an admirable performance which never transcends the realm of art (and even the Russian ballet at the height of its splendor never transcended the realm of art), to marvel at such and such an exhibition of painting in which exciting shapes explode here and there but at random and without any genuine consciousness of the forces they could rouse. This empiricism, randomness, individualism, and anarchy must cease. Enough of personal poems, benefiting those who create them much more than those who read them. Once and for all, enough of this closed, egoistic, and personal art. Our spiritual anarchy and intellectual disorder are a function of the anarchy of everything else—or rather, everything else is a function of this anarchy. I am not one of those who believe that civilization has to change in order for the theater to change; but I do believe that the theater, utilized in the highest and most difficult sense possible, has the power to influence the aspect and formation of things: and the encounter upon the stage of two passionate manifestations, two living centers, two nervous magnetisms is something as entire, true, even decisive, as, in life, the encounter of one epidermis with another in a timeless debauchery. That is why I propose a theater of cruelty.—With this mania we all have for depreciating everything, as soon as I have said ‘‘cruelty,’’ everybody will at once take it to mean ‘‘blood.’’ But ‘‘theater of cruelty’’ means a theater difficult and cruel for myself first of all. And, on the level of performance, it is

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not the cruelty we can exercise upon each other by hacking at each other’s bodies, carving up our personal anatomies, or, like Assyrian emperors, sending parcels of human ears, noses, or neatly detached nostrils through the mail, but the much more terrible and necessary cruelty which things can exercise against us. We are not free. And the sky can still fall on our heads. And the theater has been created to teach us that first of all. Either we will be capable of returning by present-day means to this superior idea of poetry and poetry-through-theater which underlies the Myths told by the great ancient tragedians, capable once more of entertaining a religious idea of the theater (without meditation, useless contemplation, and vague dreams), capable of attaining awareness and a possession of certain dominant forces, of certain notions that control all others, and (since ideas, when they are effective, carry their energy with them) capable of recovering within ourselves those energies which ultimately create order and increase the value of life, or else we might as well abandon ourselves now, without protest, and recognize that we are no longer good for anything but disorder, famine, blood, war, and epidemics. Either we restore all the arts to a central attitude and necessity, finding an analogy between a gesture made in painting or the theater, and a gesture made by lava in a volcanic explosion, or we must stop painting, babbling, writing, or doing whatever it is we do. I propose to bring back into the theater this elementary magical idea, taken up by modern psychoanalysis, which consists in effecting a patient’s cure by making him assume the apparent and exterior attitudes of the desired condition. I propose to renounce our empiricism of imagery, in which the unconscious furnishes images at random, and which the poet arranges at random too, calling them poetic and hence hermetic images, as if the kind of trance that poetry provides did not have its reverberations throughout the whole sensibility, in every nerve, and as if poetry were some vague force whose movements were invariable. I propose to return through the theater to an idea of the physical knowledge of images and the means of inducing trances, as in Chinese medicine, which knows, over the entire extent of the human anatomy, at what points to puncture in order to regulate the subtlest functions. Those who have forgotten the communicative power and magical mimesis of a gesture, the theater can reinstruct, because a gesture carries its energy with it, and there are still human beings in the theater to manifest the force of the gesture made. To create art is to deprive a gesture of its reverberation in the organism, whereas this reverberation, if the gesture is made in the conditions and with the force required, incites the organism and, through it, the entire individuality, to take attitudes in harmony with the gesture. The theater is the only place in the world, the last general means we still

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possess of directly affecting the organism and, in periods of neurosis and petty sensuality like the one in which we are immersed, of attacking this sensuality by physical means it cannot withstand. If music affects snakes, it is not on account of the spiritual notions it offers them, but because snakes are long and coil their length upon the earth, because their bodies touch the earth at almost every point; and because the musical vibrations which are communicated to the earth affect them like a very subtle, very long massage; and I propose to treat the spectators like the snake charmer’s subjects and conduct them by means of their organisms to an apprehension of the subtlest notions. At first by crude means, which will gradually be refined. These immediate crude means will hold their attention at the start. That is why in the ‘‘theater of cruelty’’ the spectator is in the center and the spectacle surrounds him. In this spectacle the sonorization is constant: sounds, noises, cries are chosen first for their vibratory quality, then for what they represent. Among these gradually refined means, light is interposed in its turn. Light which is not created merely to add color or to brighten, and which brings its power, influence, suggestions with it. And the light of a green cavern does not sensually dispose the organism like the light of a windy day. After sound and light there is action, and the dynamism of action: here the theater, far from copying life, puts itself whenever possible in communication with pure forces. And whether you accept or deny them, there is nevertheless a way of speaking which gives the name of ‘‘forces’’ to whatever brings to birth images of energy in the unconscious, and gratuitous crime on the surface. A violent and concentrated action is a kind of lyricism: it summons up supernatural images, a bloodstream of images, a bleeding spurt of images in the poet’s head and in the spectator’s as well. Whatever the conflicts that haunt the mind of a given period, I defy any spectator to whom such violent scenes will have transferred their blood, who will have felt in himself the transit of a superior action, who will have seen the extraordinary and essential movements of his thought illuminated in extraordinary deeds—the violence and blood having been placed at the service of the violence of the thought—I defy that spectator to give himself up, once outside the theater, to ideas of war, riot, and blatant murder. So expressed, this idea seems dangerous and sophomoric. It will be claimed that example breeds example, that if the attitude of cure induces cure, the attitude of murder will induce murder. Everything depends upon the manner and the purity with which the thing is done. There is a risk. But let it not be forgotten that though a theatrical gesture is violent, it is disinterested; and that the theater teaches precisely the uselessness of the action which, once [performed,] is not to be [performed,] and the superior use of the state unused by the action and which, restored, produces a purification.

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I propose, then, a theater in which violent physical images crush and hypnotize the sensibility of the spectator seized by the theater as by a whirlwind of higher forces. A theater which, abandoning psychology, recounts the extraordinary, stages natural conflicts, natural and subtle forces, and presents itself first of all as an exceptional power of redirection. A theater that induces trance, as the dances of Dervishes induce trance, and that addresses itself to the organism by precise instruments, by the same means as those of certain tribal music cures which we admire on records but are incapable of originating among ourselves. There is a risk involved, but in the present circumstances I believe it is a risk worth running. I do not believe we have managed to revitalize the world we live in, and I do not believe it is worth the trouble of clinging to; but I do propose something to get us out of our [malaise] instead of continuing to complain about it, and about the boredom, inertia, and stupidity of everything.

part eleven

Russian Oberiu

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leksandr Vvedensky (1904–1941) and Daniil Ivanovich Kharms (1905–1942) were pioneering members of the Russian avantgarde writing group Oberiu. The name was derived from the initials of the group’s full name: Obedinenie Realnogo Iskusstva, or the Society for Real Art. Its members called themselves Oberiuty. Vvedensky briefly studied law and Asian languages before focusing on poetry and drama. He conducted research into the nature of poetry with Igor Terentev, the Futurist poet and theater director who headed the Institute of Artistic Culture in Leningrad, from 1923 to 1926. Kharms, a self-styled eccentric who, like Alfred Jarry, attempted to draw public attention to his work through his odd personal behavior, was a member of several avant-garde writing groups during the 1920s. He and Vvedensky met in 1925 and, in 1928, helped start Oberiu. The Oberiuty published a 1928 manifesto declaring their preference for visual elements and spectacle over plot and championing drama unimpeded by logic. As early as 1926, though, Vvedensky and Kharms had produced work along the lines of the manifesto. Kharms’s writing, most notably in his play Elizabeth Bam (1928), rejects Realism and conventional plot structure in favor of an aura of doom that gives way to absurdity; a dark, tragic-grotesque sense of humor; and extreme, nonsensical violence of the kind that Antonin Artaud favored in the Theater of Cruelty. Oberiuty produced poetry, manifestos, plays, and provocative performances that attempted to expand the meaning of words through distortion and juxtaposition. The earliest Oberiu theater work was created with Radiks, a student drama group from the Institute for Art History, and included several evenings of Dada-inspired theater, poetry, and dance. Along with other avant-garde artists, though, the Oberiuty came under government attack as a threat to socialism in

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1930, and they disbanded rather than risk reprisals for continued public affiliation. Vvedensky was arrested and imprisoned in 1931 and began living in exile in Kursk in 1932. He moved in 1936 to Kharkov, Ukraine, where in 1938 he wrote Christmas at the Ivanovs’, his only full-length drama. It was not only a parody of the realistic conventions and assumptions of 1930s socialist realist drama, but also a demonstration of the absurdity of domestic routine and the meaninglessness of life—a focus that would be seen in plays such as Eugène Ionesco’s The Bald Soprano (1950) and a number of other plays of the Theater of the Absurd. Vvedensky was arrested again 1941 and died under circumstances that remain unclear; he might have perished from dysentery or have been shot by a guard in a prison convoy. Kharms limited his published work to children’s stories after Oberiu disbanded. Because of his writing, he was arrested in 1931 and exiled in Kursk, then detained again in 1941. He is believed to have died of starvation in a Ukrainian prison. In the late 1960s, Kharms’s work was rediscovered in Eastern Europe and the West, and in the wake of glasnost in the Soviet Union in the 1980s, the reprinting and translation of his writing renewed appreciation for his and Oberiu’s contributions to the dramatic avant-garde.

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more entertaining and funnier exercise in the absurd than Elizabeth Bam, Vvedensky’s Christmas at the Ivanovs’ is an ‘‘antiChristmas anti-play’’ (to borrow George Gibian’s characterization) which freely uses absurdist, grotesque, and surreal techniques to spoof not only the conventions of Christmas celebrations but the conventions also of traditional representational drama. The play opens with the seven Ivanov children (though nobody, not even the parents, is called Ivanov) being given a bath by nurses on Christmas Eve. The children all have different surnames and range in age from one to eighty-two years. While they are in the tub, off to the right cooks are slaughtering chickens and suckling pigs. In the art-as-shock style of Dada and Surrealist drama, violence and sex frequently come together. As two of the sisters, Dunya and Sonya, quarrel over the latter’s boasts about the size of her breasts and buttocks, a nurse menaces Sonya with an ax because of her bad language. But Sonya is incorrigible and continues to scandalize the rest with frank talk about masturbation and how she intends to expose herself to guests during the Christmas celebration. The nurse finally chops off her head in disgust. After the police remove her, the scene shifts to a forest where woodcutters are felling trees for Christmas. One of them is the nurse’s fiancé Fyodor, who boasts of his love for her. When the woodcutters ride out on a sled, animals appear and talk among themselves. The patent surrealism of the first scene is reinforced in the animal scene, in which the dialogue takes place between a giraffe, a wolf, a beaverlike animal, a lion, and a ‘‘porky’’ suckling pig. The surreal and absurd merge in the following scene as the dead Sonya’s mother and father return home, find their daughter in a coffin with her decapitated head lying on a cushion nearby, and then proceed to have intercourse in the same room. Within the context of the surreal, everything, of course, is possible. And so we find absurd stage directions such as the following in which Vvedensky is obviously having fun with his readers: Sonya (formerly a thirty-two-year-old girl) lies like a railway post that has been knocked over. Can she hear what her mother is saying? How can she? She is quite dead. She has been killed. The door opens. Father enters, followed by Fyodor, followed by woodcutters. They carry in a Christmas tree. They see the coffin, and all take off their caps. Except for the tree, which has no cap and which understands nothing about it all. (p. 171; all translations from George Gibian, ed. and trans., The Man with the Black Coat: Russia’s Literature of the Absurd: Selected Works of Daniil Kharms and Alexander Vvedensky [Cornell University Press, 1971])

Moreover, at the very end of the scene Sonya’s head and body engage in conversation (p. 172): Reprinted from Harold B. Segel, ‘‘The Oberiuty: Swan Song of the NEP,’’ in Twentieth Century Russian Drama (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 230–38.

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the head: Body, you heard everything. the body: I heard nothing. I have no ears. But I felt it all.

In the realm of the surreal, not only is everything possible but inversion is commonplace. When the murderess-nurse is brought to an insane asylum for examination, it appears that the one who is really insane is the examining doctor. Believing himself to be persecuted, he fires a pistol at a mirror which he takes to be one of his enemies. When an attendant enters and asks who fired the gun, the doctor says that it was the mirror. Before the scene ends, Vvedensky manages to slip in another surreal stage direction, this one calling for the doctor’s patients to sail away out of the room in a boat, pushing themselves along the floor with oars. They are off to pick berries and mushrooms. With the third act virtually all pretense of a plot vanishes. The opening stage direction reads: Table. A coffin on the table. In the coffin, Sonya Ostrova. Inside Sonya Ostrova, a heart. In the heart, coagulating blood. In the blood, red and white corpuscles. Also of course gangrene poison. (p. 181)

The first speaker is the dog Vera, who recites a poem. The one-year-old boy Petya comes in and he and the dog converse. At one point the dog asks him if he is surprised that she is talking and not barking. Petya’s answer? ‘‘What can surprise me, at my age? Calm down.’’ At the end of the scene, brother and sister Misha Pestrov and Dunya Shustrova enter. Misha wishes her a Happy Christmas, then declares: ‘‘Soon there will be a Christmas pee.’’ Dunya replies, ‘‘Not pee but bee. No bee but tree. Best wishes. Is Sonya sleeping?’’ The dog Vera answers the question, saying, ‘‘No. She is peeing.’’ The scene shifts next to a courtroom, where no sooner does the judge appear than he declares that he is dying and is quickly replaced with another judge. But the second judge also dies and has to be replaced. The court protocol read by the Secretary consists of nothing more than a series of nonsense quatrains. Finally, the nurse who killed Sonya is sentenced to be executed by hanging. The fourth act [follows,] with another typical Vvedensky stage direction: The ninth scene, like all the preceding ones, represents events which took place six years before my birth, or forty years ago. That is the least of it. So why should we grieve and weep that somebody was killed? We didn’t know any of them, and anyway they have all died. (p. 185)

The children are at last permitted to view the Christmas tree. The mother plays the piano and sings, but the mood becomes somber when the mother recalls Sonya’s death and begins to weep. At this point, the twenty-five-year-old son Volodya shoots himself in the temple and then tells his mother not to cry but to laugh for he too has shot himself. The mother replies by singing that she will not spoil their good time. But the topic of death again intrudes when the oneyear-old son Petya says that life will pass quickly and soon they will all die. Thereafter the characters onstage die (after announcing that they are about to die), leaving just the father and mother. Before they too die, they exchange the following (p. 189) . . .:

Select Bibliography on Vvedensky Jakovljevic, Branislav. Daniil Kharms: Writing and the Event. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2009. Klebanov, Michael. ‘‘The Culture of Experiment in Russian Theatrical Modernism: The OBERIU Theatre and the Biomechanics of Vsevolod Mejerchol’d.’’ Russian Literature 69.2–4 (2011): 309–28. Nakhimovsky, Alice Stone. Laughter in the Void: An Introduction to the Writings of Daniil Kharms and Alexander Vvedensky. Vienna: Wiener Slawistischer Almanach, 1982. Nikol’skaia, Tat’iana. ‘‘The Oberiuty and the Theatricalization of Life.’’ In Daniel Kharms and the Poetics of the Absurd, ed. Neil Cornwell, 195–99. Houndmills, England: Macmillan, 1991. Vishevsky, Anatoly. ‘‘Tradition in the Topsy-Turvy World of Parody: Analysis of Two ‘Oberiu’ Plays.’’ Slavic and East European Journal 30.3 (Fall 1986): 355–66. See also Gibian; Listengarten; and Roberts, in the General Bibliography.

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In their shocking, often puzzling, yet often delightful blending of the absurd, grotesque, and nonsensical the plays of Kharms and Vvedensky represent an extreme form, perhaps the most extreme, of Russian avant-garde drama of the first two decades of the twentieth century. But in order to view them in the proper perspective, they should be regarded, I think, as the end of a tradition rather than as an isolated episode in the history of twentieth-century Russian drama or as the beginning of anything new. The absurd and grotesque permeate the most original Russian plays of the NEP [New Economic Policy] era, but the plays of Kharms and Vvedensky are anything but typical NEP satires. Apart from the names of the characters, there is nothing Russian about the plays, nor do they bristle with the topical satire of the comedies of Erdman, Romashov, Bulgakov, and Mayakovsky. They also lack the philosophical dimension and social implications of the plays of such later absurdists as Ionesco, Beckett, Pinter, and the Poles S™awomir Mrozek and Tadeusz Rózewicz. Christmas at the Ivanovs is a spoof on the ritual of Christmas celebration but it cannot be seen as directed against a Russian celebration of Christmas. For all its nonsense, Elizabeth Bam does evoke a sense of dread but what further or more specific meaning does the play have? Because of their apparent absence of meaning, their experimental nature, their sexual frankness, and their mocking irreverence, the plays of Kharms and Vvedensky lay beyond any possible redemption once socialist realism became the aesthetic law of the land. Their suppression and the fate suffered by their authors meant that a watershed in postrevolutionary Russian literature had been reached; NEP was definitely at an end, not only as an economic policy but, more grievously, as an artistic ambience.

Russian Oberiu

father p.: They’ve died too. They say the woodcutter Fyodor has finished his studies and become a teacher of Latin. What has happened to me? A stabbing in the heart. I see nothing. I’m dying. mother p.: What are you saying? You see there is a man of the common people, and he’s worked his way up. God, what an unhappy Christmas we’re having. (She falls down and dies.)

Christmas at the Ivanovs’ Aleksandr Vvedensky

cast of characters The children: petya perov—one-year-old boy nina serova—eight-year-old girl varya petrova—seventeen-year-old girl volodya komarov—twenty-five-year-old boy sonya ostrova—thirty-two-year-old girl misha pestrov—seventy-six-year-old boy dunya shustrova—eighty-two-year-old girl puzyrova—mother puzyrov—father fyodor the woodcutter the dog vera undertaker Nannies, policemen, woodcutters, a clerk, a medical attendant, a doctor, patients, judges, court employees, a secretary, a giraffe, a lion, a piglet, chambermaids, cooks, soldiers, teachers of Latin and Greek. The action takes place in the 1890s. This translation is published here for the first time. Trans. Julia Listengarten and Karin Coonrod.

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(There is a painted bathtub in the first scene. Christmas Eve, so the children are bathing. A chest of drawers stands there, as well. To the right of the door, cooks are slaughtering chickens and slaughtering piglets. Nannies, nannies, nannies are washing the children. All the children are in the big bathtub, except Petya Perov, a one-year-old boy, who is bathing in a pan standing directly in front of the door. A clock hangs on the wall to the left of the door. Its face shows nine in the evening.) one-year-old boy petya perov Will there be Christmas? There will be. Yet suddenly there will not be. Suddenly I will die. nanny Wash yourself, Petya Perov. Soap your ears and neck. You can’t talk yet. petya perov I can talk inside my thoughts. I can cry. I can laugh. What do you want? varya petrova (seventeen-year-old girl) Volodya, scrub my back. God knows, moss has grown on it. What do you think? volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy) I think nothing. I burned my belly. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year old boy) Now you will have a blot. Which I know nothing will remove. Ever. sonya ostrova (thirty-two-year old girl ) You, Misha, are always wrong. Better look at what has happened to my breasts. dunya shustrova (eighty-two-year-old girl ) Bragging again. You bragged about the buttocks, now the breasts. Fear God. sonya ostrova (thirty-two-year-old girl. Hangs her head like a grown-up Ukrainian.) You hurt me. Fool, idiot, slut. nanny (waving an axe as though it were a small hatchet ) Sonya, if you keep cursing, I will tell your father and mother, I will kill you with the axe. petya perov (one-year-old boy) And you will feel for a brief flash how your skin splits open and how the blood spurts out. What you will feel next is unknown to us. nina serova (eight-year-old girl ) Sonyechka, that nanny is crazy or criminal. She can do anything. Why did they bring her to us? misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) Children, quit quarreling. Nobody will live to see Christmas this way. The parents have bought candles, candies, and matches—matches to light the candles. sonya ostrova (thirty-two-year-old girl ) I don’t need the candles. I have a finger. varya petrova (seventeen-year-old girl ) Sonya, don’t persist in this. Don’t persist. Clean yourself better.

Christmas at the Ivanovs’

ACT I scene 1

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volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy) Girls must wash more often than boys or they become repulsive. I think so. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) Oh, enough of this rubbish. Tomorrow is Christmas, and we will all be celebrating. petya perov (one-year-old boy) Only I will sit in the arms of the guests in turn, with a serious and stupid look, as if I understood nothing. I and invisible God. sonya ostrova (thirty-two-year-old girl ) And when I enter the hall, when they light the Christmas tree, I will hold up my skirt and show everything to everybody. nanny (becoming ferocious) No, you won’t. You have nothing to show—you are still little. sonya ostrova (thirty-two-year-old girl ) No, I will show it. I still have a little one. This is true, what you say. This is even better. This is not what you have. nanny (Seizes the axe and chops off her head.) You deserved this death. children (scream) Murderer. She is a murderer. Save us. Stop the bath. (The cooks stop slaughtering chickens and slaughtering piglets. Having moved away from the body two paces, the bloody, reckless head lies on the floor. The dog Vera howls behind the doors. The police enter.) police Where on earth are the parents? children (in chorus) They are at the theater. police They left a while ago, then? children A while, but not forever. police What are they watching, A ballet or a drama? children Must be a ballet. We love our mama. police Such cultured people discern we. children Do you always wear cothurni? police Always. We see a cadaver And a head disengaged. Here a person is lying ineffectively, Herself not whole entirely. What happened here? children Nanny with the axe Killed our sister-dear. police And where is the murderer? nanny I am here in front of you. Tie me up. Lay me down. And execute me.

Hey, servants, a light. We sob immoderately. And the light burns shamelessly. nanny (sobbing) Sentence the horse, Pity my remorse. police Why sentence the horse, If the horse is not guilty Of this bloodshed? We will never find A guilty horse. nanny I am mentally deranged. police Hurry up, get dressed. They’ll decide over there. You’ll go through examination by the experts. Put handcuffs or fetters on her. one cook Now, nanny, your destiny lies with these fetters. another cook Killer. police Hey, cooks, quiet. Hurry up, hurry up, let’s go. Good-bye, children.

scene 2 (The same evening and a forest. There is so much snow that one could carry it off by cartloads. And, in fact, this is happening. In the forest woodcutters cut down Christmas trees. Tomorrow many Russian and Jewish families will have Christmas. Among other woodcutters one called Fyodor stands out. He is the fiancé of the nanny who committed the murder. What does he know about it? He knows nothing yet. He gently cuts down the Christmas tree for Christmas at the Puzyrovs. All the beasts have hidden in their lairs. The woodcutters sing a hymn in chorus. On the same clock to the left of the door the same nine in the evening.) woodcutters How pleasant in a wood, How bright the snowfall. Pray to the wheel so good, It is rounder, rounder than all. The silent, lovely trees Lie lengthwise on horses’ backs. Stepchildren squeal angelically, And in their sleds make tracks. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, And we dishonorable folk

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(A knocking on the door is heard. Puzyrov-father and Puzyrova-mother rush in. They are driven mad with grief. They shout, bark, and bellow horribly. A clock hangs on the wall to the left of the door. Its face shows twelve midnight.)

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police servants

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To toast it, shout ‘‘hooray’’ And drink until we choke. God watches us from his throne, Gently and knowingly he smiles. ‘‘Ah, people,’’ he softly intones, ‘‘You are my little orphan exiles.’’ fyodor (pensively) No, you don’t know what I will tell you now. I have a fiancée. She works as a nanny for the big Puzyrov family. She is very beautiful. I love her very much. She and I are already living together as husband and wife. (Each woodcutter, to the extent of his ability, makes a gesture to indicate interest in what Fyodor just said. As it turns out, they cannot speak. The fact that just now they were singing is simply an occurrence of the sort life is so full of.) fyodor But she is very nervous, that fiancée of mine. Nothing to be done. Hard job. Big family. Many children. Nothing to be done. woodcutter A fruit. (Although he spoke, he spoke out of order. So it doesn’t count. His friends always talk out of order.) second woodcutter Jaundice. fyodor After I have done with her, I never feel bored and never feel disgusted. We have one soul. third woodcutter Suspenders. fyodor So now I will bring the tree, and at night I will go to her. She has bathed the children and is waiting for me now. Nothing to be done. (Fyodor and the woodcutters sit down on the sled and ride out of the forest.) (Beasts emerge: a Giraffe, a wonderful beast; a Wolf, a beaverlike beast; a Lion, the king; and a porky Piglet.) giraffe The clock is ticking. wolf Like a herd of sheep. lion Like a herd of bulls. piglet Like sturgeon gristle. giraffe The stars shine. wolf Like the blood of sheep. lion Like the blood of bulls. piglet Like the milk of a wet nurse. giraffe The rivers flow. wolf Like the words of sheep.

(Night. Candles, floating down river. Glasses. Beard. Saliva. Tears. Puzyrovamother. She wears feminine armor. She is a beauty. She has a large bosom. Sonya Ostrova lies prone in the coffin. She is bloodless. Her cut-off head lies on the cushion right up against her former body. A clock hangs on the wall to the left of the door. Its face shows two in the morning.) puzyrov-father (cries) My little girl, Sonya, how can this be? How can this be? In the morning you were still playing with the ball and running around as if alive. puzyrova-mother Sonyechka. Sonyechka. Sonyechka. Sonyechka. Sonyechka. Sonyechka. Sonyechka. puzyrov-father (cries) The devil made us go to the theater and watch that silly ballet with woolly fat-bellied ballet dancers. As I now recollect, one of them, jumping and shining, smiled at me. But I thought, why do I need her: I have children, I have a wife, I have money. And I was so exhilarated, so exhilarated. Then we left the theater, and I called the coachman and told him: Vanya, drive us home fast—my heart tells me something is wrong. puzyrova-mother ( yawns) Oh cruel God, cruel God, why are you punishing us? puzyrov-father (blows his nose) We were like a flame, and you are extinguishing us. puzyrova-mother (powders herself ) We wanted to celebrate Christmas for our children. puzyrov-father (kisses her) And we will celebrate, we will. No matter what. puzyrova-mother (undresses herself ) Oh, we will have a Christmas tree. The Christmas tree of all Christmas trees. puzyrov-father (his imagination on fire) You are my beauty, and the children are such sweethearts.

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(The beasts—the Giraffe, a wonderful beast; the Wolf, a beaverlike beast; the Lion, the king; and the porky Piglet, just as they are in life—exeunt. The forest remains alone. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows midnight.)

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lion Like the words of bulls. piglet Like the goddess salmon. giraffe Where is our death? wolf In the souls of sheep. lion In the souls of bulls. piglet In the spacious vessels. giraffe Thank you very much. The lesson is over.

puzyrova-mother (gives in to him) God, why does the sofa creak so? How awful this is. puzyrov-father (having finished his business, he cries) God, our daughter has died, and we are here like beasts. puzyrova-mother (cries) Didn’t die, didn’t die, that’s the thing. She was killed.

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(A nanny enters carrying the one-year-old Petya Perov.) nanny The boy woke up. There is no peace in his soul. He is frowning. He looks at everything with repugnance. puzyrova-mother Sleep, Petenka, sleep. We are keeping you safe. petya (one-year-old boy) But is Sonya still dead? puzyrov-father (sighs) Yes, she is dead. Yes, she was killed. Yes, she is dead. petya (one-year-old boy) I thought so. So will there be Christmas? puzyrova-mother There will be. There will be. What are all you children doing right now? petya (one-year-old boy) All of us children are sleeping right now. And I am falling asleep. (He falls asleep.) (The nanny takes him to the parents, who bless him with the sign of the cross and kiss him. The nanny takes him away.) puzyrov-father (to his wife) You stay alone for a while by the coffin. I will be right back. I will go to see if the Christmas tree is coming in. (He runs out of the room. He returns in a second, rubbing his hands.) We need to add more candles—these are sinking into oblivion. (He bows low to the coffin and his wife and exits on his toes.) puzyrova-mother (alone) Sonyechka, you know, as we were climbing the stairs, a black crow was flying above me all the time, and I felt my heart twisting with sorrow, and when we came into the apartment, and when the servant Stepan Nikolaev said, ‘‘She was killed, she was killed,’’ I did not cry out in a gloomy voice. How frightened I was. How frightened. How uneasy. (Sonya Ostrova—formerly a thirty-two-year-old girl—lies still like a cut-down rail post. Does she hear what her mother is saying to her? No, how could she? She is completely dead. She was killed.) (The door opens wide. Puzyrov-father enters. Followed by Fyodor. Followed by the woodcutters. They carry the Christmas tree. They see the coffin, and all of them take their hats off. Except the Christmas tree, which does not have a hat and which understands nothing about this.)

(Precinct. Night. Sealing wax. Police. The clock face to the left of the door shows midnight. The clerk is sitting and the constable is sitting.) clerk Sealing wax always has hot lips. The quill pen has two beautiful hips. constable I am bored, clerk, I stood guard all day, eclipsed. I froze. I shivered. And nothing matters to me, Wandering rain and pyramids Egyptian in sunny Egypt. Amuse me. clerk You, constable, I see, have lost your mind. Amuse you? I am your boss. constable Oh, God, Pharmacies, taverns, and houses of ill repute Will one day drive me mad and dissolute. Instead of taking poisoned people to the pharmacy, I’d prefer to sit in a library And read various passages of Marx and dream, And in the morning, drink not vodka but cream. clerk And what happened to that drunk? Is he still swinging? constable He is swinging like this pendulum, And the Milky Way is swinging above him. How many there are of these toilers of the sea, Outcast folk and peasant serfs.

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ACT II scene 4

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(The face on the clock to the left of the door shows three in the morning.)

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puzyrov-father Quiet, my boys, quiet. Here is my little daughter-girl breathing her last breaths. But not even her last (he sobs)—her head is cut off. fyodor You are speaking about grief to us. But we are bringing happiness to you. Here we brought the Christmas tree. first woodcutter A fruit. second woodcutter An epistle to the Greeks. third woodcutter A person is drowning. Save him. (All exeunt. Sonya Ostrova, the former thirty-two-year-old girl, remains alone. Her remains: head and body.) the head Body, did you hear it all? the body I, Head, heard nothing. I have no ears. I felt it all.

(Enter Police Chief and gendarmes.) police chief Everyone stand. Everything clear. Pray to God. Right here, right now, they are bringing a criminal.

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(Soldiers, servants, cooks, and teachers of Latin and Greek drag in the nanny who killed Sonya.) police chief Let her go. (Addresses the nanny.) Go to prison. nanny My hands are covered with blood. My teeth are covered with blood. God has abandoned me. I am mentally deranged. She is doing something now. police chief You nanny, who are you talking about? Look, don’t ramble in your speech. Give me a glass of vodka. Who is she? nanny Sonya Ostrova, whose head I cut off. She is thinking something now. I am cold. My head hurts, as does my stomach. clerk And still young. And still not bad-looking. And still beautiful. And still like a star. And still like a string. And still like a soul. constable (to nanny) I can imagine your situation, You killed the girl with the axe. Now your soul suffers mutilation, A spiritual parallax. police chief So, nanny, how do you feel? Is it pleasant to be a murderer? nanny No. Difficult. police chief You know, they’ll execute you. My God, they’ll execute you. nanny I bang my fists. I bang my feet. Her head is in my head. I am Sonya Ostrova—the nanny cut my head off. Fedya-Fyodor, save me. constable Once, I remember, I stood on guard in a bitter frost. People walked by, animals ran wildly. A cloud of Greek horsemen passed by on the boulevard like a shadow. I blew a loud whistle, calling the janitors to myself. For a long time we all stood looking through the telescopes. Putting our ears to the ground, we waited for the clatter of hooves. Then, vainly and idly we looked for the army of horsemen. Quietly sobbing, alas for us, we departed for our homes. police chief Why have you told us this? I am asking you. Fool! Climber! You do not know the civil service. constable I wanted to distract the murderer from her dark thoughts. clerk Knocking. These are medics. Medics, take her to your lunatic asylum.

(Knocking on the door, the medics enter.) medics Whom do we take—that Napoleon? (Exeunt. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows four in the morning.)

attendant Who fired the cannon? doctor I don’t know—probably the mirror. And how many of you are there? attendant There are many of us. doctor Now, now. My foolishness hurts a little. Somebody has been brought in. attendant The nanny-murderer has been brought in from the precinct. doctor Is she black as coal? attendant You know I don’t know everything. doctor What to do? I don’t like this little rug. (He shoots it. The attendant falls as though dead.) Why did you fall? I shot the little rug, not you. attendant (gets up) It seemed to me I was a little rug. I was mistaken. This nanny says she is mentally deranged. doctor That is what she says; we don’t say that. We won’t say that without reason. I, you know, hold all our garden with all its trees and underground worms and silent clouds right here, right here—what is it called? (He points to the palm of his hand.) attendant Grapes. doctor No. attendant Wall. doctor No. In the palm of my hand. So, bring in this nanny. (The nanny enters.)

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(He shoots. The mirror breaks. Enter a stony attendant.)

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(Lunatic asylum. A doctor stands near the barrier and aims at the mirror. Flowers, paintings, and small rugs are around. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows four in the morning.) doctor God, how terrifying. Everyone is crazy around here. They haunt me. They devour my dreams. They want to shoot me. Here is one of them; he sneaked up and is aiming at me. He aims but doesn’t shoot, he aims but doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t shoot, he doesn’t shoot, he doesn’t shoot, but he aims. So I will shoot.

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nanny I am mentally deranged. I killed a child. doctor It is not good to kill children. You are healthy. nanny I did not do it on purpose. I am mentally deranged. I can be executed. doctor You are healthy. You have color in your face. Count to three. nanny I can’t. attendant One. Two. Three. doctor You see, and yet you say you can’t. You have a constitution of iron. nanny I am talking desperately. I didn’t count, your attendant did. doctor At this point it is difficult to prove. Do you hear me? attendant I hear you. I am the nanny, I must hear everything. nanny God, my life is ending. Soon I’ll be executed. doctor Take her away and bring in the Christmas tree. Thank God, that’s better. Just a little bit jollier. I am sick and tired of being on duty. Good night. (Patients sail from the hall into the room in a boat, pushing the oars against the floor.) doctor Good morning patients, where are you going? lunatics To pick mushrooms, to pick berries. doctor Very good. attendant I’ll go for a swim with you. doctor Nanny, go execute yourself. You are healthy. You are blooming with health. (The face on the clock to the left of the door shows six in the morning.) scene 6 (Corridor. Doors over here. Doors over there. And doors right here. Dark. Fyodor the woodcutter, fiancé of the nanny who killed Sonya Ostrova, in a tailcoat, with candy in hand, walks through the corridor. For some unknown reason he is blindfolded. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows five in the morning.) fyodor (enters through one of the doors) Are you sleeping? voice of one of the maids I am sleeping, but come in. fyodor That means you are in bed. Look, I brought you a treat. the maid Where did you come from? fyodor I was at the public baths. I washed myself with brushes, like a horse. They blindfolded me. Why don’t I take off my tailcoat? maid Take your clothes off. Lie on me.

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fyodor I will, I will. No rush. Eat the treat. maid I am eating it. And you do your work. Tomorrow we will have Christmas. fyodor (he lies on her) I know. I know. maid And our girl was killed. fyodor I know. I heard. maid She is already lying in the coffin. fyodor I know. I know. maid The mother cried, and also the father. fyodor (gets up off her) I am bored with you. You are not my fiancée. maid So what? fyodor You are a stranger to my spirit. I will soon disappear like a poppy. maid Who needs you? But, do you want to do it one more time? fyodor No, no, I have a terrible sadness. I will soon disappear like happiness. maid What are you thinking about right now? fyodor About how the whole world has become uninteresting to me after you. And the table lost the salt and the sky and the walls and the window and the sky and the forest. I will soon disappear like the night. maid You are impolite. I will punish you for that. Look at me. I will tell you something unnatural. fyodor Try. You are a toad. maid Your fiancée killed the girl. Did you see the killed girl? Your fiancée cut off her head. fyodor (croaks) maid (grins) Do you know the girl Sonya Ostrova? That is who she killed. fyodor (meows) maid What, are you in pain? fyodor (sings like a bird) maid And this is the one you loved. And why? And what for? And you yourself probably . . . fyodor No, not myself . . . maid Sure, sure, do you think I believe you? fyodor Word of honor. maid Go away. I want to sleep. Tomorrow will be Christmas. fyodor I know. I know. maid What are you babbling now? I want nothing to do with you. fyodor I am babbling out of great grief. What is left for me to do? maid Grieve, grieve, grieve. And still nothing will help you. You are right. fyodor And still nothing will help me. maid Yet maybe you will try to study, study, study.

fyodor I will try. I will learn Latin. I will become a teacher. Good-bye. maid Good-bye. (Fyodor disappears. The maid sleeps. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows six in the morning.)

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ACT III scene 7 (Table. Coffin on the table. Sonya Ostrova in the coffin. A heart inside Sonya Ostrova. Coagulating blood inside the heart. Red and white corpuscles in the blood. And of course putrefaction of the corpse. Everybody sees that it is dawn. The dog Vera, with her tail between her legs, walks around the coffin. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows eight in the morning.) the dog vera Around the coffin walk I Looking carefully with my eye. What could this death signify? A poor person prays for bread. Bronze folk pray to blue sky spread. A priest will say the Mass instead. The corpse lies here freezing. The taste of ham is pleasing. Dulcinea is dead—no appeasing. Every place there are bloody spots. What evil manners, evil plots. Nanny, your action rots. Life is for decoration. Death is for trepidation. Why, Nanny, this annihilation? For the most important arteries And the most courageous bacteria, What, nanny, are your criteria? Fyodor would your buttocks pet Always in the morning sweat, Now you’ll be a corpse to forget. (The one-year-old boy Petya Perov enters, stumbling.) petya perov I am the youngest—I wake up earlier than everybody else. I remember now that two years ago I didn’t remember anything. I hear the dog reciting a speech in verse. She is crying ever so quietly.

(He leaves the room in his nanny’s arms, while pooping in his pants.) the dog vera (recollecting) He actually is still little and young. (Misha Pestrov and Dunya Shustrova enter, mumbling and holding hands.) misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) Happy day! Today is Christmas. Soon there will be glee. dunya shustrova (eighty-two-year-old girl ) Not glee but a bee. And not a bee but a tree. Happy day. Happy day. Is Sonya sleeping? the dog vera No, she is peeing. (The face on the clock to the left of the door shows nine in the morning.) scene 8 (There is a painted courtroom in the eighth scene. Vintage judges—judging in wigs. Insects are hopping. Mothballs are gathering strength. Gendarmes are inflating. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows eight in the morning.) judge (croaking) Having not been able to wait until Christmas—I died.

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the dog vera How cold it is in the hall. What, Petya, did you call? petya perov (one-year-old boy) What can I call? I can only announce some things. the dog vera I howl, I howl, I howl, I strive, Wishing Sonya were alive. petya perov (one-year-old boy) She was unusually indecent. And now it is frightening to look at her. the dog vera Are you not surprised that I speak and do not bark? petya perov (one-year-old boy) What can surprise me at my age? Relax. the dog vera Give me a glass of water. This is too much for me. petya perov (one-year-old boy) Don’t worry. During my short life I will see even worse things. the dog vera This Sonya, wretched Ostrova, was immoral. But I showed her . . . Explain all this to me. petya perov (one-year-old boy) Daddy, Mummy, Uncle, Aunty, Nanny. the dog vera What are you saying? Come to your senses. petya perov (one-year-old boy) I am now one year old. Don’t forget. Daddy. Mummy. Uncle. Aunty. Fire. Cloud. Apple. Stone. Don’t forget.

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(He is quickly replaced by another judge.) another judge I feel bad, I feel bad. Save me. (He dies. He is quickly replaced by another judge.) all (in chorus) We are frightened by the two deaths. It is a rare occasion—judge for yourself. all others (in turn): We judge. We will judge And so awake. They carry The court And the vessel Of the people. They carry The judges On dishes. (Having started its session, the court gets down to the case of Kozlov and Oslov.) the secretary (reads from the record) One winter evening Kozlov Went to wash his nanny goats. At the river he met Oslov, Who had scrubbed his donkeys’ coats. Oslov says to Kozlov: ‘‘What I say to you is true. And written in the Chasoslov: Wet goats are taboo.’’ Kozlov says to Oslov: ‘‘You can spare the reprimand. It’s the psalter that I’m fond of; Let the Chasoslov be damned!’’ Oslov says to Kozlov: ‘‘But the Psalms us likewise tell That goats you mustn’t wash off, Or, by God, you’ll go to Hell!’’ Kozlov says to Oslov: ‘‘Oh, shut up, you stupid twit. My goats have had enough of you And think you’re full of shit!’’

Oslov says to Kozlov: ‘‘Hey, don’t you treat me like a fool. I’ll break this willow branch off And beat your goats—you mule!’’

Kozlov brays at Oslov, ‘‘Resuscitate my goats!’’ Oslov bleats at Kozlov, ‘‘Revive my donkeys!’’ judges The phenomenon of death is evident. the secretary Hmm, evident. judges Do not say ‘‘hmm.’’ the secretary All right, I won’t. judge I begin the trial: I judge, I argue, I sit, I decide —No, I do not transgress. Once more: I judge, I argue, I sit, I decide —No, I do not transgress. Once more: I judge, I argue, I sit,

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For just like wilting flowers, The goats lie on the snow; And the donkeys, overpowered, Have fallen to their foe.

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‘‘You stupid ass!’’ ‘‘You old nanny!’’ And the snow is turning red; For now there’s lots of blood, And nearly all the livestock’s dead.

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Kozlov says to Oslov: ‘‘Touch my goats and by this hand, I’ll beat your stupid donkeys down Until they cannot stand!’’

I will decide —No, I will not transgress. I have finished judging—everything is clear to me. Adelina Franzevna Shmetterling, who has been a nanny and has killed the girl Sonya Ostrova: execute—hang her. nanny (shouts) I cannot live. the secretary So you will not. So we are meeting you halfway.

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(Everybody understands that the nanny was present at the court trial, and the conversation about Kozlov and Oslov took place simply to divert attention. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows nine in the morning.) (End of Scene 8. End of Act III.) ACT IV scene 9 (Scene 9, like all the previous ones, depicts events that took place six years before my birth or forty years before us. At least. So there is no need for us to get upset and grieve that somebody was killed. We didn’t know any of them, and they all died, in any case. A couple of hours passed between Act 3 and Act 4. In front of the tightly closed doors stand the children, freshly washed, wreathed with flowers. The face on the clock to the left of the door shows six in the evening.) petya perov (one-year-old boy) They will open right now. They will open right now. How interesting. I will see the Christmas tree. nina serova (eight-year-old girl ) You saw it last year, too. petya perov (one-year-old boy) I saw, I saw. But I don’t remember. I am still young. Still silly. varya petrova (seventeen-year-old girl ) Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. dunya shustrova (eighty-two-year-old girl ) I will jump around. I will shout with laughter. volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy) Nanka, I want to go to the toilet. nanny Volodya, if you need to go to the toilet, whisper in your own ear; otherwise you will embarrass the girls. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) But do girls go to the toilet? nanny They do. They go. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) But how? How do they go? And do you go? nanny They go the way it needs to be done. I go too. volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy) See, I went. See, it feels better. How soon will they let us in?

Christmas at the Ivanovs’

puzyrov-father Well, let’s celebrate. I did what I could. Here is the Christmas tree. And right now Mama will play. puzyrova-mother (true to what was said, sits down at the piano, plays, and sings) Suddenly the music thunders Like a sword smiting granite asunder. All open the door And we enter Tver. Not Tver, but simply the festive hall, Filled with the Christmas tree so tall. All hide the sting of spite: One flies like a bee in sunlight, Another like a moth in a chase Above the trunk of the tree in space, And the third like a huge fireplace, The fourth like chalk erased, The fifth brushes up against the candle and screams, And I growl, I growl, I growl in dreams. petya perov (one-year-old boy) Christmas tree, I must tell you: How beautiful you are. nina serova (eight-year-old girl ) Christmas tree, I want to explain to you: How good you are. varya petrova (seventeen-year-old girl ) Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy) Christmas tree, I want to inform you: How splendid you are. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) Bliss, bliss, bliss, bliss. dunya shustrova (eighty-two-year-old girl ) Like teeth. Like teeth. Like teeth. Like teeth.

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(Suddenly the door opens. In the doorway stand the parents.)

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varya petrova (seventeen-year-old girl, whispers) Nanny. I also need to go. I am excited. nanny (whispers) Pretend that you are going. misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) Where does she want to go with you? girls (in chorus) Where the tsar goes on foot. (They cry and stay back.) nanny You fools. You should have said that you were going to play the piano. petya perov (one-year-old boy) Why do you teach them to lie? What is the use of this lie? How boring to live, no matter what they say.

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puzyrov-father I am very glad that everybody is having fun. I am very unhappy that Sonya died. How sad that everybody is sad. puzyrova-mother (sings) Aouyeeya BGRT. (Unable to continue singing, cries.) volodya komarov (twenty-five-year-old boy. He shoots at his temple above the ear.) Mama, don’t cry. Laugh. See, I shot myself. puzyrova-mother (sings) All right, I will not darken your celebration. Let’s celebrate. And yet, poor, poor Sonya. petya perov (one-year-old boy) It’s okay, it’s okay, Mama. Life will pass quickly. Soon everybody will die. puzyrova-mother Petya, are you joking? What are you saying? puzyrov-father He doesn’t seem to be joking. Volodya Komarov has already died. puzyrova-mother Did he really die? puzyrov-father Yes, certainly. He shot himself. dunya shustrova (eighty-two-year-old girl ) I am dying while I sit in the armchair. puzyrova-mother What is she saying? misha pestrov (seventy-six-year-old boy) I longed for longevity. There is no longevity. I have died. nanny Children’s diseases, children’s diseases. When will they ever learn to conquer you? (Dies.) nina serova (eight-year-old girl ) Nanny, nanny, what is it with you? Why do you have such a sharp nose? petya perov (one-year-old boy) The nose is sharp, but the knife and razors are still sharper. puzyrov-father We still have our two youngest children left. Petya and Nina. Well, we will carry on somehow. puzyrova-mother That doesn’t console me. What, is the sun outside the window? puzyrov-father What sun? It is evening right now. We will put out the lights on the Christmas tree. petya perov (one-year-old boy) I want to die so much. Passionately. I am dying. I am dying. So, I have died. nina serova (eight-year-old girl ) And I. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree, Christmas tree. Ah, Christmas tree. That is all. I have died. puzyrov-father And they too have died. They say that the woodcutter Fyodor has finished studying and has become a teacher of Latin. What is it with me? What a sharp stab in the heart. I see nothing. I am dying.

puzyrova-mother What are you saying? You see, there is a man of the masses who achieved what he wanted. God, such an unhappy Christmas we are having. (Falls and dies.)

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(End of Scene 9, and also of the act, and also of the whole play.) (The face on the clock to the left of the door shows seven in the evening.)

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The Oberiu Manifesto Daniil Kharms, Aleksandr Vvedensky, and others

Oberiu (the Association for Real Art) works with the House of the Press and unites those working in all forms of art who accept its program and apply it in their work.1 Oberiu is divided into four sections: literature, fine arts, theater, and cinema. The fine-arts section carries on its work in experimental ways; the other sections are presented at evening programs, in stage productions, and in print. At this time Oberiu is organizing a musical section.

The Social Role of Oberiu The great revolutionary shift in culture and the conditions of everyday life so characteristic of our age is being impeded in the area of art by many abnormal phenomena. We have not yet completely understood the undeniable truth that the proletariat cannot be satisfied in the area of art with the artistic method of old schools, that its artistic principles go much deeper and undermine old art at the roots. It is ridiculous to think that when Repin is painting in the year 1905, he is a revolutionary artist. It is still more ridiculous to think that all akhrr’s [Associations of Artists of Revolutionary Russia] bear within themselves the seeds of a new proletarian art. Reprinted from The Man with the Black Coat: Russia’s Literature of the Absurd—Selected Works of Daniil Kharms and Alexander Vvedensky, ed. and trans. George Gibian (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1971), 245–54. ∫ George Gibian. 1. Oberiu was a word made up out of the initial sounds of the words for Association for Real Art (Ob’edinenie Real’nogo Iskusstva). The sound u was added at the end just for fun.

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We welcome the demand for a universally intelligible art comprehensible in its form even to a village schoolboy, but the demand for only such art leads into a maze of the most terrible mistakes. As a result we have heaps of literary trash overflowing in book warehouses, while the reading public of the first proletarian state reads translations of Western bourgeois writers. We understand very well that it is impossible to find a single correct solution for the situation that has developed. But we do not understand at all why a number of artistic schools which work tenaciously, honestly, and persistently in this area are pushed, as it were, to the back alleys of art, at a time when they ought to be supported in every way by the entire Soviet community. We do not understand why the school of Filonov has been pushed out of the Academy, why Malevich cannot carry on his architectural work in the ussr, why Terentev’s Inspector General was so badly received. We do not understand why so-called leftist art, which has not a few merits and achievements to its credit, is considered to be hopeless junk and, still worse, charlatanism. How much inner dishonesty, how much artistic bankruptcy is concealed in such a wild approach. Oberiu now comes forward as a new section of leftist revolutionary art. Oberiu does not concern itself only with the subject matter and the high points of artistic work; it seeks an organically new concept of life and approach to things. Oberiu penetrates into the center of the word, of dramatic action, and of the film frame. The new artistic method of Oberiu is universal. It finds a way to represent any subject. Oberiu is revolutionary precisely by virtue of this method. We are not so presumptuous as to regard our work as completed. But we are firmly convinced that a strong foundation has been laid and that we have enough strength to build further. We believe and know that only the left course in art will lead us to the highway to the new proletarian artistic culture.

Poetry of the Oberiuty Who are we? And why do we exist? We, the Oberiuty, are honest workers in art. We are poets of a new world view and of a new art. We are not only creators of a poetic language, but also founders of a new feeling for life and its objects. Our will to create is universal. It spans all genres of art and penetrates life, grasping it from all sides. The world covered by the rubbish of the tongues of a multitude of fools bogged down in the mire of ‘‘experiences’’ and ‘‘emotions’’ is now being reborn in all the purity of concrete, bold forms. Some people even now call us zaumniki.2 It is difficult to decide whether that is because of a complete misunderstanding or a hopeless failure to grasp 2. Zaumniki (from zaum—‘‘trans-sense’’): writers who use made-up syllables and sounds, rejecting existing languages and referential meaning.

A. Vvedensky (at the extreme left of our association) breaks the object down into parts, but the object does not thereby lose its concreteness. Vvedensky breaks action down into fragments, but the action does not lose its creative order. If one were to decode it completely, the result would give the appearance of nonsense. Why appearance? Because obvious nonsense is the zaum word, and it is absent from Vvedensky’s works. One must be more curious, not too lazy to examine the collision of word meanings. Poetry is not porridge that one swallows without chewing and forgets right away. K. Vaginov,3 whose world phantasmagoria passes before our eyes as though clothed in fog and trembling. But through this fog you feel the closeness of the object and its warmth; you feel the influx of crowds and the rocking of trees which live and breathe after their own fashion, after Vaginov’s fashion, for the artist has sculptured them with his own hands and warmed them with his own breath. Igor Bakhterev, a poet who finds himself in the lyrical coloring of his object material. The object and the action, broken down into their component parts, spring into being again, renewed by the spirit of new Oberiu 3. The author of several books, among which the novel Goat’s Song and the volume of verse An Attempt at Uniting Words by Means of Rhyme are particularly noteworthy.

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the principles of literary art. No school is more hostile to us than zaum. We, people who are real and concrete to the marrow of our bones, are the first enemies of those who castrate the word and make it into a powerless and senseless mongrel. In our work we broaden the meaning of the object and of the word, but we do not destroy it in any way. The concrete object, once its literary and everyday skin is peeled away, becomes a property of art. In poetry the collisions of verbal meanings express that object with the exactness of mechanical technology. Are you beginning to complain that it is not the same object you see in life? Come closer and touch it with your fingers. Look at the object with naked eyes, and you will see it cleansed for the first time of decrepit literary gilding. Maybe you will insist that our subjects are ‘‘unreal’’ and ‘‘illogical’’? But who said that the logic of life is compulsory in art? We marvel at the beauty of a painted woman despite the fact that, contrary to anatomical logic, the artist twisted out the shoulder blade of his heroine and moved it sideways. Art has a logic of its own, and it does not destroy the object but helps us to know it. We broaden the meaning of the object, the word, and the act. This work proceeds in different directions; each of us has his own creative personality, and this often confuses people. They talk about an accidental association of various people. Evidently they assume that a literary school is something like a monastery in which the monks are all exactly alike. Our association is free and voluntary. It unites masters, not apprentices; artist-painters, not wall painters. Everybody knows himself and everybody knows what links him to the others.

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lyricism. But lyricism here does not exist for its own sake, it is no more than the means of displacing4 the object into the field of new artistic perception. N. Zabolotsky, a poet of naked concrete figures brought close to the eyes of the spectator. One must hear and read him more with one’s eyes and fingers than with one’s ears. The object does not crumble; on the contrary, it becomes tighter and firmer, as though to meet the feeling hand of the spectator. The development of action and the setting play a secondary role to that main task. Daniil Kharms, a poet and dramatist, whose attention is concentrated, not on a static figure, but on the collision of a number of objects, on their interrelationships. At the moment of action, the object assumes new concrete traits full of real meaning. The action, turned inside out, in its new appearance still keeps a classical touch and at the same time represents a broad sweep of the Oberiu worldview. Bor. Levin,5 a prose writer at present working experimentally. Such are the broad outlines of the literary section of our association as a whole and of each of us in particular; our poems tell the rest of the story. As people of a concrete world, object, and word—that is how we see our social significance. To cleanse the world by the movements of a hand, to cleanse the object of the rubbish of ancient putrefied cultures—are these not the real needs of our time? It is for that reason that our association bears the name Oberiu—Association for Real Art.

On the Road to a New Cinema The film has, up to now, not existed as an independent art. It has been a combination of old ‘‘arts,’’ and at best there have been isolated timid attempts to chart new paths in the search for a real language of the film. That is how it has been. Now the time has come for the cinema to find its own real face, its own means of making an impression, and its own—really its own—language. Nobody is able to ‘‘discover’’ the cinematography of the future, and we are not promising to do that. Time will do that for us. 4. Displacing: the Russian word is sdvinut’, related to the noun sdvig, both very common in the terminology of Russian Futurism, Khlebnikov, and the Oberiuty. It is difficult to find an English word with the same connotations. It means a shift, a change, a push of something into something else. It is frequently used by the Oberiuty because it expresses for them a violent, decisive metamorphosis, a shifting from one plane of being or perception or representation to another—a wrenching or a yanking from one level of semantics or existence to another, a shift from one category of conventional thinking or living to another. Significantly, it is a word used in Russian for a geological fault. 5. Probably the same Boris Levin (a.k.a. Doyvber Levin) whom Marshak, according to Harrison Salisbury, [gave the epithet] ‘‘a Himalayan bear,’’ and who was killed early in World War II in a Nazi attack during his first night in a dugout. See Harrison E. Salisbury, The 900 Days: The Siege of Leningrad (New York, 1969), p. 175.

The Oberiu Theater Suppose two people walk out on the stage, say nothing, but tell each other something by signs. While they are doing that, they are solemnly puffing out their cheeks. The spectators laugh. Is this theater? Yes, it is. You may say it is balagan.6 But balagan is theater. Or suppose a canvas is let down on the stage. On the canvas is a picture of a village. The stage is dark. Then it begins to get lighter. A man dressed as a shepherd walks onstage and plays on a pipe. Is that theater? Yes. A chair appears on the stage; on the chair is a samovar. The samovar boils. Instead of steam, naked arms rise up from under the lid. All these—the man and his movements on the stage, the boiling samovar, the village painted on the canvas, the light getting dimmer and getting brighter—all these are separate elements of theater. Until now, all these elements have been subordinated to the dramatic plot—to the play. A play has been a story, told through characters, about some kind of event. On the stage, all have worked to explain the meaning and course of that event more clearly, more intelligibly, and to relate it more closely to life. 6. Balagan: Punch and Judy show; booth show at a fair.

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But to experiment, to search for ways to a new cinema, and to strengthen some new artistic steps—that is the duty of every honest cinematographer. And we are doing that. In a short note there is not space to tell in detail about all our work. Let us now say only a few words about ‘‘Film No. 1,’’ which is already finished. In the cinema, the time for subjects (themes) is past. Adventure films and comedies, precisely because they have subjects, are now the most unfilmlike genres. When the subjects (the action, the plot) are self-sufficient, they subordinate the material. The finding of autonomous, specific material is in itself already a key to the finding of the language of the film. ‘‘Film No. 1’’ is the first stage of our experimental work. The plot is not important to us. Important to us is the ‘‘atmosphere’’ of the material, of the subject chosen by us. Separate elements of the film can be completely unconnected as far as plot and meaning are concerned. They can be antipodal. We repeat, that is not the point. The whole essence is in the atmosphere peculiar to the given material—the subject. Our main concern is to bring to light that atmosphere. How we solve this problem can be understood most easily when we see the films on the screen. On January 24 of this year, in the House of the Press, we shall give a program. There we shall show a film and tell in detail about our searches and orientations. The film was made by the makers of ‘‘Film No. 1’’— Alexander Razumovsky and Klementy Mints.

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That is not at all what the theater is. If an actor who represents a minister begins to move around on the stage on all fours and howls like a wolf, or an actor who represents a Russian peasant suddenly delivers a long speech in Latin—that will be theater, that will interest the spectator, even if it takes place without any relation to a dramatic plot. Such an action will be a separate item; a series of such items organized by the director will make up a theatrical performance, which will have its plot line and its scenic meaning. This will be a plot which only the theater can give. The plots of theatrical performances are theatrical, just as the plots of musical works are musical. All represent one thing—a world of appearances—but depending on the material, they render it differently, after their own fashion. When you come to us, forget everything that you have been accustomed to seeing in all theaters. Maybe a great deal will seem ridiculous. We take a dramatic plot. We develop it slowly at first; then suddenly it is interrupted by seemingly extraneous and clearly ridiculous elements. You are surprised. You want to find that customary logical sequence of connections which, it seems to you, you see in life. But it is not there. Why not? Because an object and a phenomenon transported from life to the stage lose their lifelike sequence of connections and acquire another—a theatrical one. We are not going to explain it. In order to understand the sequence of connections of any theatrical performance, one must see it. We can only say that our task is to render the world of concrete objects on the stage in their interrelationships and collisions. We worked to solve this task in our production of Elizabeth Bam. Elizabeth Bam was written on commission for the theatrical section of Oberiu by one of the members, D. Kharms. The dramatic plot of the play is shattered by many seemingly extraneous subjects which detach the object as a separate whole, existing outside its connection with others. Therefore, the dramatic plot does not arise before the spectator as a clear plot image; it glimmers, so to speak, behind the action. The dramatic plot is replaced by a scenic plot which arises spontaneously from all the elements of our spectacle. The center of our attention is on it. But at the same time, separate elements of the spectacle are equally valuable and important to us. They live their separate lives without subordinating themselves to the ticking of the theatrical metronome. Here a corner of a gold frame sticks out—it lives as an object of art; there a fragment of a poem is recited—it is autonomous in its significance, and at the same time, independent of its will, it advances the scenic plot of the play. The scenery, the movement of an actor, a bottle thrown down, the train of a costume—they are actors, just like those who shake their heads and speak various words and phrases. The structure of the performance was worked out by I. Bakhterev, Bor. Levin, and Daniil Kharms. Staging: I. Bakhterev.

part twelve

American Dada and Surrealism

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ertrude Stein (1874–1946) stands as a major avant-garde influence primarily for her experimentation with language, a pursuit inspired by her studies in psychology with William James in the 1890s at Radcliffe College. Two of her undergraduate research papers focused on automatic writing, a technique she began to practice in the late 1890s and that André Breton and the early Surrealists would later champion. Stein moved to Paris in 1903 with her brother Leo Stein, an aspiring artist, where she met her life partner, Alice B. Toklas, in 1907. Starting in 1904, she and her brother collected paintings by many of the most prominent artists of the period, including Paul Gauguin, Paul Cézanne, PierreAuguste Renoir, Pierre Bonnard, Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a collection they divided between them when Leo moved to Italy in 1914. She became closely associated with several modernist painters such as Picasso, Matisse, Georges Braque, and Cézanne, sharing with them an interest in abstraction. In particular, Picasso’s Cubism and Cézanne’s ideas about movement in painting influenced Stein, who subsequently developed a theory of landscape theater based on ideas she had loosely adapted from the visual arts. (See the Introduction to this volume for more on automatic writing and a theory of landscape theater) Stein’s seventy-seven plays, most notably What Happened, a Play (1913), In Circles (1920), Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights (1938) and Yes Is for a Very Young Man (1946), reject plot, linearity, and causality in favor of a somewhat cryptic poeticism that stresses the significance of individual words and the rhythmic motion of language, also evident in her poetry and novels. As she put it in her 1934 lecture ‘‘Plays,’’ she desired ‘‘to make a play the essence of what happened,’’ but would do so by revealing ‘‘what could be told if one did not tell anything.’’ In other words, ‘‘anything that was not a story could be a play.’’ Many critics have

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recognized Stein’s influence on such dramatists as Thornton Wilder, Eugène Ionesco, Samuel Beckett, and Harold Pinter. Her use of distorted, fragmented language and repetitive, absurd dialogue shared many of the preoccupations and techniques of the European Dadaists and Surrealists, extending a lasting influence on much of the American avant-garde theater, including the plays and productions of the Living Theater, Richard Foreman, and Robert Wilson.

Atom and Eve A Consideration of Gertrude Stein’s Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights

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ore intellectually accessible than much of Gertrude Stein’s early work, Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights (1938) blends her unique approach to language and structure with universal themes, which for her included feminist ones. The play represents a transition between the two periods in Stein’s oeuvre that Donald Sutherland has established: ‘‘The Play as Movement and Landscape, 1922–1932’’ and ‘‘The Melodic Drama, Melodrama and Opera, 1932–1946.’’1 In Doctor Faustus Stein uses identifiable characters and attributes specific dialogue to them, but the language exhibits all the idiosyncrasies of her earlier work—lack of punctuation, multiple identities for major characters, disembodied voices, punning, non sequiturs, and repetition. As Michael Hoffman writes, Stein’s ‘‘language now focuses on something other than its own structure; she shifts from [that] concern to such traditional literary problems as those of moral value and human identity; but she still maintains throughout the play a style readily identifiable as her own.’’2 Although several essays have been published on Stein’s drama in general, and on Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights in particular, few attempts have been made to connect her plays with other avant-garde work of the period. Aside from its formal similarities to the European avant-garde—in particular to the Dadaist and Surrealist drama being written and produced in early twentieth-century Paris—and that avant-garde’s much smaller dramatic offshoot in the United States—Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights is important for its explicit violations of the three fundamental elements of conventional or traditional drama, as described in the introduction to this collection: psychology, causality, and morality or providentiality. Rather than merely mimic the techniques of the Dadaists or Surrealists, Stein disrupts this triad even further than either E. E. Cummings in Him (1927) or Thornton Wilder in his allegedly avant-garde Our Town (1938), thereby establishing herself as the foremost dramatist of the early American avant-garde. In Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights, not only has Gertrude Stein replaced spiritual uncertainty about the existence of God with the secular amorality of modern technology; she has also replaced the psychoscientific certainty about personality that is integrated yet developing with the inability of humanity either to comprehend itself or to evolve. In this play, all the characters are reduced to the same frustrating inability to understand the world or act in it. Marguerite Ida–Helena Annabel (the central female character, whose dual names and fluctuating identity mark her as a kind of composite woman) cannot defend herself against the man from over the seas; the devil cannot control Doctor Faustus By Sarah Bay-Cheng. Published here for the first time. 1 Donald Sutherland, Gertrude Stein: A Bibliography of Her Work, 1951 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1976), 207. 2 Michael J. Hoffman, Gertrude Stein (Boston: Twayne, 1976), 85.

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(even long enough to convince him that he has a soul); Faustus cannot regulate the lights once he has created them, and at the end of the play he fails to convince Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel to accompany him to hell. Neither the dog nor the boy has any power over his own life; they are manipulated by Faust—and ultimately killed by him. Like Wilder’s Our Town, Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights thus investigates the triumph of technology and the role of God in modern life. But rather than offer romantic nostalgia and spiritual redemption to a Depression-weary and warwary American public, in the form of isolation—and isolationism—in a quaint New Hampshire town of the turn of the century, Stein portrays the impotence of human beings without God, without morals, and without a real sense of themselves. Indeed, in an almost Absurdist fashion, Stein’s characters revel in their own frustration and ignorance. Faustus’ frustrations with the world culminate in his desire to ‘‘go to hell,’’ which neatly returns the play to its theological question—does Doctor Faustus have a soul? Paradoxically, Mephistopheles informs Faustus that he cannot enter hell without a soul, and Faustus has sold his. And, considering Stein’s dismissal of traditional Judeo-Christian theology as well as conventional dramatic suspense, it should come as no surprise that she begins her play after the central religious crisis—Faustus’ decision to sell his soul to the devil for knowledge—which in Goethe’s or Marlowe’s dramatization of the Faust legend serves as the turning point. In order to enter hell, in any event, Faustus is told that he must commit a sin. When he asks, ‘‘What sin, how can I without a soul commit a sin,’’ Mephistopheles peremptorily replies, ‘‘Kill anything’’ (116). Faust then kills his companions, the boy and the dog, and descends into hell, where he wants to go in order to escape the reality that he himself has created through his rejection of God in favor of technology. But, for Stein, the term ‘‘hell’’ describes that very technological reality (or nightmare): ‘‘Any light is just a light and now there is nothing more either by day or by night just a light’’ (91). The unrelenting light can be read as a modern analogue to the eternal fires of hell. This technological light has the capacity, with its heat and radiance (neither warm and nourishing like the sun nor gently haloed like candlelight), to overwhelm all other forms of light and, like the hell of theology, every type of faith. Living in Europe during the 1930s, Stein thus reflects the anxiety of a continent only recently recovered from the first mechanized world war, yet now poised on the brink of a second, whose technological devastation and human destructiveness would beggar the imagination. Like other avant-garde writers of her time, she suggests that life cannot be completely understood, and she avers that no God exists to create moral order or to prevent humankind from selfextinction through technology. Again, like so many other avant-garde writers, Stein has lost faith in the traditional patriarchal God, but she has also lost faith both in unconventional feminine spirituality and, paradoxically, in the potential of any individual without absolute faith. Faust’s ‘‘individual quest,’’ after all, ends in murder, despair, and chaos. And the grim attitude that permeates Stein’s Doctor Faustus will continue after World War II in the works of such writers as Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Samuel Beckett, and Eugène Ionesco, who saw human-

kind’s trust in a higher power as having been betrayed by the human folly—the hellfire of the Holocaust and atomic obliteration—of the last great war.

See also Robinson; Fuchs and Chaudhuri in the General Bibliography.

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Balkin, Sarah. ‘‘Regenerating Drama in Stein’s Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights and Woolf’s Between the Acts.’’ Modern Drama 51.4 (2008): 433–57. Bay-Cheng, Sarah. Mama Dada: Gertrude Stein’s Avant-Garde Theater. New York: Routledge, 2004. Bowers, Jane Palatini. ‘‘They Watch Me as They Watch This’’: Gertrude Stein’s Metadrama. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991. Bridgman, Richard. Gertrude Stein in Pieces. New York: Oxford University Press, 1970. Corn, Wanda M., and Tirza True Latimer. Seeing Gertrude Stein: Five Stories. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. Durham, Leslie Atkins. Staging Gertrude Stein: Absence, Culture, and the Landscape of American Alternative Theatre. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Knapp, Bettina L. Gertrude Stein. New York: Continuum, 1990. Neuman, Shirley. ‘‘ ‘Would a Viper Have Stung Her If She Only Had One Name?’: Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights.’’ In Gertrude Stein and the Making of Literature, ed. Shirley Neuman and Ira D. Nadel, 168–93. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1988. Pladott, Dinnah. ‘‘The Semiotics of Post-Modern Theatre: Gertrude Stein.’’ In Approches de l’opéra/Approaches of the Opera, ed. André Helbo, 303–14. Paris: Didier, 1986. Ryan, Betsy Alayne. Gertrude Stein’s Theatre of the Absolute. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1984. Schaefer, James F., Jr. ‘‘An Examination of Language as Gesture in a Play by Gertrude Stein.’’ Literature in Performance 3 (1982): 1–14. Shafer, Yvonne. ‘‘Gertrude Stein (1874–1946).’’ In Shafer, American Women Playwrights, 1900–1950, 190–202. New York: Peter Lang, 1995. Stewart, Allegra. ‘‘An American Version of the Faust Myth.’’ In Stewart, Gertrude Stein and the Present, 144–87. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967.

American Dada and Surrealism

Select Bibliography on Stein

Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights Gertrude Stein

ACT I Faust standing at the door of his room, with his arms up at the door lintel looking out, behind him a blaze of electric light. Just then Mephisto approaches and appears at the door. Faustus growls out.— The devil what the devil what do I care if the devil is there. Mephisto says. But Doctor Faustus dear yes I am here. Doctor Faustus. What do I care there is no here nor there. What am I. I am Doctor Faustus who knows everything can do everything and you say it was through you but not at all, if I had not been in a hurry and if I had taken my time I would have known how to make white electric light and day-light and night light and what did I do I saw you miserable devil I saw you and I was deceived and I believed miserable devil I thought I needed you, and I thought I was tempted by the devil and I know no temptation is tempting unless the devil tells you so. And you wanted my soul what the hell did you want my soul for, how do you know I have a soul, who says so nobody says so but you the devil and everybody knows the devil is all lies, so how do you know how do I know that I have a soul to sell how do you know Mr. Reprinted from Gertrude Stein, Last Operas and Plays, ed. Carl Van Vechten (New York: Rinehart, 1949), 89–118. Peter Owen Ltd., London.

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Devil oh Mr. Devil how can you tell you can not tell anything and I I who know everything I keep on having so much light that light is not bright and what after all is the use of light, you can see just as well without it, you can go around just as well without it you can get up and go to bed just as well without it, and I I wanted to make it and the devil take it yes you devil you do not even want it and I sold my soul to make it. I have made it but have I a soul to pay for it Mephisto coming nearer and trying to pat his arm. Yes dear Doctor Faustus yes of course you have a soul of course you have, do not believe them when they say the devil lies, you know the devil never lies, he deceives oh yes he deceives but that is not lying no dear please dear Doctor Faustus do not say the devil lies. Doctor Faustus. Who cares if you lie if you steal, there is no snake to grind under one’s heel, there is no hope there is no death there is no life there is no breath, there just is every day all day and when there is no day there is no day, and anyway of what use is a devil unless he goes away, go away old devil go away, there is no use in a devil unless he goes away, how can you remember a devil unless he goes away, oh devil there is no use in your coming to stay and now you are red at night which is not a delight and you are red in the morning which is not a warning go away devil go away or stay after all what can a devil say. Mephisto. A devil can smile a devil can while away whatever there is to give away, and now are you not proud Doctor Faustus yes you are you know you are you are the only one who knows what you know and it is I the devil who tells you so. Faustus. You fool you devil how can you know, how can you tell me so, if I am the only one who can know what I know then no devil can know what I know and no devil can tell me so and I could know without any soul to sell, without there being anything in hell. What I know I know, I know how I do what I do when I see the way through and always any day I will see another day and you old devil you know very well you never see any other way than just the way to hell, you only know one way. You only know one thing, you are never ready for anything, and I everything is always now and now and now perhaps through you I begin to know that it is all

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just so, that light however bright will never be other than light, and any light is just a light and now there is nothing more either by day or by night but just a light. Oh you devil go to hell, that is all you know to tell, and who is interested in hell just a devil is interested in hell because that is all he can tell, whether I stamp or whether I cry whether I live or whether I die, I can know that all a devil can say is just about going to hell the same way, get out of here devil, it does not interest me whether you can buy or I can sell, get out of here devil just you go to hell. Faustus gives him an awful kick, and Mephisto moves away and the electric lights just then begin to get very gay. All right then the ballet Doctor Faustus sitting alone surrounded by electric lights. His dog comes in and says Thank you. One of the electric lights goes out and again the dog says Thank you. The electric light that went out is replaced by a glow. The dog murmurs. My my what a sky. And then he says Thank you. doctor faustus’s song: If I do it If you do it What is it. Once again the dog says Thank you. A duet between Doctor Faustus and the dog about the electric light about the electric lights. Bathe me says Doctor Faustus Bathe me In the electric lights During this time the electric lights come and go What is it says Doctor Faustus

let me alone Let me alone Oh let me alone Dog and boy let me alone oh let me alone Leave me alone Let me be alone little boy and dog let let me alone He sighs And as he sighs He says Dog and boy boy and dog leave me alone let me let me be alone. The dog says Thank you but does not look at Faustus A pause No words The dog says Thank you I say thank you

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Thank you says the dog. Just at this moment the electric lights get brighter and nothing comes Was it it says Doctor Faustus Faustus meditates he does not see the dog. Will it Will it Will it be Will it be it. Faustus sighs and repeats Will it be it. A duet between the dog and Faustus Will it be it Just it. At that moment the electric light gets pale again and in that moment Faustus shocked says It is it A little boy comes in and plays with the dog, the dog says Thank you. Doctor Faustus looks away from the electric lights and then he sings a song.

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Thank you The little boy The day begins today The day The moon begins the day Doctor Faustus There is no moon today Dark silence You obey I obey There is no moon today. Silence and the dog says I obey I say Thank you any day The little boy says Once in a while they get up. Doctor Faustus says I shall not think I shall not No I shall not. Faustus addresses little boy and dog Night is better than day so please go away The boy says But say When the hay has to be cut every day then there is the devil to pay The dog starts and then he shrinks and says Thank you Faustus half turns and starts I hear her he says I hear her say Call to her to sing To sing all about to sing a song All about daylight and night light. Moonlight and starlight electric light and twilight every light as well. The electric lights glow and a chorus in the distance sings Her name is her name is her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel. Faustus sings I knew it I knew it the electric lights they told me so no dog can know no boy can know I cannot know they cannot know the electric lights they told me so I would not know I could not know who can know who can tell me so I know

scene ii I am I and my name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, and then oh then I could yes I could I could begin to cry but why why could I begin to cry. And I am I and I am here and how do I know how wild the wild world is how wild the wild woods are the wood they call the woods the poor man’s overcoat but do they cover me and if they do how wild they are wild and wild and wild they are, how do I know how wild woods are when I have never ever seen a wood before. I wish (she whispered) I knew why woods are wild why animals are wild why I am I, why I can cry, I wish I wish I knew, I wish oh how I wish I knew. Once I am in I will never be through the woods are there and I am here and am I here or am I there, oh where oh where is here oh where oh where is there and animals wild animals are everywhere. She sits down. I wish (says she conversationally) I wish if I had a wish that when I sat down it would not be here but there there where I could have a chair there

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you know they can know her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and when I tell oh when I tell oh when I when I when I tell, oh go away and go away and tell and tell and tell and tell and tell, oh hell. The electric lights commence to dance and one by one they go out and come in and the boy and the dog begin to sing. Oh very well oh Doctor Faustus very very well oh very well, thank you says the dog oh very well says the boy her name her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, I know says the dog I know says the boy I know says Doctor Faustus no no no no no nobody can know what I know I know her name is not Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, very well says the boy it is says the boy her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, no no no says Doctor Faustus, yes yes yes says the dog, no says the boy yes says the dog, her name is not Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and she is not ready yet to sing about daylight and night light, moonlight and starlight electric light and twilight she is not she is not but she will be. She will not be says Doctor Faustus never never never, never will her name be Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel never never never never well as well never Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel never Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel. There is a sudden hush and the distant chorus says It might be it might be her name her name might be Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel it might be. And Doctor Faustus says in a loud whisper It might be but it is not, and the little boy says how do you know and Faustus says it might be it might not be not be not be, and as he says the last not be the dog says Thank you.

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where I would not have to look around fearfully everywhere there where a chair and a carpet underneath the chair would make me know that there is there, but here here everywhere there is nothing nothing like a carpet nothing like a chair, here it is wild everywhere I hear I hear everywhere that the woods are wild and I am here and here is here and here I am sitting without a chair without a carpet, oh help me to a carpet with a chair save me from the woods the wild woods everywhere where everything is wild wild and I I am not there I am here oh dear I am not there. She stands up with her hands at her sides she opens and closes her eyes and opens them again. If my eyes are open and my eyes are closed I see I see, I see no carpet I see no chair I see the wild woods everywhere, what good does it do me to close my eyes no good at all the woods the woods are there I close my eyes but the green is there and I open my eyes and I have to stare to be sure the green is there the green of the woods, I saw it when my eyes were closed I saw the wild woods everywhere and now I open my eyes and there there is the wild wood everywhere. Would it do as well if my name were not Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel would it do as well I would give up even that for a carpet and a chair and to be not here but there, but (and she lets out a shriek,) I am here I am not there and I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and it is not well that I could tell what there is to tell what there is to see and what do I see and do I see it at all oh yes I do I call and call but yes I do I see it all oh dear oh dear oh dear yes I am here. She says In the distance there is daylight and near to there is none. There is something under the leaves and Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel makes a quick turn and she sees that a viper has stung her. In the distance there is daylight and near to there is none. There is a rustling under the leaves and Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel makes a quick turn and she sees that a viper has stung her, she sees it and she says and what is it. There is no answer. Does it hurt she says and then she says no not really and she says was it a viper and she says how can I tell I never saw one before but is it she says and she stands up again and sits down and pulls down her stocking and says well it was not a bee not a busy bee no not, nor a mosquito nor a sting it was a bite and serpents bite yes they do perhaps it was one. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel sits thinking and then she sees a country woman with a sickle coming. Have I she says have I been bitten, the woman comes nearer, have I says Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel have I have I been bitten. Have you been bitten answers the country woman, why yes it can happen, then I have been bitten says Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel why not if you have been is the answer. They stand repeating have I and yes it does happen and then Marguerite

scene iii Doctor Faustus the dog and the boy all sleeping, the dog dreaming says thickly Thank you, thank you thank you thank you thank you, thank you thank you. Doctor Faustus turns and murmurs Man and dog dog and man each one can tell it all like a ball with a caress no tenderness, man and dog just the same each one can take the blame each one can well as well tell it all as they can, man and dog, well well man and dog what is the difference between a man and a dog when I say none do I go away does he go away go away to stay no nobody goes away the dog the boy

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Ida and Helena Annabel says let me show you and the woman says oh yes but I have never seen anyone who has been bitten but let me see no I cannot tell she says but go away and do something, what shall I do said Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel do something to kill the poison, but what said Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, a doctor can do it said the woman but what doctor said Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel, Doctor Faustus can do it said the woman, do you know him said Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel no of course I do not know him nobody does there is a dog, he says thank you said the woman and go and see him go go go said the woman and Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel went. As she went she began to sing. Do vipers sting do vipers bite If they bite with all their might Do they do they sting Or do they do they bite All right they bite if they bite with all their might. And I am I Marguerite Ida or am I Helena Annabel Oh well Am I Marguerite Ida or am I Helena Annabel Very well oh very well Am I Marguerite Ida very well am I Helena Annabel. She stops she remembers the viper and in a whisper she says was it a sting was it a bite am I all right; was it a sting was it a bite, all right was it a sting, oh or was it a bite. She moves away and then suddenly she stops. Will he tell Will he tell that I am Marguerite Ida that I am Helena Annabel. Will he tell And then she stops again And the bite might he make it a bite. Doctor Faustus a queer name Might he make it a bite And so she disappears.

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they can stay I can go away go away where where there there where, dog and boy can annoy I can go say I go where do I go I go where I go, where is there there is where and all the day and all the night too it grew and grew and there is no way to say I and a dog and a boy, if a boy is to grow to be a man am I a boy am I a dog is a dog a boy is a boy a dog and what am I I cannot cry what am I oh what am I And then he waits a moment and he says Oh what am I. Just then in the distance there is a call Doctor Faustus Doctor Faustus are you there Doctor Faustus I am here Doctor Faustus I am coming there Doctor Faustus, there is where Doctor Faustus oh where is there Doctor Faustus say it Doctor Faustus are you there Doctor Faustus are you there. The dog murmurs Thank you thank you and the boy says There is somebody of course there is somebody just there there is somebody somebody is there oh yes somebody is there. and all together they say Where is there nobody says nobody is there. Somebody is there and nobody says that somebody is not there. Somebody somebody is there somebody somebody somebody somebody says there is where where is it where is it where is it where, here is here here is there somebody somebody says where is where. Outside the voice says Doctor Faustus are you there Doctor Faustus any where, Doctor Faustus are you there. And then there is a knock at the door. The electric lights glow softly and Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel comes in. Well and yes well, and this is yes this is Doctor Faustus Doctor Doctor Faustus and he can and he can change a bite hold it tight make it not kill not kill Marguerite Ida not kill Helena Annabel and hell oh hell not a hell not well yes well Doctor Faustus can he can make it all well. And then she says in a quiet voice. Doctor Faustus have you ever been to hell. Of course not she says of course you have not how could you sell your soul if you had ever been to hell of course not, no of course not. Doctor Faustus tell me what did they give you when you sold your soul, not hell no of course not not hell. And then she goes on. I I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and a viper bit or stung it is very well begun and if it is so then oh oh I will die and as my soul has not been sold I Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel perhaps I will go to hell. The dog sighs and says

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Thank you and the little boy coming nearer says what is a viper, tell me Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel I like you being Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel what is a viper do I know it very well or do I not know it very well please tell you are Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel what is a viper. Doctor Faustus says Little boy and dog can be killed by a viper but Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel not very well no not very well (He bursts out) Leave me alone Let me be alone Little boy and dog let me be alone, Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel let me be alone, I have no soul I had no soul I sold it sold it here there and everywhere. What did I do I knew I knew that there could be light not moonlight starlight daylight and candlelight, I knew I knew I saw the lightening light, I saw it light, I said I I I must have that light, and what did I do oh what did I too I said I would sell my soul all through but I knew I knew that electric light was all true, and true oh yes it is true they took it that it was true that I sold my soul to them as well and so never never could I go to hell never never as well. Go away dog and boy go away Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel go away all who can die and go to heaven or hell go away oh go away go away leave me alone oh leave me alone. I said it I said it was the light I said I gave the light I said the lights are right and the day is bright little boy and dog leave me alone let me be alone. The country woman with the sickle looks in at the window and sings Well well this is the Doctor Faustus and he has not gone to hell he has pretty lights and they light so very well and there is a dog and he says thank you and there is a little boy oh yes little boy there you are you just are there yes little boy you are and there is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and a viper did bite her, oh cure her Doctor Faustus cure her what is the use of your having been to hell if Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel is not to be all well. And the chorus sings What is the use Doctor Faustus what is the use what is the use of having been to hell if you cannot cure this only only this Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel. Doctor Faustus says I think I have thought thought is not bought oh no thought is not bought I think I have thought and what have I bought I have bought thought, to think is not bought but I I have bought thought and so you come here you come you come here and here and here where can I say that not today not any day can I look and see, no no I cannot look no no I cannot see and you you say you are Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and I I cannot see I cannot see

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Marguerite Ida and I cannot see Helena Annabel and you you are the two and I cannot cannot see you. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel Do not see me Doctor Faustus do not see me it would terrify me if you did see do not see me no no do not see me I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel but do not see me cure me Doctor Faustus do the viper bit the viper stung his sting was a bite and you you have the light cure me Doctor Faustus cure me do but do not see me, I see you but do not see me cure me do but do not see me I implore you. Doctor Faustus A dog says thank you but you you say do not see me cure me do but do not see me what shall I do. He turns to the dog The dog says Thank you and the boy says What difference does it make to you if you do what difference oh what difference does it make to you if you do, whatever you do do whatever you do do what difference does it make to you if you do. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel What difference does it make to you if you do what difference does it make to you but I a viper has had his bite and I I will die but you you cannot die you have sold your soul but I I have mine and a viper has come and he has bitten me and see see how the poison works see see how I must die, see how little by little it is coming to be high, higher and higher I must die oh Doctor Faustus what difference does it make to you what difference oh what difference but to me to me to me to me a viper has bitten me a bitter viper a viper has bitten me. The dog Oh Thank you thank you all all of you thank you thank you oh thank you everybody thank you he and we thank you, a viper has bitten you thank you thank you. The boy A viper has bitten her she knows it too a viper has bitten her believe it or not it is true, a viper has bitten her and if Doctor Faustus does not cure her it will be all through her a viper has bitten her a viper a viper. Dog Thank you Woman at the window A viper has bitten her and if Doctor Faustus does not cure her it will be all through her. Chorus in the distance Who is she She has not gone to hell

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Very well Very well She has not gone to hell Who is she Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel And what has happened to her A viper has bitten her And if Doctor Faustus does not cure her It will go all through her And he what does he say He says he cannot see her Why cannot he see her Because he cannot look at her He cannot look at Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel But he cannot cure her without seeing her They say yes yes And he says there is no witness And he says He can but he will not And she says he must and he will And the dog says thank you And the boy says very well And the woman says well cure her and she says she is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel. There is silence the lights flicker and flicker, and Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel gets weaker and weaker and the poison stronger and stronger and suddenly the dog says startlingly Thank you Doctor Faustus says I cannot see you The viper has forgotten you. The dog has said thank you The boy has said will you The woman has said Can you And you, you have said you are you Enough said. You are not dead. Enough said Enough said. You are not dead. No you are not dead Enough said Enough said

You are not dead. All join in enough said you are not dead you are not dead enough said yes enough said no you are not dead yes enough said, thank you yes enough said no you are not dead. And at the last In a low whisper She says I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and enough said I am not dead. Curtain

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ACT II Some one comes and sings Very Very Butter better very well Butcher whether it will tell Well is well and silver sell Sell a salted almond to Nell Which she will accept And then What does a fatty do She does not pay for it. No she does not Does not pay for it. By this time they know how to spell very Very likely the whole thing is really extraordinary Which is a great relief All the time her name is Marguerite Ida Marguerite Ida They drift in and they sing Very likely the whole thing is extraordinary Which is a great relief All the time her name is Marguerite Ida Marguerite Ida. Then they converse about it. Marguerite Ida is her name Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel who can tell if her name is Marguerite Ida or Helena Annabel Sillies all that is what makes you tall. To be tall means to say that everything else is layed away. Of course her names is Marguerite Ida too and Helena Annabel as well. A full chorus Of course her names is Marguerite Ida too and Helena Annabel as well. A deep voice asks Would a viper have stung her if she had only had one name would he would he.

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How do you know how do you know that a viper did sting her. How could Doctor Faustus have cured her if there had not been something the matter with her. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel it is true her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel as well and a viper has stung her and Doctor Faustus has cured her, cured her cured her, he has sold his soul to hell cured her cured her cured he he has sold his soul to hell and her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and a viper had to bite her and Doctor Faustus had to cure her cure her cure her cure her. The curtain at the corner rises and there she is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and she has an artificial viper there beside her and a halo is around her not of electric light but of candlelight, and she sits there and waits. The chorus sings There she is Is she there Look and see Is she there Is she there Anywhere Look and see Is she there Yes she is there There is there She is there Look and see She is there. There she is There there Where Why there Look and see there There she is And what is there A viper is there The viper that bit her No silly no How could he be there This is not a viper This is what is like a viper She is there And a viper did bite her And Doctor Faustus did cure her And now And now

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And now she is there Where Why there Oh yes there. Yes oh yes yes there. There she is Look and see And the viper is there And the light is there Who gave her the light Nobody did Doctor Faustus sold his soul And so the light came there And did she sell her soul. No silly he sold his soul She had a viper bite her She is there Oh yes she is there Look there Yes there She is there. Marguerite Ida begins to sing I sit and sit with my back to the sun I sat and sat with my back to the sun. Marguerite Ida sat and sat with her back to the sun. The sun oh the sun the lights are bright like the sunset and she sat with her back to the sun sat and sat She sits A very grand ballet of lights. Nobody can know that it is so They come from everywhere By land by sea by air They come from everywhere To look at her there. See how she sits See how she eats See how she lights, The candle lights. See how the viper there, Cannot hurt her. No indeed he cannot. Nothing can touch her, She has everything And her soul, Nothing can lose her,

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See how they come See how they come To see her. See how they come. Watch They come by sea They come by land They come by air And she sits With her back to the sun One sun And she is one Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel as well. They commence to come and more and more come and they come from the sea from the land and from the air. And she sits. A man comes from over the seas and a great many are around him He sees her as she sits. And he says Pretty pretty dear She is all my love and always here And I am hers and she is mine And I love her all the time Pretty pretty pretty dear. No says the chorus no. She is she and the viper bit her And Doctor Faustus cured her. The man from over seas repeats Pretty pretty pretty dear She is all my love and always here And I am hers and she is mine And I love her all the time. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel suddenly hears something and says What is it. He comes forward and says again Pretty pretty pretty dear she is all my love and she is always here. She sings slowly You do or you do not. He Pretty pretty dear she is all my love and she is always here. Well well he says well well and her name is Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and they all say it was a viper, what is a viper, a viper is a serpent and anybody has been bitten and not everybody dies and cries, and so why why say it all the time, I have been bitten I I I have been bitten by her bitten by

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her there she sits with her back to the sun and I have won I have won her I have won her. She sings a song You do or you do not You are or you are not I am there is no not But you you you You are as you are not He says Do you do what you do because you knew all the way through that I I was coming to you answer me that. She turns her back on him. And he says I am your sun oh very very well begun, you turn your back on your sun, I am your sun, I have won I have won I am your sun. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel rises. She holds the viper she says Is it you Doctor Faustus is it you, tell me man from over the sea are you he. He laughs. Are you afraid now afraid of me. She says Are you he. He says I am the only he and you are the only she and we are the only we. Come come do you hear me come come, you must come to me, throw away the viper throw away the sun throw away the lights until there are none. I am not any one I am the only one, you have to have me because I am that one. She looks very troubled and drops the viper but she instantly stoops and picks it up and some of the lights go out and she fusses about it. And then suddenly she starts, No one is one when there are two, look behind you look behind you you are not one you are two. She faints. And indeed behind the man of the seas is Mephistopheles and with him is a boy and a girl. Together they sing the song the boy and the girl. Mr. Viper think of me. He says you do she says you do and if you do dear Mr. Viper if you do then it is all true he is a boy I am a girl it is all true dear dear Mr. Viper think of me. The chorus says in the back, Dear dear Mr. Viper think of them one is a boy one is a girl dear dear viper dear dear viper think of them. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel still staring at the man from over the seas and Mephisto behind them.

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She whispers, They two I two they two that makes six it should be seven they two I two they two five is heaven. Mephisto says And what if I ask what answer me what, I have a will of iron yes a will to do what I do. I do what I do what I do, I do I do. And he strides forward, Where where where are you, what a to do, when a light is bright there is moonlight, when a light is not so bright then it is daylight, and when a light is no light then it is electric light, but you you have candlelight, who are you. The ballet rushes in and out. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel lifts the viper and says Lights are all right but the viper is my might. Pooh says Mephisto, I despise a viper, the viper tries but the viper lies. Me they cannot touch no not any such, a viper, ha ha a viper, a viper, ha ha, no the lights the lights the candle lights, I know a light when I see a light, I work I work all day and all night, I am the devil and day and night, I never sleep by any light by any dark by any might, I never sleep not by day not by night, you cannot fool me by candlelight, where is the real electric light woman answer me. The little boy and girl creep closer, they sing. Mr. Viper dear Mr. Viper, he is a boy I am a girl she is a girl I am a boy we do not want to annoy but we do oh we do oh Mr. Viper yes we do we want you to know that she is a girl that I am boy, oh yes Mr. Viper please Mr. Viper here we are Mr. Viper listen to us Mr. Viper, oh please Mr. Viper it is not true Mr. Viper what the devil says Mr. Viper that there is no Mr. Viper, please Mr. Viper please Mr. Viper, she is a girl he is a boy please Mr. Viper you are Mr. Viper please Mr. Viper please tell us so. The man from over the seas smiles at them all, and says It is lovely to be at ease. Mephisto says What do you know I am the devil and you do not listen to me I work and I work by day and by night and you do not listen to me he and she she and he do not listen to me you will see you will see, if I work day and night and I do I do I work day and night, then you will see what you will see, look out look out for me. He rushes away And Helena Annabel and Marguerite Ida shrinks back, and says to them all What does he say And the man from over the seas says Pretty pretty dear she is all my love and she is always here. and then more slowly I am the only he you are the only she and we are the only we, and the chorus sings softly

And the viper did bite her and Doctor Faustus did cure her. And the boy and girl sing softly. Yes Mr. Viper he is a boy she is a girl yes Mr. Viper. And the ballet of lights fades away. Curtain ACT III scene i

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Doctor Faustus’ house Faustus in his chair, the dog and the boy, the electric lights are right but the room is dark. Faustus Yes they shine They shine all the time. I know they shine I see them shine And I am here I have no fear But what shall I do I am all through I cannot bear To have no care I like it bright I do like it bright Alright I like it bright, But is it white Or is it bright. Dear dear I do care That nobody can share. What if they do It is all to me Ah I do not like that word me, Why not even if it does rhyme with she. I know all the words that rhyme with bright with light with might with alright, I know them so that I cannot tell I can spell but I cannot tell how much I need to not have that, not light not sight, not light not night not alright, not night not sight not bright, no no not night not sight not bright no no not bright. There is a moment’s silence and then the dog says Thank you. He turns around and then he says Yes thank you.

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And then he says Not bright not night dear Doctor Faustus you are right, I am a dog yes I am just that I am I am a dog and I bay at the moon, I did yes I did I used to do it I used to bay at the moon I always used to do it and now now not any more, I cannot, of course I cannot, the electric lights they make it be that there is no night and if there is no night then there is no moon and if there is no moon I do not see it and if I do not see it I cannot bay at it. The dog sighs and settles down to rest and as he settles down he says Thank you. The little boy cuddles up close to him and says Yes there is no moon and if there is a moon then we do not bay at the moon and if there is no moon then no one is crazy any more because it is the moon of course it is the moon that always made them be like that, say thank you doggie and I too I too with you will say thank you. They softly murmur Thank you thank you thank you too. They all sleep in the dark with the electric light all bright, and then at the window comes something. Is it the moon says the dog is it the moon says the boy is it the moon do not wake me is it the moon says Faustus. No says a woman no it is not it is not the moon, I am not the moon I am at the window Doctor Faustus do not you know what it is that is happening. No answer. Doctor Faustus do not you know what is happening. Back of her a chorus Doctor Faustus do not you know what is happening. Still no answer All together louder Doctor Faustus do not you know do not you know what it is that is happening. Doctor Faustus. Go away woman and men, children and dogs moon and stars go away let me alone let me be alone no light is bright, I have no sight, go away woman and let me boy and dog let me be alone I need no light to tell me it is bright, go away go away, go away go away. No says the woman no I am at the window and here I remain till you hear it all. Here we know because Doctor Faustus tells us so, that he only he can turn night into day but now they say, they say, (her voice rises to a screech) they say a woman can turn night into day, they say a woman and a viper bit her and did not hurt her and he showed her how and now she can turn night into day, Doctor Faustus oh Doctor Faustus say you are the only one who can turn night into day, oh Doctor Faustus yes do say that you are the only one who can turn night into day. The chorus behind says

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Oh Doctor Faustus oh Doctor Faustus do say that you are the only one who can turn night into day. Faustus starts up confused he faces the woman, he says, What is it you say. And she says imploringly, Oh Doctor Faustus do say you are the only one who can turn night into day. Faustus slowly draws himself erect and says Yes I do say I am the only one who can turn night into day. And the woman and the chorus say, He is the only one who can turn night into day. And the dog says He is the only one who can turn night into day, there is no moon any night or any day he is the only one to turn night into day, and the little boy says Yes he is the only one to turn night into day. And the woman then says But come Doctor Faustus come away come and see whether they say that they can turn night into day. Who says says Doctor Faustus She says says the woman Who is she says Doctor Faustus The answer Marguerite Ida or Helena Annabel She says Doctor Faustus Who said I could not go to hell. She she says the woman She she says the chorus Thank you said the dog Well said Doctor Faustus Well then I can go to hell, if she can turn night into day then I can go to hell, come on then come on we will go and see her and I will show her that I can go to hell, if she can turn night into day as they say then I am not the only one very well I am not the only one so Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel listen well you cannot but I I can go to hell. Come on every one never again will I be alone come on come on every one. They all leave.

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The scene as before, Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel sitting with the man from over the seas their backs to the sun, the music to express a noonday hush. Everybody dreamily saying Mr. Viper please Mr. Viper, some saying Is he is he Doctor Faustus no he isn’t no he isn’t, is he is he is he all he loves her is he is he all she loves him, no one can remember anything but him, which is she and which is he sweetly after all there is no bee there is a viper such a nice sweet quiet one, nobody any body knows how to run, come any one come, see any one, some, come viper sun, we know no other any one, any one can forget a light, even an electric one but no one no no one can forget a viper even a stuffed one no no one and no one can forget the sun and no one can forget Doctor Faustus no no one and and no one can forget Thank you and the dog and no one can forget a little boy and no one can forget any one no no one. (These words to be distributed among the chorus) and the man from over seas murmurs dreamily Pretty pretty pretty dear here I am and you are here and yet and yet it would be better yet if you had more names and not only four in one let it be begun, forget it oh forget it pretty one, and if not I will forget that you are one yes I will yes I will pretty pretty one yes I will. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel stiffens a little Well will you yes I will, no one can know when I do not tell them so that they cannot know anything they know, yes I know, I do know just what I can know, it is not there well anywhere, I cannot come not for any one I cannot say what is night and day but I am the only one who can know anything about any one, am I one dear dear am I one, who hears me knows me I am here and here I am, yes here I am. The chorus gets more lively and says Yes there she is Dear me says the man from over the seas. Just then out of the gloom appear at the other end of the stage Faust and the boy and the dog, nobody sees them, just then in front of every one appears Mephisto, very excited and sings Which of you can dare to deceive me which of you he or she can dare to deceive me, I who have a will of iron I who make what will be happen I who can win men or women I who can be wherever I am which of you has been deceiving which of you she or he which of you has been deceiving me. He shouts louder If there is a light who has the right, I say I gave it to him, she says he gave it to

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her or she does not say anthing, I say I am Mephisto and what I have I do not give no not to any one, who has been in her who has been in him, I will win. The boy and girl shrilly sing She is she and he is he and we are we Mr. Viper do not forget to be. Please Mr. Viper do not forget to be, do not forget that she is she and that he is he please Mr. Viper do not forget me. Faustus murmurs in a low voice I sold my soul to make it bright with electric light and now no one not I not she not they not he are interested in that thing and I and I I cannot go to hell I have sold my soul to make a light and the light is bright but not interesting in my sight and I would oh yes I would I would rather go to hell be I with all my might and then go to hell oh yes alright. Mephisto strides up to him and says You deceived me. I did not says Faustus Mephisto. You deceived me and I am never deceived Faust, you deceived me and I am always deceived, Mephisto, you deceived me and I am never deceived. Faustus Well well let us forget it is not ready yet let us forget and now oh how how I want to be me myself all now, I do not care for light let it be however light, I do not care anything but to be well and to go to hell. Tell me oh devil tell me will she will Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel will she will she really will she go to hell. Mephisto I suppose so. Faustus Well then how dear devil how how can I who have no soul I sold it for a light how can I be I again alright and go to hell. Mephisto Commit a sin Faustus What sin, how can I without a soul commit a sin. Mephisto Kill anything Faustus Kill Mephisto Yes kill something oh yes kill anything. Yes it is I who have been deceived I the devil whom no one can deceive yes it is I I who have been deceived. Faustus

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But if I kill what then will. Mephisto It is I who have an iron will. Faustus But if I kill what will happen then. Mephisto Oh go to hell. Faustus I will He turns he sees the boy and dog he says I will kill I will I will. He whispers I will kill I will I will. He turns to the boy and dog and he says Boy and dog I will kill you two I will kill I will I will boy and dog I will kill you kill you, the viper will kill you but it will be I who did it, you will die. The dog says Thank you, the light is so bright there is no moon tonight I cannot bay at the moon the viper will kill me. Thank you, and the boy says And I too, there is no day and night there is no dog tonight to say thank you the viper will kill me too, good-bye to you. In the distance the voices of the boy and girl are heard saying Mr. Viper please listen to me he is a boy she is a girl. There is a rustle the viper appears and the dog and the boy die. Faustus They are dead yes they are dead, dear dog dear boy yes you are dead you are forever ever ever dead and I I can because you die nobody can deny later I will go to hell very well very well I will go to hell Marguerite Ida Helena Annabel I come to tell to tell you that I can go to hell. Mephisto And I, while you cry I who do not deny that now you can go to hell have I nothing to do with you. Faustus No I am through with you I do not need the devil I can go to hell all alone. Leave me alone let me be alone I can go to hell all alone. Mephisto No listen to me now take her with you do I will make you young take her with you do Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel take her with you do. Faustus Is it true that I can be young. Mephisto Yes. Faustus

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All right. He is young he approaches Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel who wakes up and looks at him. He says Look well I am Doctor Faustus and I can go to hell. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel You Doctor Faustus never never Doctor Faustus is old I was told and I saw it with my eyes he was old and could not go to hell and you are young and can go to hell, very well you are not Doctor Faustus never never. Faustus I am I am I killed the boy and dog when I was an old man and now I am a young man and you Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and you know it well and you know I can go to hell and I can take some one too and that some one will be you. Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel Never never, never never, you think you are so clever you think you can deceive, you think you can be old and you are young and old like any one but never never, I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and I know no man or devil no viper and no light I can be anything and everything and it is always always alright. No one can deceive me not a young man not an old man not a devil not a viper I am Marguerite Ida and Helena Annabel and never never will a young man be an old man and an old man be a young man, you are not Doctor Faustus no not ever never never and she falls back fainting into the arms of the man from over the seas who sings Pretty pretty pretty dear I am he and she is she and we are we, pretty pretty dear I am here yes I am here pretty pretty pretty dear. Mephisto strides up Always deceived always deceived I have a will of iron and I am always deceived always deceived come Doctor Faustus I have a will of iron and you will go to hell. Faustus sings Leave me alone let me be alone, dog and boy boy and dog leave me alone let me be alone and he sinks into the darkness and it is all dark and the little boy and the little girl sing Please Mr. Viper listen to me he is he and she is she and we are we please Mr. Viper listen to me. Curtain

Plays Gertrude Stein

In a book I wrote called How to Write I made a discovery which I considered fundamental, that sentences are not emotional and that paragraphs are. I found out about language that paragraphs are emotional and sentences are not and I found out something else about it. I found out that this difference was not a contradiction but a combination and that this combination causes one to think endlessly about sentences and paragraphs because the emotional paragraphs are made up of unemotional sentences. I found out a fundamental thing about plays. The thing I found out about plays was too a combination and not a contradiction and it was something that makes one think endlessly about plays. That something is this. The thing that is fundamental about plays is that the scene as depicted on the stage is more often than not one might say it is almost always in syncopated time in relation to the emotion of anybody in the audience. What this says is this. Your sensation as one in the audience in relation to the play played before you your sensation I say your emotion concerning that play is always either behind or ahead of the play at which you are looking and to which you are listening. So your emotion as a member of the audience is never going on at the same time as the action of the play. This thing the fact that your emotional time as an audience is not the same as the emotional time of the play is what makes one endlessly troubled Reprinted from Gertrude Stein: Writings and Lectures, 1911–1945 (London: Peter Owen, 1967), 93–131.

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about a play, because not only is there a thing to know as to why this is so but also there is a thing to know why perhaps it does not need to be so. This is a thing to know and knowledge as anybody can know is a thing to get by getting. And so I will try to tell you what I had to get and what perhaps I have gotten in plays and to do so I will tell you all that I have ever felt about plays or about any play. Plays are either read or heard or seen. And there then comes the question which comes first and which is first, reading or hearing or seeing a play. I ask you. What is knowledge. Of course knowledge is what you know and what you know is what you do know. What do I know about plays. In order to know one must always go back. What was the first play I saw and was I then already bothered bothered about the different tempo there is in the play and in yourself and your emotion in having the play go on in front of you. I think I may say I may say I know that I was already troubled by this in that my first experience at a play. The thing seen and the emotion did not go on together. This that the thing seen and the thing felt about the thing seen not going on at the same tempo is what makes the being at the theater something that makes anybody nervous. The jazz bands made of this thing, the thing that makes you nervous at the theater, they made of this thing an end in itself. They made of this different tempo a something that was nothing but a difference in tempo between anybody and everybody including all those doing it and all those hearing and seeing it. In the theater of course this difference in tempo is less violent but still it is there and it does make anybody nervous. In the first place at the theater there is the curtain and the curtain already makes one feel that one is not going to have the same tempo as the thing that is there behind the curtain. The emotion of you on one side of the curtain and what is on the other side of the curtain are not going to be going on together. One will always be behind or in front of the other. Then also beside the curtain there is the audience and the fact that they are or will be or will not be in the way when the curtain goes up that too makes for nervousness and nervousness is the certain proof that the emotion of the one seeing and the emotion of the thing seen do not progress together. Nervousness consists in needing to go faster or to go slower so as to get together. It is that that makes anybody feel nervous. And is it a mistake that that is what the theater is or is it not. There are things that are exciting as the theater is exciting but do they make you nervous or do they not, and if they do and if they do not why do they and why do they not.

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Let us think of three different kinds of things that are exciting and that make or do not make one nervous. First any scene which is a real scene something real that is happening in which one takes part as an actor in that scene. Second any book that is exciting, third the theater at which one sees an exciting action in which one does not take part. Now in a real scene in which one takes part at which one is an actor what does one feel as to time and what is it that does or does not make one nervous. And is your feeling at such a time ahead and behind the action the way it is when you are at the theater. It is the same and it is not. But more not. If you are taking part in an actual violent scene, and you talk and they or he or she talks and it goes on and it gets more exciting and finally then it happens, whatever it is that does happen then when it happens then at the moment of happening is it a relief from the excitement or is it a completion of the excitement. In the real thing it is a completion of the excitement, in the theater it is a relief from the excitement, and in that difference the difference between completion and relief is the difference between emotion concerning a thing seen on the stage and the emotion concerning a real presentation that is really something happening. .... This then is the fundamental difference between excitement in real life and on the stage, in real life it culminates in a sense of completion whether an exciting act or an exciting emotion has been done or not, and on the stage the exciting climax is a relief. And the memory of the two things is different. As you go over the detail that leads to culmination of any scene in real life, you find that each time you cannot get completion, but you can get relief and so already your memory of any exciting scene in which you have taken part turns it into the thing seen or heard not the thing felt. You have as I say as the result relief rather than culmination. Relief from excitement, rather than the climax of excitement. In this respect an exciting story does the same only in the exciting story, you so to speak have control of it as you have in your memory of a really exciting scene, it is not as it is on the stage a thing over which you have no real control. You can with an exciting story find out the end and so begin over again just as you can in remembering an exciting scene, but the stage is different, it is not real and yet it is not within your control as the memory of an exciting thing is or the reading of an exciting book. No matter how well you know the end of the stage story it is nevertheless not within your control as the memory of an exciting thing is or as the written story of an exciting thing is or even in a curious way the heard story of an exciting thing is. And what is the reason for this difference and what does it do to the stage. It makes for nervousness that of course, and the cause of nervousness is the fact that the emotion of the one seeing the play is always ahead or behind the play. Beside all this there is a thing to be realized and that is how you are being

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introduced to the characters who take part in an exciting action even when you yourself are one of the actors. And this too has to be very much thought about. And thought about in relation to an exciting real thing to an exciting book, to an exciting theater. How are you introduced to the characters. There are then the three ways of having something be exciting, and the excitement may or may not make one nervous, a book being read that is exciting, a scene in which one takes part or an action in which one takes part and the theater at which one looks on. In each case the excitement and the nervousness and the being behind or ahead in one’s feeling is different. First anything exciting in which one takes part. There one progresses forward and back emotionally and at the supreme crisis of the scene the scene in which one takes part, in which one’s hopes and loves and fears take part at the extreme crisis of this thing one is almost one with one’s emotions, the action and the emotion go together, there is but just a moment of this coordination but it does exist otherwise there is no completion as one has no result, no result of a scene in which one has taken part, and so instinctively when any people are living an exciting moment one with another they go on and on and on until the thing has come together the emotion the action the excitement and that is the way it is when there is any violence either of loving or hating or quarreling or losing or succeeding. But there is, there has to be the moment of it all being abreast the emotion, the excitement and the action otherwise there would be no succeeding and no failing and so no one would go on living, why yes of course not. That is life the way it is lived. Why yes of course and there is a reasonable and sometimes an unreasonable and very often not a reasonable amount of excitement in everybody’s life and when it happens it happens in that way. Now when you read a book how is it. Well it is not exactly like that no not even when a book is even more exciting than any excitement one has ever had. In the first place one can always look at the end of the book and so quiet down one’s excitement. The excitement having been quieted down one can enjoy the excitement just as any one can enjoy the excitement of anything having happened to them by remembering and so tasting it over and over again but each time less intensely and each time until it is all over. Those who like to read books over and over get continuously this sensation of the excitement as if it were a pleasant distant thunder that rolls and rolls and the more it rolls well the further it rolls the pleasanter until it does not roll any more. That is until at last you have read the book so often that it no longer holds any excitement not even ever so faintly and then you have to wait until you have forgotten it and you can begin it again. Now the theater has still another way of being all this to you, the thing causing your emotion and the excitement in connection with it. Of course lots of other things can do these things to lots of other people

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that is to say excite lots of people but as I have said knowledge is what you know and I naturally tell you what I know, as I do so very essentially believe in knowledge. So then once again what does the theater do and how does it do it. What happens on the stage and how and how does one feel about it. That is the thing to know, to know and to tell it as so. Is the thing seen or the thing heard the thing that makes most of its impression upon you at the theater. How much has the hearing to do with it and how little. Does the thing heard replace the thing seen. Does it help or does it interfere with it. And when you are taking part in something really happening that is exciting, how is it. Does the thing seen or does the thing heard affect you and affect you at the same time or in the same degree or does it not. Can you wait to hear or can you wait to see and which excites you the most. And what has either one to do with the completion of the excitement when the excitement is a real excitement that is excited by something really happening. And then little by little does the hearing replace the seeing or does the seeing replace the hearing. Do they go together or do they not. And when the exciting something in which you have taken part arrives at its completion does the hearing replace the seeing or does it not. Does the seeing replace the hearing or does it not. Or do they both go on together. All this is very important, and important for me and important, just important. It has of course a great deal to do with the theater a great great deal. In connection with reading an exciting book the thing is again more complicated than just seeing, because of course in reading one sees but one also hears and when the story is at its most exciting does one hear more than one sees or does one not do so. I am posing all these questions to you because of course in writing, all these things are things that are really most entirely really exciting. But of course yes. And in asking a question one is not answering but one is as one may say deciding about knowing. Knowing is what you know and in asking these questions although there is no one who answers these questions there is in them that there is knowledge. Knowledge is what you know. And now is the thing seen or the thing heard the thing that makes most of its impression upon you at the theater, and does as the scene on the theater proceeds does the hearing take the place of seeing as perhaps it does when something real is being most exciting, or does seeing take the place of hearing as it perhaps does when anything real is happening or does the mixture get to be more mixed seeing and hearing as perhaps it does when anything really exciting is really happening. If the emotion of the person looking at the theater does or does not do what it would do if it were really a real something that was happening and

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they were taking part in it or they were looking at it, when the emotion of the person looking on at the theater comes then at the climax to relief rather than completion has the mixture of seeing and hearing something to do with this and does this mixture have something to do with the nervousness of the emotion at the theater which has perhaps to do with the fact that the emotion of the person at the theater is always behind and ahead of the scene at the theater but not with it. There are then quite a number of things that any one does or does not know. Does the thing heard replace the thing seen does it help it or does it interfere with it. Does the thing seen replace the thing heard or does it help or does it interfere with it. I suppose one might have gotten to know a good deal about these things from the cinema and how it changed from sight to sound, and how much before there was real sound how much of the sight was sound or how much it was not. In other words the cinema undoubtedly had a new way of understanding sight and sound in relation to emotion and time. I may say that as a matter of fact the thing which has induced a person like myself to constantly think about the theater from the standpoint of sight and sound and its relation to emotion and time, rather than in relation to story and action is the same as you may say general form of conception as the inevitable experiments made by the cinema although the method of doing so has naturally nothing to do with the other. I myself never go to the cinema or hardly ever practically never and the cinema has never read my work or hardly ever. The fact remains that there is the same impulse to solve the problem of time in relation to emotion and the relation of the scene to the emotion of the audience in the one case as in the other. There is the same impulse to solve the problem of the relation of seeing and hearing in the one case as in the other. It is in short the inevitable problem of anybody living in the composition of the present time, that is living as we are now living as we have it and now do live in it. The business of Art as I tried to explain in Composition as Explanation is to live in the actual present, that is the complete actual present, and to completely express that complete actual present. But to come back to that other question which is at once so important a part of any scene in real life, in books or on the stage, how are the actors introduced to the sight, hearing and consciousness of the person having the emotion about them. How is it done in each case and what has that to do with the way the emotion progresses. How are the actors in a real scene introduced to those acting with them in that scene and how are the real actors in a real scene introduced to you who are going to be in an exciting scene with them. How does it happen, that is, as it usually happens. And how are the actors in a book scene introduced to the reader of the

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book, how does one come to know them, that is how is one really introduced to them. And how are the people on the stage that is the people the actors act how are they introduced to the audience and what is the reason why, the reason they are introduced in the way that they are introduced, and what happens, and how does it matter, and how does it affect the emotions of the audience. In a real scene, naturally in a real scene, you either have already very well known all the actors in the real scene of which you are one, or you have not. More generally you have than you have not, but and this is the element of excitement in an exciting scene, it quite of course is the element of excitement in an exciting scene that is in a real scene, all that you have known of the persons including yourself who are taking part in the exciting scene, although you have most probably known them very well, what makes it exciting is that insofar as the scene is exciting they the actors in the scene including yourself might just as well have been strangers because they all act talk and feel differently from the way you have expected them to act feel or talk. And this that they feel act and talk including yourself differently from the way you would have thought that they would act feel and talk makes the scene an exciting scene and makes the climax of this scene which is a real scene a climax of completion and not a climax of relief. That is what a real scene is. Would it make any difference in a real scene if they were all strangers, if they had never known each other. Yes it would, it would be practically impossible in the real scene to have a really exciting scene if they were all strangers because generally speaking it is the contradiction between the way you know the people you know including yourself act and the way they are acting or feeling or talking that makes of any scene that is an exciting scene an exciting scene. Of course there are other exciting scenes in peace and in war in which the exciting scene takes place with strangers but in that case for the purpose of excitement you are all strangers but so completely strangers, including you yourself to yourself as well as the others to each other and to you that they are not really individuals and inasmuch as that is so it has the advantage and the disadvantage that you proceed by a series of completions which follow each other so closely that when it is all over you cannot remember that is you cannot really reconstruct the thing, the thing that has happened. That is something that one must think about in relation to the theater and it is a very interesting thing. Then in a case like that where you are all strangers in an exciting scene what happens as far as hearing and seeing is concerned. When in an exciting scene where you are all strangers you to yourself and you to them and they to you and they to each other and where no one of all of them including yourself have any consciousness of knowing each other do you have the disadvantage of not knowing the difference between hearing and seeing and is that a disadvantage from the standpoint of remembering. From that standpoint the standpoint of remembering it is a serious disadvantage. But we may say that that exciting experience of exciting scenes where you

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have really no acquaintance with the other actors as well as none with yourself in an exciting action are comparatively rare and are not the normal material of excitement as it is exciting in the average person’s experience. As I say in the kind of excitement where you have had no normal introduction to the actors of the scene the action and the emotion is so violent that sight sound and emotion is so little realized that it cannot be remembered and therefore in a kind of a way it has really nothing to do with anything because really it is more exciting action than exciting emotion or excitement. I think I can say that these are not the same thing. Have they anything to do with the way the theater gets you to know or not to know what the people on the stage are. Perhaps yes and perhaps no. In ordinary life one has known pretty well the people with whom one is having the exciting scene before the exciting scene takes place and one of the most exciting elements in the excitement be it love or a quarrel or a struggle is that, that having been well known that is familiarly known, they all act in acting violently act in the same way as they always did of course only the same way has become so completely different that from the standpoint of familiar acquaintance there is none there is complete familiarity but there is no proportion that has hitherto been known, and it is this which makes the scene the real scene exciting, and it is this that leads to completion, the proportion achieves in your emotion the new proportion therefore it is completion but not relief. A new proportion cannot be a relief. Now how does one naturally get acquainted in real life which makes one have a familiarity with some one. By a prolonged familiarity of course. And how does one achieve this familiarity with the people in a book or the people on the stage. Or does one. In real life the familiarity is of course the result of accident, intention or natural causes but in any case there is a progressive familiarity that makes one acquainted. Now in a book there is an attempt to do the same thing that is, to say, to do a double thing, to make the people in the book familiar with each other and to make the reader familiar with them. That is the reason in a book it is always a strange doubling, the familiarity between the characters in the book is a progressive familiarity and the familiarity between them and the reader is a familiarity that is a forcing process or an incubation. It makes of course a double time and later at another time we will go into that. But now how about the theater. It is not possible in the theater to produce familiarity which is of the essence of acquaintance because, in the first place when the actors are there they are there and they are there right away. When one reads a play and very often one does read a play, anyway one did read Shakespeare’s plays a great deal at least I did, it was always necessary to keep one’s finger in the list of characters for at least the whole first act, and in a way it is necessary to do the same when the play is played. One has one’s

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program for that and beside one has to become or has become acquainted with the actors as an actor and one has one’s program too for that. And so the introduction to the characters on the stage has a great many different sides to it. And this has again a great deal to do with the nervousness of the theater excitement. Anybody who was as I was, brought up and at the time that I was brought up was brought up in Oakland and in San Francisco inevitably went to the theater a lot. Actors in those days liked to go out to the coast and as it was expensive to get back and not expensive to stay there they stayed. Besides that there were a great many foreign actors who came and having come stayed and any actor who stays acts and so there was always a great deal to see on the stage and children went, they went with each other and they went alone, and they went with people who were older, and there was twenty-five cent opera to which anybody went and the theater was natural and anybody went to the theater. I did go a great deal in those days. I also read plays a great deal. I rather liked reading plays, I very much liked reading plays. In the first place there was in reading plays as I have said the necessity of going forward and back to the list of characters to find out which was which and then insensibly to know. Then there was the poetry and then gradually there were the portraits. I can remember quite definitely in the reading of plays that there were very decidedly these three things, the way of getting acquainted that was not an imitation of what one usually did, but the having to remember which character was which. That was very different from real life or from a book. Then there was the element of poetry. Poetry connected with a play was livelier poetry than poetry unconnected with a play. In the first place there were a great many bits that were short and sometimes it was only a line. I remember Henry VI which I read and reread and which of course I have never seen played but which I liked to read because there were so many characters and there were so many little bits in it that were lively words. In the poetry of plays words are more lively words than in any other kind of poetry and if one naturally liked lively words and I naturally did one likes to read plays in poetry. I always as a child read all the plays I could get hold of that were in poetry. Plays in prose do not read so well. The words in prose are livelier when they are not a play. I am not saying anything about why, it is just a fact. So then for me there was the reading of plays which was one thing and then there was the seeing of plays and of operas a great many of them which was another thing. Later on so very much later on there was for me the writing of plays which was one thing and there was at that time no longer any seeing of plays. I practically when I wrote my first play had completely ceased going to the theater. In fact although I have written a great many plays and I am quite sure they are plays I have since I commenced writing these plays I have

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practically never been inside of any kind of a theater. Of course none of this has been intentional, one may say generally speaking that anything that is really inevitable, that is to say necessary is not intentional. But to go back to the plays I did see, and then to go on to the plays I did write. It was then a natural thing in the Oakland and San Francisco in which I was brought up to see a great many plays played. Beside there was a great deal of opera played and so all of it was natural enough and how did I feel about it. Generally speaking all the early recollections all a child’s feeling of the theater is two things. One which is in a way like a circus that is the general movement and light and air which any theatre has, and a great deal of glitter in the light and a great deal of height in the air, and then there are moments, a very very few moments but still moments. One must be pretty far advanced in adolescence before one realizes a whole play. Up to the time of adolescence when one does really live in a whole play up to that time the theater consists of bright filled space and usually not more than one moment in a play. I think this is fairly everybody’s experience and it was completely mine. Uncle Tom’s Cabin may not have been my first play but it was very nearly my first play. I think my first play really was Pinafore in London but the theater there was so huge that I do not remember at all seeing a stage I only remember that it felt like a theater that is the theater did. I doubt if I did see the stage. In Uncle Tom’s Cabin I remember only the escape across the ice, I imagine because the blocks of ice moving up and down naturally would catch my eye more than the people on the stage would. The next thing was the opera the twenty-five cent opera of San Francisco and the fight in Faust. But that I imagine was largely because my brother had told me about the fight in Faust. As a matter of fact I gradually saw more of the opera because I saw it quite frequently. Then there was Buffalo Bill and the Indian attack, well of course anybody raised where everybody collected arrow heads and played Indians would notice Indians. And then there was Lohengrin, and there all that I saw was the swan being changed into a boy, our insisting on seeing that made my father with us lose the last boat home to Oakland, but my brother and I did not mind, naturally not as it was the moment. In spite of my having seen operas quite often the first thing that I remember as sound on the stage was the playing by some English actor of Richelieu at the Oakland theater and his repeated calling out, Nemours Nemours. That is the first thing that I remember hearing with my ears at the theater and as I say nothing is more interesting to know about the theater than the relation of sight and sound. It is always the most interesting thing about anything to know whether you hear or you see. And how one has to do with

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the other. It is one of the important things in finding out how you know what you know. Then I enormously remember Booth playing Hamlet but there again the only thing I noticed and it is rather a strange thing to have noticed is his lying at the Queen’s feet during the play. One would suppose that a child would notice other things in the play than that but that is what I remember and I noticed him there more than I did the play he saw, although I knew that there was a play going on there, that is the little play. It was in this way that I first felt two things going on at one time. That is something that one has to come to feel. Then the next thing I knew was adolescence and going to the theater all the time, a great deal alone, and all of it making an outside inside existence for me, not so real as books, which were all inside me, but so real that it the theater made me real outside of me which up to that time I never had been in my emotion. I had largely been so in an active daily life but not in any emotion. Then gradually there came the beginning of really realizing the great difficulty of having my emotion accompany the scene and then moreover I became fairly consciously troubled by the things over which one stumbles over which one stumbled to such an extent that the time of one’s emotion in relation to the scene was always interrupted. The things over which one stumbled and there it was a matter both of seeing and of hearing were clothes, voices, what they the actors said, how they were dressed and how that related itself to their moving around. Then the bother of never being able to begin over again because before it had commenced it was over, and at no time had you been ready, either to commence or to be over. Then I began to vaguely wonder whether I could see and hear at the same time and which helped or interfered with the other and which helped or interfered with the thing on the stage having been over before it really commenced. Could I see and hear and feel at the same time and did I. I began to be a good deal troubled by all these things, the more emotion I felt while at the theater the more troubled I became by all these things. And then I was relieved. As I said San Francisco was a wonderful place to hear and see foreign actors as at that time they liked it when they got there and they stayed and they played. I must have been about sixteen years old and Bernhardt came to San Francisco and stayed two months. I knew a little French of course but really it did not matter, it was all so foreign and her voice being so varied and it all being so French I could rest in it untroubled. And I did. It was better than the opera because it went on. It was better than the theater because you did not have to get acquainted. The manners and customs of the french theater created a thing in itself and it existed in and for itself as the poetical plays had that I used so much to read, there were so

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many characters just as there were in those plays and you did not have to know them they were so foreign, and the foreign scenery and actuality replaced the poetry and the voices replaced the portraits. It was for me a very simple direct and moving pleasure. This experience curiously enough and yet perhaps it was not so curious awakened in me a desire for melodrama on the stage, because there again everything happened so quietly one did not have to get acquainted and as what the people felt was of no importance one did not have to realize what was said. This pleasure in melodrama and in those days there was always one theater in a theatrically inclined town that played melodrama, this pleasure in melodrama culminated for me in the Civil War dramas of that period and the best of them was of course Secret Service. Gillette had conceived a new technique, silence stillness and quick movement. Of course it had been done in the melodrama already by the villains particularly in such plays as the Queen of Chinatown and those that had to do with telegraph operators. But Gillette had not only done it but he had conceived it and it made the whole stage the whole play this technique silence stillness and quick movement. One was no longer bothered by the theater, you had to get acquainted of course but that was quickly over and after that nothing bothered. In fact Gillette created what the cinema later repeated by mixing up the short story and the stage but there is yet the trouble with the cinema that it is after all a photograph, and a photograph continues to be a photograph and yet can it become something else. Perhaps it can but that is a whole other question. If it can then some one will have to feel that about it. But to go on. From then on I was less and less interested in the theater. I became more interested in opera, I went one went and the whole business almost came together and then finally, just finally, I came not to care at all for music and so having concluded that music was made for adolescents and not for adults and having just left adolescence behind me and besides I knew all the operas anyway by that time I did not care any more for opera. Then I came to Paris to live and there for a long time I did not go to the theater at all. I forgot the theater, I never thought about the theater. I did sometimes think about the opera. I went to the opera once in Venice and I liked it and then much later Strauss’s Electra made me realize that in a kind of a way there could be a solution of the problem of conversation on the stage. Beside it was a new opera and it is quite exciting to hear something unknown really unknown. But as I say I settled down to Paris life and I forgot the theater and almost forgot opera. There was of course Isadora Duncan and then the Russian ballet and in between Spain and the Argentine and bullfights and I began once more to feel something about something going on at a theater. And then I went back, not in my reading but in my feeling to the reading

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of plays in my childhood, the lots of characters, the poetry and the portraits and the scenery which was always of course and ought always to be of course woods that is forests and trees and streets and windows. And so one day all of a sudden I began to write Plays. I remember very well the first one I wrote. I called it ‘‘What Happened, a Play,’’ it is in Geography and Plays as are all the plays I wrote at that time. I think and always have thought that if you write a play you ought to announce that it is a play and that is what I did. What Happened. A Play. I had just come home from a pleasant dinner party and I realized then as anybody can know that something is always happening. Something is always happening, anybody knows a quantity of stories of people’s lives that are always happening, there are always plenty for the newspapers and there are always plenty in private life. Everybody knows so many stories and what is the use of telling another story. What is the use of telling a story since there are so many and everybody knows so many and tells so many. In the country it is perfectly extraordinary how many complicated dramas go on all the time. And everybody knows them, so why tell another one. There is always a story going on. So naturally what I wanted to do in my play was what everybody did not always know nor always tell. By everybody I do of course include myself by always I do of course include myself. And so I wrote What Happened, A Play. Then I wrote Ladies Voices and then I wrote a Curtain Raiser. I did this last because I wanted still more to tell what could be told if one did not tell anything. Perhaps I will read some of these to you later. Then I went to Spain and there I wrote a lot of plays. I concluded that anything that was not a story could be a play and I even made plays in letters and advertisements. I had before I began writing plays written many portraits. I had been enormously interested all my life in finding out what made each one that one and so I had written a great many portraits. I came to think that since each one is that one and that there are a number of them each one being that one, the only way to express this thing each one being that one and there being a number of them knowing each other was in a play. And so I began to write these plays. And the idea in ‘‘What Happened, a Play’’ was to express this without telling what happened, in short to make a play the essence of what happened. I tried to do this with the first series of plays that I wrote. .... I have of course always been struggling with this thing, to say what you nor I nor nobody knows, but what is really what you and I and everybody knows, and as I say everybody hears stories but the thing that makes each one what he is is not that. Everybody hears stories and knows stories. How can

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they not because that is what anybody does and what everybody tells. But in my portraits I had tried to tell what each one is without telling stories and now in my early plays I tried to tell what happened without telling stories so that the essence of what happened would be like the essence of the portraits, what made what happened be what it was. And then I had for the moment gone as far as I could then go in plays and I went back to poetry and portraits and description. Then I began to spend my summers in Bilignin in the department of the Ain and there I lived in a landscape that made itself its own landscape. I slowly came to feel that since the landscape was the thing, I had tried to write it down in Lucy Church, Amiably and I did but I wanted it even more really, in short I found that since the landscape was the thing, a play was a thing and I went on writing plays a great many plays. The landscape at Bilignin so completely made a play that I wrote quantities of plays. I felt that if a play was exactly like a landscape then there would be no difficulty about the emotion of the person looking on at the play being behind or ahead of the play because the landscape does not have to make acquaintance. You may have to make acquaintance with it, but it does not with you, it is there and so the play being written the relation between you at any time is so exactly that that it is of no importance unless you look at it. Well I did look at it and the result is in all the plays that I have printed as Operas and Plays. .... The landscape has its formation and as after all a play has to have formation and be in relation one thing to the other thing and as the story is not the thing as anyone is always telling something then the landscape not moving but being always in relation, the trees to the hills the hills to the fields the trees to each other any piece of it to any sky and then any detail to any other detail, the story is only of importance if you like to tell or like to hear a story but the relation is there anyway. And of that relation I wanted to make a play and I did, a great number of plays. .... The only one of course that has been played is Four Saints. In Four Saints I made the saints the landscape. All the saints that I made and I made a number of them because after all a great many pieces of things are in a landscape all these saints together made my landscape. These attendant saints were the landscape and it the play really is a landscape. A landscape does not move nothing really moves in a landscape but things are there, and I put into the play the things that were there. Magpies are in the landscape that is they are in the sky of a landscape, they are black and white and they are in the sky of the landscape in Bilignin and in Spain, especially in Avila. When they are in the sky they do something that I have never seen any other bird do they hold themselves up and down and look flat against the sky.

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A very famous French inventor of things that have to do with stabilization in aviation told me that what I told him magpies did could not be done by any bird but anyway whether the magpies at Avila do do it or do not at least they look as if they do do it. They look exactly like the birds in the Annunciation pictures the bird which is the Holy Ghost and rests flat against the side sky very high. There were magpies in my landscape and there were scarecrows. The scarecrows on the ground are the same thing as the magpies in the sky, they are a part of the landscape. They the magpies may tell their story if they and you like or even if I like but stories are only stories but that they stay in the air is not a story but a landscape. That scarecrows stay on the ground is the same thing it could be a story but it is a piece of the landscape. Then as I said streets and windows are also landscape and they added to my Spanish landscape. While I was writing the Four Saints I wanted one always does want the saints to be actually saints before them as well as inside them, I had to see them as well as feel them. As it happened there is on the Boulevard Raspail a place where they make photographs that have always held my attention. They take a photograph of a young girl dressed in the costume of her ordinary life and little by little in successive photographs they change it into a nun. These photographs are small and the thing takes four or five changes but at the end it is a nun and this is done for the family when the nun is dead and in memoriam. For years I had stood and looked at these when I was walking and finally when I was writing Saint Therese in looking at these photographs I saw how Saint Therese existed from the life of an ordinary young lady to that of the nun. And so everything was actual and I went on writing. Then in another window this time on the rue de Rennes there was a rather large porcelain group and it was of a young soldier giving alms to a beggar and taking off his helmet and his armor and leaving them in the charge of another. It was somehow just what the young Saint Ignatius did and anyway it looked like him as I had known about him and so he too became actual not as actual as Saint Therese in the photographs but still actual and so the Four Saints got written. All these things might have been a story but as a landscape they were just there and a play is just there. That is at least the way I feel about it. Anyway I did write Four Saints an Opera to be Sung and I think it did almost what I wanted, it made a landscape and the movement in it was like a movement in and out with which anybody looking on can keep in time. I also wanted it to have the movement of nuns very busy and in continuous movement but placid as a landscape has to be because after all the life in a convent is the life of a landscape, it may look excited a landscape does

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sometimes look excited but its quality is that a landscape if it ever did go away would have to go away to stay. Anyway the play as I see it is exciting and it moves but it also stays and that is as I said in the beginning might be what a play should do. Anyway I am pleased. People write me that they are having a good time while the opera is going on a thing which they say does not very often happen to them at the theater. So you do see what I have after all meant. And so this is just at present all I know about the theater.

part thirteen

The Theater of the Absurd

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rthur Adamov (1908–1970) wrote plays that are some of the earliest examples of the Theater of the Absurd. The Russianborn Adamov, who settled in Paris in 1924, was associated in the 1930s with the French Surrealists, including Jean Cocteau and Antonin Artaud, and edited the Surrealist journal Discontinuité. He did not begin to write plays until after World War II, when he was nearly 40 years old. Adamov’s first play, The Parody (1947), depicts the futility of people’s search for meaning in life. His next seven plays, particularly The Invasion (1950), display the influence of August Strindberg’s dream plays and German Expressionism. Following Artaud’s lead, he developed a theory of ‘‘literality’’ in the theater, in which ‘‘thought and language are inconceivable without the spatial element of gesture.’’1 In the mid-1950s, Adamov began to write more overtly and topically political plays that exhibit a strong Brechtian influence, such as Paoli Paoli (1957). Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, he translated and adapted plays by Maxim Gorky, Anton Chekhov, Nikolai Gogol, Strindberg, Georg Büchner, and Heinrich von Kleist. Although his work has rarely been professionally produced in America, Adamov remains popular in France. He never had a major public success to match that of Eugène Ionesco or Samuel Beckett, but he is still admired, especially in the theatrical profession, as an experimental writer who never tired of seeking new directions.

Note 1. David Bradby, Modern French Drama 1940-1990, 2d ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 84. Nd.

Deciphering the Indecipherable L’invasion (The Invasion)

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damov’s second play, L’invasion (The Invasion), was written in 1948–1949 and published along with his first play The Parody (written between 1945 and 1947), in 1950. It was Jean Vilar who recommended to the young author that he use the publication of the two works as a means of making a reputation for himself. The strategy worked and Adamov’s name began to be known in literary circles. Through the patronage of wealthy benefactors, two of his plays were presented at the same time in Paris: directed by Vilar, The Invasion was performed at the Studio des Champs-Elysées on November 14, 1950, three days after the presentation of La grande et la petite manoeuvre, [Adamov’s] third work. With his second play, Adamov made a decided attempt to create characters who were more human and less schematic. The inspiration for the play may have come from a number of sources. The basic subject, that of a man trying to decipher the manuscript of a friend who has died, could very well have come from the death of Adamov’s close acquaintance, Roger Gilbert-Lecomte. According to Roger Blin, Adamov had tried to gather together Gilbert-Lecomte’s papers after his death but had found the task perplexing and, eventually, impossible.1 It is also significant that Adamov was writing this play at the time of the death of Antonin Artaud, and this, too, may have provided some of the inspiration. Or, as Geneviève Serreau suggests, Adamov may have thought of the case of Max Brod, who took charge of the writings of Kafka after he died.2 In this second work, the playwright is still pursuing the themes of The Parody, stressing again the lack of communication between people in this alien world, pointing out that the quest for meaning in life is hopeless and that any search for a sense of direction is a waste of time. Just as The Parody shows that all paths lead to failure, The Invasion takes up a variation on the theme, demonstrating that any specific effort by man to understand his existence ends as an absurd act. This second play, richer and more human than the first work, is, as a result, more accessible also. Whereas The Parody is an abstract, almost lifeless presentation of an idea, The Invasion is a more direct, more immediate expression of the playwright’s feelings. In an obvious self-criticism, Adamov emphasizes the destructiveness of man’s obsessions, which take hold of his life and make him useless. And the author individualizes the play more by limiting his subject to the family circle and underlining the plight of the writer who is rendered creatively and psychologically impotent by the ‘‘invasion’’ into his life of relatives and friends. In The Invasion, Adamov follows a more traditional dramatic technique. The plot has a sense of progression and the characters are more substantial, although Excerpted from John H. Reilly, ‘‘Deciphering the Indecipherable: L’Invasion (The Invasion),’’ in Arthur Adamov (New York: Twayne, 1974), 44–50. 1. René Gaudy, Arthur Adamov (Paris: Théâtre Ouvert, 1971), 32. 2. Geneviève Serreau, Histoire du ‘‘nouveau théâtre’’ (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), 71.

3. Richard E. Sherrell, ‘‘Arthur Adamov and Invaded Man,’’ Modern Drama 7.4 (1965): 402.

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the dramatist makes no attempt to give them the solidity which they might possess in psychologically motivated drama. The action centers on the members of a family and the disruption in their lives caused by the manuscript of a writer, Jean, who has recently died. Jean has left his papers to Pierre, the husband of his sister, Agnès. It is Pierre’s responsibility to decipher the manuscript, but the task proves impossible: much of the writing is illegible or has simply faded with the passage of time. In addition, Tradel, Pierre’s friend, who is also working on the project, does not mind inventing whatever he cannot understand, leaving the real interpretation more hopelessly jumbled than ever. While Pierre is entangled in this insurmountable project, his personal life has become a nightmare because of the never-ending ‘‘invasion’’ by others. His household is a series of disorders, seemingly caused by his wife who is in constant conflict with his mother. In the midst of all this, a man appears, looking for someone in the apartment next door. This man, identified only as ‘‘the first one who comes along,’’ stays in the room, invading Pierre’s privacy even more. In an attempt to work in quiet, Pierre retreats first to a café, then to a room in the back of the house. At this point, Agnès leaves her husband, setting out with ‘‘the first one who comes along.’’ With the departure, order has been reestablished and the mother has become the dominant figure. However, Pierre has now decided to abandon his work. In an effort to show the complete futility of all that he has been doing, he tears up the manuscript and returns to his room, once again withdrawing from society. As he does so, Agnès reappears, asking to borrow his typewriter in addition to mentioning that her life with her lover has not worked out well, for he has fallen sick and she cannot manage his business. The mother refuses to allow Agnès to take the typewriter and she leaves. Tradel, in search of Pierre, finds him dead in his room, a suicide. Like Lili, who acted as the axis in The Parody, the dead writer’s manuscript remains the center around which the characters of The Invasion revolve. In essence, the manuscript is the image of the tragic situation of man, a symbol of what Richard Sherrell calls ‘‘the indiscernible meaning which invades life at its core.’’3 Jean’s papers represent the vain, disheartening quest for meaning in life. Pierre cannot determine what the man wrote, for the handwriting is unclear, and even if a sentence can be deciphered, it must be placed in the total context of the complete disorder of the papers. There is even the strong suggestion that if Pierre were to make some sense of the manuscript, the final answer might be absurd or meaningless. In addition, these papers have become an invasion of Pierre’s own life. In his determination to understand their meaning, he is spending his time on what has become an unreasonable project, an obsession. Adamov implies that the work is not meant to be deciphered and, more significantly, Pierre does not even plan to publish his results if he were able to complete the task. Thus, the playwright expresses the total futility of an exaggerated devotion to an idea which harms the individual involved and which is of no benefit to others. The idea of being obsessed with something to the point of not functioning adequately as a human

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being (a topic most pertinent to Adamov’s own life) would be repeated by the dramatist in later plays, notably in Le ping-pong. At one moment, Pierre himself refers to this when he indicates his wish to lead a normal human existence again. Adamov thus seems to be pointing out that this quest for meaning (i.e., the obsession to decipher the manuscript) becomes a means of escape rather than a way of living one’s life. It is a flight from reality, an attempt to cover up the difficulties of existence. The playwright also suggests that the manuscript’s invasion of Pierre’s life is reciprocated in turn by Pierre’s own violation of Jean’s past existence through his persistence in understanding the words of the dead writer. Jean wanted to destroy his own manuscript because it reminded him of what he had suffered. And it is in this context that we can understand Pierre’s comment at the end of The Invasion, while tearing up the manuscript: ‘‘Pardon me for not having understood you earlier’’ (Théâtre, vol. 1, 93). It is also possible to interpret the sentence as an indication of Pierre’s realization of the message which Jean might have wished to convey: the meaninglessness of everything, including the manuscript. Pierre’s work on the manuscript has been a series of frustrations and defeats, even more so because his life has been invaded on all levels, for all reasons: by his wife, who brings disorder; by his mother, who struggles with the wife for domination; by Tradel, who only adds imprecision to the difficult task of deciphering the manuscript; by the relatives of the dead man, who are suing over the use of the papers; by ‘‘the first one who comes along,’’ who takes Agnès away. The audience is meant to see, in a concrete, physical manner, this intrusion into Pierre’s personal world and the disorder that it has created. Following Artaud’s concept of filling up space and Adamov’s own desire to express verbal concepts through visual means, the playwright has indicated that the first sight the audience will see on stage is the complete untidiness and disarray of items, the visual aspect expressing the disorder in the situation and in the mind of Pierre. This confusion is then reflected in the use of language, which itself becomes more and more incomprehensible, seemingly disintegrating before Pierre’s eyes, as he is unable to make any sense of what he is doing: ‘‘Why does one say, ‘It happens’? Who is this ‘it,’ what does it want of me? Why does one say ‘on’ the ground, rather than ‘at’ or ‘over’? I have lost too much time thinking about these things’’ (Théâtre, vol. 1, 86). Yet, in this quest for normalcy, it is clear that order is not going to bring Pierre the peace of mind which he needs. With order comes the visible control of his mother, a control suggested on stage by her ‘‘voluminous’’ armchair, which becomes, little by little, the dominant, all-enveloping piece of furniture. Once the mother has rid the family of Agnès, the social fabric of the country has also rid itself of all of the ‘‘immigrants’’ who are crossing the border, an ironical twist which Adamov must have inserted while thinking of his own days as an immigrant and meditating on the narrow-mindedness of those people who are afraid of others who are different. And with order comes a sense of sterility and hopelessness, perhaps even more agonizing than that associated with disorder. Now that Agnès no longer has any use for him, and now that he discovers that the manuscript can no longer be used as a basis for deciphering some sort of sense

Select Bibliography on Adamov Cismaru, Alfred. ‘‘The Plays of Arthur Adamov.’’ Serif: Quarterly of Kent State University 5.1 (1968): 11–16. McCann, John J. The Theater of Arthur Adamov. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, Department of Romance Languages, 1975. Sherrell, Richard E. ‘‘Arthur Adamov and Invaded Man.’’ Modern Drama 7.4 (1965): 399– 404. See also Bradby; Cohn; Esslin, The Theatre of the Absurd; Gaensbauer; Guicharnaud; and Pronko, in the General Bibliography.

The Theater of the Absurd

Adamov, Arthur. L’invasion. In Adamov’s Théâtre, vol. 1. Paris: Gallimard, 1953. All translations from the French in this excerpt are by the author, John H. Reilly.

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in life, existence holds not even a minimal sort of meaning, and his only response is suicide. In this respect The Invasion reflects Adamov’s ambivalence about his own life. While seeking a rational, stable, day-by-day life, the writer also recognized that the very elements which might cause the disorder and seemingly stifle creativity were those which were also most needed for an artist’s development. To a great extent, Pierre needs Agnès in spite of the chaos which she may bring with her, because she also represents the very difficult, but necessary, world of human relationships. To attempt to be free of her, to rid oneself of human contact, particularly with a woman, is to deform the nature of the real world, in a sense to reenter the mother’s womb. Such a situation is a flight from maturity, and for Pierre, like Adamov himself, this can only be a frightening experience. Indeed, much of the power of The Invasion comes from the combination of fear and frustration, adding up to despair, that Adamov created in Pierre—a despair that reflected the playwright’s own tortured response to life.

The Invasion A Play in Four Acts Arthur Adamov

cast (in order of appearance) pierre agnes the mother the woman friend tradel the first caller madame tradel the child ACT I Total darkness man’s voice: Agnes, I’m speaking to you. Do you hear me? woman’s voice (sleepily): Yes, what is it? man’s voice: I can’t find them. Where did you put them now? You promised me you wouldn’t touch them again. (The scene grows gradually lighter. In the shadows pierre —tall, thin, and nervous—can be seen pacing back and forth in the center of a room which is in complete disorder. Reprinted from Modern International Drama, 2, no. 1 (September 1968), 59–75. Trans. Robert J. Doan.

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Sheets of paper are laid out like card hands in two different places on the floor. A lamp hangs from the ceiling by a complicated system of pulleys. In the left foreground, agnes is lying on a couch. At the head of the couch, two chairs, with their backs against the end of the couch. Nearby, a night table covered with papers. At right, and slightly forward, facing left at an angle, a huge armchair upholstered in velvet: the mother’s chair. Upstage, left, a window. Near the window, a table, on which is a typewriter and more papers. Upstage, right, a chest of drawers also covered with papers, and an overloaded coat rack. Along almost all the walls are bookshelves which contain some books, but mostly just more piles of paper. Here and there, chairs, almost all of which are covered with papers, laundry, or clothes. Three doors: at the right, left and center of the stage.) agnes: You must’ve left them at the foot of the bed. Have you looked there? pierre (bending down): I can’t see anything. agnes (raising herself on one elbow): Then open the curtains. (pierre goes to the window and tries awkwardly to open the curtains.) They’re caught in the window. Pull them from the top. You’re tall enough to reach them. (pierre tries again, without success.) Wait a minute, I’m coming. (agnes throws off the covers, gets up and puts on a housecoat. She is a graceful young woman, somewhat sickly looking. She takes a chair, drags it to the window, climbs up and opens the curtains. The room is filled with a morning light which grows brighter as the scene progresses. agnes sits down on the couch. pierre stops before one of the piles of paper arranged on the floor and kneels down to examine it.) pierre: They’re not here. I didn’t put them on the floor. (He gets up.) You know, it was on the letterhead from that hotel where you two lived. I don’t remember its name. (Goes to the chest of drawers and looks through the papers there.) agnes (getting up, in an almost joyous tone of voice): Yes, one day, you were looking for a room, but there weren’t any more. Then we walked as far as the boulevard, but the wind began to blow so strongly that we weren’t able to go any farther, (Laughing) and we stayed there. pierre (taking some papers from the night table): You’ve messed everything up again. When will you learn that I can’t afford to lose any time, not even a minute? (agnes goes to the typewriter and begins to type slowly, jerkily.) I’ve spent the whole night trying to find those penciled notes. (Pause.) It would’ve been better if I hadn’t put them in chronological order, perhaps. But if I hadn’t started with the more faded sections, I wouldn’t be able to read them at all now. Who knows if the writing would not have disappeared completely? If I could only find the missing word in this passage!

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agnes: You’ve been working too hard. You can hardly see straight. pierre: I wouldn’t be this tired if you were more helpful. (Sits on the couch and begins to work, placing the papers on the night table.) agnes: Why did you take those papers from me? You know very well that I find all sorts of things when you’re with me. Together we could have worked it out. No one knew him as we did. After all, I was his sister, and you were his best friend. (Pause.) Sometimes I misread a word, but I can feel Jean’s presence on every page. (Pause.) What hurts me the most is those pages where the pencil breaks, or the lines slant. It’s in those poor pages that I see him best! (the mother enters, a newspaper and an iron in her hand. She is a woman of about fifty, strong and dominating. She goes straight to pierre and kisses him.) the mother: Well, working already? You could at least take time out to sleep. I’ll bet you didn’t even go to bed last night. (Going toward agnes.) I brought you the iron. You can iron Pierre’s shirts . . . after you’ve laundered them. (To agnes.) Agnes, see that Pierre doesn’t tire himself out so much. You know very well that his eyes aren’t good. Working as he has been for the past two years, he’ll go blind. (She goes to her chair, sits down and unfolds the newspaper. agnes types.) It’s unbelievable! This business about immigration has been going on for months, and they haven’t come up with a solution yet. It’s always the same thing: no one is capable of reacting, of taking the initiative. (Pause.) Naturally, the others take advantage of it; since there’s no work down there, why not come looking for it here? agnes: Who else would work under such conditions? They’re paid less than half of what the others get. the mother: You just don’t understand: the harm comes from their laziness toward everything, no matter what. pierre (getting up and going toward agnes): I found it! agnes: What? The word you were looking for? pierre: Better than that—I found the whole sentence! I had made up my mind to get that word, and to do so, I tried to see the word that was underneath, but that one was just as illegible. Then, suddenly, with amazing clarity, I could read everything that was to the left and right of the word, and the whole sentence finally came to me. (Pause.) If only Tradel had had half my patience . . . the mother: It was my idea to let him try it. But after seeing him at work, I realized that it wasn’t such a good idea after all. pierre: He does it the easy way. When he comes to a word he can’t read, he makes one up. As long as he gets across an approximate meaning, he’s happy. I could never make him understand that he has no right to do something like that. (He goes to pick up a notebook from the chest of

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drawers.) If he’s satisfied with an approximate word, it’s because an idea is never clear enough to him. (Opening the notebook.) Look, for example, here’s a passage that he ‘‘thought’’ was disconnected: two sentence fragments side by side. So, he simply added a ‘‘because.’’ Oh, I know very well how tempting it is, but it’s dangerous. Who’s to say that the so-called carelessness, the oversights, the omissions and errors, aren’t due to some hidden intention, a scruple . . . Or even a fear? No one can say, of course. And even if it is just drudgery! the mother: You know very well that Tradel can’t work alone. Remember, even in high school he was lost when Jean or you weren’t there to guide him . . . and listen to what he had to say. (Pause.) After all, there’s nothing wrong with your being concerned about the personal value of his work. agnes: He’s surely going to come! Just so he doesn’t stay all day the way he did yesterday! pierre: I wonder if it wasn’t a mistake to give him one of the later notebooks? In a way, they’re easier to read, but they’ve got to be completely rearranged. If only Jean had told us exactly what he was trying to do . . . But we didn’t see much of him those last few months. (He goes back to his papers.) the mother: I never understood why Agnes couldn’t do a better job than you since she was always so close to her brother. (agnes types faster.) pierre: I thought so! It should be ‘‘heavier,’’ not ‘‘however.’’ I would be more patient if my time weren’t so limited. (Pause.) I can’t go on, I can hardly see. Agnes, turn on the lights, will you? (agnes gets up, turns on the lights, and goes back to the typewriter. She pulls out the finished page, but sees that she has put the carbon in backward. She becomes exasperated, laboriously puts the papers in order, and puts them back into the machine. the woman friend enters, a briefcase under her arm. She is tall, dry, affected, gossipy. She is wearing a flounced dress, and a plumed hat with a raised veil. She goes casually toward the mother.) the woman friend (to the mother): I’ve just come from the meeting. All our friends were asking for you. (Pause.) I knew I’d find you at Pierre’s. the mother: My, but you’re clever! the woman friend: We decided to meet before noon, to write up the protest I was telling you about. Now is the time to act, if we don’t want the others to get the best places. Once they do, we’ll never be able to get them out. the mother: I shouldn’t think your protest will do any good. pierre: If I could’ve made a mistake like that, I could’ve made others elsewhere, everywhere! the woman friend (going toward pierre): Things not going too well today, Pierre? (She waits vainly for an answer, takes a step toward agnes, then thinks better of it and goes to the mother.) I see that Agnes has adapted very well to her new work.

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the mother: She had no choice. (agnes types faster.) the woman friend: Mind if I sit down? I want to get this project under way. (She sits down, takes a folder from her briefcase, places it on her lap, and begins to write.) agnes (going toward pierre with a sheet of paper): This word has me stumped. What did you mean here? You should try to write more carefully. pierre: Listen. When I asked you not to work on the editing, it was because it was beyond you. But now, all you have to do is type the pages I’ve already copied. You should be capable of doing that much by yourself. Of course the pages that you’re typing now aren’t entirely to the point. If they were, I wouldn’t have anything to worry about. It isn’t that hard to recopy something intelligently! (Pause.) You know that I’ve got to have several versions, so I can look at the manuscript more objectively. (Gets up and lowers the lamp, tying the string to a nail just above the night table. He kneels down under the lamp and examines his papers.) the mother: Tell me, Agnes, didn’t your brother ever write to you? agnes: No, we were never separated, really. When he left, I followed him. the woman friend: His death must’ve been a terrible blow to you. the mother: It’s a shame that you don’t know his handwriting any better. agnes: He hated writing. (pierre looks up.) I know better than anyone. (Pause.) There were times, toward the end, when even holding a pencil was torture for him. pierre (straightening up): He must’ve done some writing from time to time. (Pointing to the papers strewn about the room.) Look at that! the mother: Agnes can tell you how badly he wanted to destroy all his writings. agnes (getting up): Exactly! He hated them. They reminded him too much of what he had been through. pierre (getting up and pacing the floor): In any case, he didn’t destroy them, that’s for sure. (agnes sits down again.) What’s the use of talking about it? (Stopping in front of agnes.) You can well imagine that before beginning this job, I faced up to what had to be done. I think that I’ve settled that (Emphatically) once and for all. Of course, he often spoke of destroying his papers. But only at times when everything seemed hopeless and futile to him. If he hadn’t felt that way from time to time, I wonder if he would ever have written at all. As long as I’m here, these papers will be neither destroyed nor published. the woman friend: Death presents such cruel dilemmas (the woman friend gets up, picks up her gloves, and takes a few steps while fixing her hat. pierre goes to the chest of drawers and looks over the papers that he has been carrying in his hands. tradel enters. He is to some degree a caricature of pierre, even in certain mannerisms. He speaks very fast and

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usually directly at the person to whom he is speaking. He is dressed rather poorly. pierre continues to work. agnes begins typing again. the woman friend looks at tradel, then comes back to where she was sitting. She snickers, her eyes all the while following tradel.) tradel: Well, it looks as if I was right after all. I’ve seen this coming for a long time. The family has decided to take us to court. They’ve already begun the proceedings. pierre: There isn’t a thing they can do to me. tradel: But I’ve seen their lawyer. He’s the one who told me what was going on. He’s not at all sure that we’re within our rights. pierre: We’ll have time to worry about that when we have more of the details. Of course, right now, you haven’t any. tradel: All I know is that we’re going to have to defend ourselves. What’s preventing them from coming to take the papers, today, tomorrow, anytime at all . . . ? And once they have them, we’ll never know what happened to them. How will we know that they haven’t destroyed them . . . or even sold them? agnes: They’d never sell them! the mother: Agnes is right. What parents would sell their dead son’s belongings? the woman friend: Let’s not exaggerate things. They’re not in the poorhouse yet. tradel (to pierre): We’ve got to do something right now. pierre (pacing): Well, it looks as if I’ve wasted another day. As if I could afford to let myself be interrupted at every turn. (Pause.) I don’t dare even open the suitcases. There’s so much still to be done, I can’t say I’ve even scratched the surface yet. (To agnes.) You know, I found so many mistakes that I’ve decided to do it all over. Right from the beginning. the woman friend: Nothing holds so many surprises for us as work! (She goes back to her work.) pierre (getting ready to leave, to tradel): I’m going to see the lawyer. (He looks once again at his papers.) tradel (going toward Pierre): Did you find time to go over what I got done? pierre: Just barely. Not enough to talk to you about it. tradel: Please examine it very carefully. But first, there are some things I have to explain to you. It’s absolutely necessary . . . I’m sure that we will agree on the essentials. (pierre goes to the door. tradel follows him.) I’ll come with you. We can talk on the way. pierre: Please, I just want to be left alone. (He looks around again at his papers.) the woman friend (getting up, to the mother): How about we get down to business too?

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the mother: Yes, just a second. (To tradel.) Tradel, why don’t we take advantage of Pierre’s absence to settle the question of these tablecloths? (tradel helplessly watches pierre going out the door, then looks at the mother.) agnes (to pierre): Don’t be too late. (pierre goes out.) the woman friend: I’ve known Pierre for . . . twenty years, and he still amazes me. (agnes takes her work and leaves by the door at upstage center. the mother gets up and goes to get the tablecloths folded on a chair. the woman friend is still standing, waiting. tradel, his arms dangling, has not moved.) the mother (giving the tablecloths to tradel): You can take them back. If you don’t find anyone who wants them, bring them back to me. It really makes no difference, since this was all my idea anyway. the woman friend (going to tradel and feeling the tablecloths): How delightful! Your wife sews very well. (She sits down near the mother. tradel puts the tablecloths down.) the mother: You shouldn’t have any trouble selling them. Besides, you’ll have more time now, since your work here is finished. (Pause.) By the way, Pierre spoke to me about certain things that he wasn’t very satisfied with. tradel: What did he say? the mother: Oh, nothing serious. Simply that he didn’t agree with your method of editing. (the woman friend becomes more interested.) It’s nothing to worry about. (Pause.) You don’t really understand him, but you’re not the only one. His ideas are so difficult, so deep . . . tradel: But just what is it he doesn’t like about my work? the mother: He objects to your suppressing . . . or adding . . . or inventing . . . or something. . . . tradel: He can’t understand that we’ll never finish this if we don’t re-create what’s missing, what we can’t make out. How many times have I tried to explain to him . . . the mother: Re-create? tradel: Well, no, not exactly re-create. But sometimes you come across passages that are simply incomprehensible. I had no choice but to . . . bridge the gap. the mother: I would never have believed that there was so much in his notes that wasn’t clear. tradel: To be sure, everything is perfectly clear to me. However, I’m not working just for myself. the mother: That’s true. You’re interested, above all, in publishing the notes. the woman friend: If it’s of any help, I know a publisher. Only, these notes are very special, aren’t they?

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tradel: Until now I haven’t given much thought to the idea of treating Jean’s notes as a whole. But to say either that or nothing at all. . . . the mother: If you want to publish fragments of the notes, I advise you to speak to Pierre. tradel: That’s exactly what I wanted to do today. But you saw how busy he was. (Pause.) Besides, we have lots of time to think about that. . . . Assuming that we’re going to follow up on this idea. . . . (Pause.) What matters most is what Pierre thinks of the work I’ve just finished. the mother: I doubt if he’ll want to talk to you about it. It hurts him . . . to disagree with you, even over details. tradel: Yes, my alleged mistakes. If only I knew where Pierre put my notebook, I could show you, one by one, all the passages, you would understand . . . . the mother (pointing out the chair where tradel’s notebook is lying): It’s over there. (tradel looks, but does not see it.) On that chair. (tradel goes quickly to the chair, picks up the notebook, and returns, examining the book.) the woman friend (getting up, to the mother): Are you coming, Blanche? They’re probably dying with impatience waiting for us. (She laughs, checks her make-up, and goes to the door at right.) the mother: Yes, I guess we can go now. (She gets up and prepares to go out. the woman friend waits at the door.) tradel (his notebook in hand, he follows the mother as she prepares to leave): I haven’t betrayed the text . . . I didn’t really add anything personal to it . . . I might have modified it here and there, but it was nothing arbitrary . . . I am guided by an infallible intuition . . . Besides, this intuition can be verified on every page, with the most basic logic . . . (Opening the notebook.) Here, for example, I read ‘‘apparent’’ and beside it ‘‘illusory.’’ I’m sure that between the two he meant to place a ‘‘therefore.’’ If Jean had had the time to reread, he would never have left a hole like that. . . . (the mother continues to ignore tradel. tradel stops suddenly, notebook in hand. the woman friend laughs and makes a sign pointing out tradel to the mother. tradel is striding back and forth across the stage. the mother laughs also. The two women get ready to leave. agnes enters by upstage-center door, in street clothes, her housecoat over her arm.) the mother (turning her head toward agnes): It’s too bad that the furniture hasn’t been delivered yet. Believe me, things would be much better if you could be finally moved in. (the woman friend laughs. agnes stands helplessly in the middle of the stage. tradel continues to pace. the woman friend bows ceremoniously before the mother, allowing her to leave first.) Curtain

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ACT II Same scene, but the room is now crowded with various pieces of furniture: one or two small tables, a card table, several chairs. Somewhere, a cabinet. On all the furniture, papers. the mother’s armchair is still in the same place: downstage right. agnes takes a few steps and looks around. She seems to be looking for something. the mother, sitting in her chair, is reading a newspaper. tradel, wearing an overcoat, paces back and forth across the room. He will stop only long enough to speak his lines, then resume his pacing. the mother (without lifting her eyes from the newspaper): If you’re looking for the broom, it’s behind you. agnes (taking the broom): I would’ve never found it by myself. (She sweeps, sometimes the floor, then the walls, and even the ceiling.) the mother (laying the paper on her knees): Of course, after stagnation comes panic. They shut their eyes for years to avoid facing reality. Now that the others are destroying everything in their paths, our leaders have finally woken up, and are talking about closing the frontiers. But that’s absurd, they’re well aware that it can’t be done. tradel (going toward the mother): Pierre is extraordinary. Since he asked me to come, he must need me again. Then why isn’t he here? He makes me wait on him every time! the mother: We’re all waiting for him. (Pause.) You see, Pierre is a little disorganized right now. (Pause.) To tell you the truth, I don’t know how he can stand the responsibility of so much work all alone. tradel: It’s his own fault if he has to work by himself. He must’ve realized that, since he asked me to go over it with him again. But this time I’m going to make him do it my way. the mother: The man who can get his way with Pierre hasn’t been born yet. (Pause.) Between the two of us, I doubt if he’ll let you work at your place this time. Things have changed in the last two years. (Pause.) Pierre has never forgotten that . . . fragment he found by chance in that newspaper. It was you who published it, wasn’t it? And without telling anyone. . . . tradel: Pierre knew all along that I was planning to do it. It’s useless to keep bringing up the past all the time. The important thing is to get back to work right away. the mother: In any case, Agnes won’t be of any more help. Before writing to you, Pierre asked her to work again, and she refused. agnes (she stops sweeping): What could I do? Since I’m not even capable of typing well enough for him! tradel: Then, if I understand correctly, Pierre didn’t call me until after Agnes refused him.

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the mother: Yes. (Pause.) I suppose he wants to try again with you. Try to do a little better this time. I doubt if you’ll get another chance after this. (agnes hits a rubber ball with her broom.) Well, well, a ball. Your little boy must’ve dropped it here, Tradel. (To agnes.) You don’t sweep very often, Agnes. (agnes, annoyed, goes to the window and opens it. Sound of an elevator. The first caller enters, dressed in a sports jacket, with a briefcase in his hand. He gives the impression of being a man of the world, a mixture of successful businessman and physical education instructor.) first caller: Good day, ladies. I’m looking for Mr. Weisenhauer. tradel: I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. There’s no one here by that name. first caller: You don’t say! the mother: Anyway, Mr. Weisenhauer is dead. first caller: Are you sure? I was to see him about his apartment. (He has noticed agnes, who is still at the window. He takes a step toward her.) tradel (going toward the mother): You seem to know more about this than you’re letting on. Please don’t keep me in suspense . . . the mother (ignoring tradel, to the first caller): You want to rent the apartment across the hall? first caller (seriously): Is it big enough for me to put in a few desks? the mother: Ah . . . you’re the head of a large corporation? first caller (mysteriously): Possibly . . . But, tell me, Weisenhauer died rather suddenly, didn’t he? Wasn’t he well taken care of ? agnes (turning around): His wife let him die without taking care of him, although he loved her very much. (The first caller, very interested, starts toward agnes. He will not take his eyes off her until the end of the act.) the mother: Agnes, watch what you’re saying. That was very inconsiderate. (To the first caller.) There was never any hope that he would live. tradel (to the mother): Well then, what do you think his letter meant? (Pointing to his pocket.) I’m not dreaming? He did write it, didn’t he? first caller: I am interested in the apartment. But, tell me, do all the rooms open onto the corridor? tradel: Why don’t you go over there and see? the mother: There’s no one there. (To the first caller.) I just saw the day nurse. She’s the one who took over the apartment. She went out to get a newspaper. (Pause.) I think it’s raining; why don’t you wait here? (Pause.) Please sit down. (She points out a chair for him. He sits down, then leans toward agnes, who is still at the window. the mother smiles indulgently.)

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tradel (to the mother): Well, did Pierre say anything to you, really? (The first caller gets up, goes behind the chair, and begins to rock it back and forth.) first caller (to agnes): You have a very beautiful view from here. (agnes suddenly closes the window and begins to pace the floor, obviously looking for something. She finds the iron, and takes it to the table, but continues to look around. The first caller watches agnes. At every move she makes, he spins on his heels. tradel has taken some papers from the typewriter table, and is examining them. the mother is striking the arm of her chair. tradel, after a moment’s hesitation, puts down the papers and begins once again to pace the floor nervously. agnes, who has not found what she was looking for, leaves by the door at upstage center. The first caller, who had turned toward her, remains with his back to the audience.) the mother (she gets up and moves toward the first caller): Well, isn’t that the Croix de Guerre? first caller (proudly): No, that is the Award for Civil Merit. the mother: We need more men like you. (Pause.) What do you think is going to happen? Are we finally going to do something definite? first caller: I hope so. tradel (stopping a second, angrily): You know as well as I do that nothing will be done. (agnes comes back, a pair of trousers over her arm. She plugs in the iron, then kneels and begins to iron the trousers on the floor, downstage left. The first caller, turning on his heels to follow the slightest movements of agnes, takes a step toward her. the mother goes back to sit down in her chair. tradel stops and watches agnes and the first caller from across the room.) first caller (to agnes): What? You mean you don’t even have an ironing board? That’s no way to live! (Pause.) You weren’t cut out for . . . such gymnastics. agnes (ironing): I wonder what I was cut out for? (She starts, and accidentally pulls out the plug. The first caller goes to replace it, then returns to his place. agnes nods her thanks and continues ironing.) first caller (to agnes): Why are you so sad? As pretty as you are . . . you must have something on your mind. Tell me what! agnes (lifting her head): I never talk about myself. first caller: But why not? To me, a woman’s secrets are always sacred. (Pause.) Who has hurt you? agnes (ironing): The pain that someone else causes you matters no more

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than the pain you cause someone else. That’s the trouble, no one can be blamed for anything that happens. (Pause.) I have no right to complain about Pierre. first caller: Pierre? agnes (looking up again): That’s my husband. I don’t like to talk about him. first caller: Why not? agnes (looking up): Because no one has a right to judge him, least of all me. first caller: Ah! He’s really that unusual, is he? I get the impression that you’re the one who is different. (He laughs.) agnes: I’m no different from anyone else. tradel (going toward the mother, in a low voice): She’s talking about Pierre to the First Caller. the mother: See here, Tradel, we can speak of Pierre to anyone we wish. What’s it got to do with him? (Sound of an elevator. Pause. pierre enters feverishly. He goes over to kiss the mother, then agnes, still on her knees, who turns away from him. The first caller, frightened, moves away upstage left, where he finds the ball. He takes it between his feet and dribbles it a bit, almost without moving. From his position, he watches everyone.) pierre (to tradel, coldly): It was nice of you to come. (tradel notices the tone of voice.) I’m sorry, but I can’t be familiar with anyone any more. (Pause.) Except Agnes, of course. (He begins to pace back and forth.) the mother: Agnes, you haven’t introduced our guest. (She makes a motion to the first caller, who lets go of the ball and comes over.) This man has come to see Mr. Weisenhauer. Since no one was there, we asked him to stay for a while. (pierre stops; the first caller goes to meet him. They shake hands.) first caller (to pierre): But I haven’t told you my name . . . (He searches for something in his pockets, but finds nothing. pierre goes toward tradel.) pierre (to tradel): Did you read my letter carefully? I hope you understood. The work is done, at least, well, it’s as good as done . . . But I’m getting bored . . . I’m being swallowed up by my own methods . . . I’m becoming entangled in my own discoveries . . . I can’t even see straight any more. tradel: I understand . . . That’s exactly what happened to me, two years ago, when I was doing the green notebook . . . I ended with the realization that I could no longer see anything. pierre: What has that got to do with me? I haven’t lost track of my starting point. (Changing his tone.) You could never know what sort of questions come up when everything is finished, and looking back you see that you really haven’t accomplished much.

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tradel: But why look back? I don’t know, myself, I see things much more clearly . . . (agnes gets up, takes a few steps, then goes and sits down on the couch and takes a book which she leafs through aimlessly. The first caller wants to follow her, but thinks better of it, and remains where he is. agnes throws the book on the couch. The first caller moves toward her.) pierre (to tradel): Listen to me. I have now come to the point where I have at my disposal several hypotheses for each doubtful word. Until today, I didn’t want to make a choice. But, now, the right word has got to come out. first caller (moving toward pierre): Excuse me. I’m not really familiar with what you’re doing, but it seems to me . . . (the mother makes a sign to the first caller to come away. He obeys slowly, and goes to stand behind agnes, trying in vain to attract her attention by whistling. He takes the book from the couch and leafs through it, all the while watching agnes, who still doesn’t take any notice of him.) pierre (to tradel): Unfortunately, I’ve become too familiar with all the hypotheses. The right word is buried, it can’t get out. By working with you, I can once again become indifferent to each of the possible words. It’s the only way for me to be sure. tradel: I knew we could work together again. pierre: Nothing has been done. We still have a lot of work before us. For once, I ask you to try to be patient. (He goes to the chest of drawers and looks among the papers piled there. tradel paces up and down. The first caller holds the book toward agnes.) first caller (to agnes): I’ve heard about this book. It’s supposed to be very good. agnes: I haven’t read it. (The first caller looks discouraged, then begins to file his nails. He will keep himself occupied in various ways: fixing his clothes, his tie, etc. pierre takes out a sheet of paper from the chest of drawers and goes to show it to tradel.) pierre: Look, here’s just one example. I’m not even going to ask myself why this particular one has given me so much trouble. I never thought I’d find it. But, I managed to get it down to four possibilities. (Pause.) Is it ‘‘suffering’’? Is it ‘‘summoning’’? . . . tradel (bending over the paper): Wait . . . That looks familiar. Of course . . . It’s that page that’s all spotted with ink at the top. Yes, I remember . . . There’s no problem there. (Pause.) Give me a little time, and I could reconstruct the whole sentence, perhaps even the entire conversation that we had on this topic, which left such an impression on me that . . . pierre: It’s not a question of reminiscence, or ‘‘perhaps,’’ or ‘‘more or less.’’ I have to have the exact word.

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tradel: But who could know it? Who cares about recognizing it? And then, who would dare condemn us for errors which can’t even be proved to be such? Besides, what counts most of all for the reader is the beauty of the lines. the mother: The reader? Do you still think that someone is going to read that? pierre (wearily): Then, after all my work, we’re back to arguing about something that’s already been settled once and for all. We are not going to publish. At least, not as long as there is no one who is equipped to understand this work that I’m responsible for. first caller (leaning toward agnes): Your husband is right. In life, you’ve got to know what you want. (agnes gets up, takes a few steps, hesitates, then goes to the window. The first caller follows her. pierre watches them both.) tradel (to pierre, shouting): Right, it is your responsibility. And what if you missed your chance to reach this reader you were talking about, who does perhaps exist . . . How do you know he doesn’t? In any case, I won’t follow you up this blind alley. (He strides to the door at right, then turns around.) Basically, you’re just like the rest of the family: you’re afraid. (He exits.) the mother: Poor Tradel! This time, I have the feeling that he has said too much. first caller (walking toward pierre, swinging his arms): Your friend is a little excited. pierre (he hesitates, then goes toward agnes, who is still at the window): Have you thought about going to buy some paper? agnes: No. pierre: You still don’t want to work with me? agnes (she turns around, hesitant): No. pierre: I guess that means I’ll have to go get the paper myself. the mother: Pierre, since you’re going out, will you bring me the newspaper? pierre: All right. (Rather than leave, he goes to the chest of drawers.) the mother: You’re not going out without a coat in this weather? (the mother goes to look for an overcoat hung on the coat rack, and comes back and hands it to pierre. He wants to put it over his shoulders, but she makes him put it on, while pushing him toward the door at right. agnes takes a step toward pierre. the mother turns toward agnes.) pierre (his coat on, at the door): Thanks. (He goes out. the mother stays by the door. agnes doesn’t move.) first caller (triumphantly going toward agnes, juggling the ball ): I feel sorry for you. You didn’t tell me your life was so complicated. (He puts his hand on agnes’ shoulder. She moves away.)

agnes: I’m going with him. I can still catch him. the mother (preventing her from leaving): Be reasonable. You’re just getting better. You’re not going out in that cold. (agnes hesitates, then turns suddenly as if to go toward the door at left, and finds herself face to face with the first caller. He begins to laugh. the mother laughs in turn. agnes is surrounded.) Curtain

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ACT III Same scene, but the papers are no longer scattered all over the furniture: they are piled neatly on the chest of drawers. Upstage, at left, agnes stands on a stepladder cleaning the window, which is open. The first caller, in his shirtsleeves, stands behind agnes, his feet spread, his hands behind his back. the mother is sitting in her chair reading the newspaper. first caller (with one foot on the ladder, to agnes): You shouldn’t be doing that. (In a low voice.) Since we’re both going to be leaving . . . (agnes turns, and hesitates for a moment, her arm raised, a sponge in her hand.) first caller: You’ll see, at my place you won’t have to worry about things like this. You’ll have all your time to yourself . . . and me. (He laughs.) agnes: I don’t understand. Pierre should be back by now. (She looks out the window, the first caller steps down from the ladder.) the mother: He stopped at a café to get some work done. As usual. (Pause.) I imagine people are getting to know him by now. I’m sure that he takes up at least three tables for himself. (She laughs.) first caller (once again putting his foot on the ladder, in a low voice, to agnes): It’s just as well that he hasn’t come back yet. You don’t want him to come now. It’s still too soon. agnes: I don’t know what I want. first caller: Fortunately, I know for you. (He shrugs his shoulders and comes away from the ladder, going toward the right.) the mother (lowers the paper, to the first caller): Just between the two of us, what do you think is going to happen? first caller (mysteriously): I’d rather not say. the mother: But you’re in a good position to tell us. first caller: Uh . . . Exactly. the mother: If you want my opinion, nothing’s going to happen. In the end, they won’t have the courage to resort to force. And that’s all that’s necessary, really, to get things back into normal working order. first caller: If it only depended on me! (He turns his head toward agnes, who has not moved: she is still looking out the window. the mother gets

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up and taps the first caller on the shoulder, pointing out agnes and laughing. The first caller nods and laughs, then, feeling more sure of himself, he takes agnes by the waist and lifts her down from the ladder. the mother sits down again, still laughing.) agnes (to the first caller): What’s gotten into you? first caller: I just didn’t want you to catch cold, that’s all . . . (He leans on the ladder and watches agnes, triumphantly. agnes takes several hesitant steps, then goes back to the window and presses her nose against the glass. The first caller struts around the room. tradel comes in from the right, takes a few steps and stops.) the mother: Agnes, Tradel has come to get Pierre’s old overcoat. You know, the one he put aside for him. (The first caller laughs.) agnes (turning, casually): What overcoat? I don’t know what you’re talking about. the mother (to tradel): The fact is that these last few days, there’s been so much going on. (tradel makes a gesture of irritation meaning: ‘‘Don’t bother, it’s not that at all.’’) tradel (going toward the mother): I came to warn Pierre. We’ve got to hide the papers right away. No matter what they do, we’re helpless. The law is on their side. first caller (putting his hand on tradel’s shoulder, paternally): Don’t get upset. You’ll see, everything will work out fine! tradel (moving away, to the mother): Isn’t Pierre here? the mother: You can see he isn’t. (The first caller laughs.) tradel (to the mother): I’m sorry I got so upset the other day. But, after all this time, Pierre knows me well enough to know that my fits of temper don’t mean anything . . . Of course, I haven’t changed my position . . . the mother: You’ve come too late. Not that it really matters. Thank God, Pierre has managed to finish the work all by himself, and, I might add, to his complete satisfaction. agnes: You’re always satisfied with everything! the mother: Ah, yes! I often say I’m satisfied before I really am. tradel (approaching agnes): In any case, his absence doesn’t seem to bother you too much. first caller (to tradel): We’ve done all we could in that respect. (Pause.) Does it bother you? (He moves menacingly toward tradel.) tradel (backing off ): I don’t have to answer to the First Caller. (The first caller moves toward tradel once again, but then quickly goes back, shrugging his shoulders. tradel begins to pace the floor.) agnes (turning): What a fuss you’re all making! (She nervously takes a few steps. The first caller goes toward her.)

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the mother: You ought to go for a little walk, Agnes. The air will do you good. But don’t go out alone. The streets are full of soldiers. Unless you’re not afraid of them . . . (The first caller laughs. Sound of an elevator. agnes and tradel stop. pierre enters. He walks slowly, his head down. tradel and the first caller rush to meet him. agnes stays where she is and watches pierre. the mother does the same.) tradel (who has reached pierre before the first caller, to pierre): I’m sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. It would’ve been so simple to explain right away. first caller (to pierre, eagerly): Did you have a nice walk, Mr. Pierre? (pierre absently continues to walk slowly, tradel following him. The first caller watches agnes.) agnes (she goes toward pierre, stammering): Our friend came to keep us company. He was afraid that the news had frightened us. (Pause.) Someone told him about it . . . You know, people haven’t begun to talk yet, but the negotiations are under way. (The first caller extends his hand to pierre, who continues to pace without paying any attention to him. He then assumes a disinterested pose, his hands in his pockets. agnes starts toward pierre, then toward the first caller.) tradel (coming face to face with pierre): The news that I have is not very reassuring. This time, it seems, they have decided to act. (To agnes.) I’m convinced that it was your father who started things going again . . . You should’ve been able to keep us posted. agnes: You know very well that I never see him any more. (pierre goes and takes agnes by the hand and leads her toward the mother, who is still in her chair. agnes does not resist. tradel follows pierre. The first caller looks to the mother for a reaction. She is ignoring him. He reverts to Dhis usual position: hands on hips, chest thrust out, etc.) pierre (to agnes and the mother): I must speak to the two of you. tradel (to pierre): Am I being excluded for some reason? pierre (continuing): I’ve come to a very serious decision. I would like to give you my reasons, but that is impossible for the time being. You’ve got to have confidence in me. I’m sure that later everything will be fine for all of us. (Pause.) I can’t continue working under these conditions. I’ve got to go away, that is, I’ve got to go somewhere where I can be alone for a while . . . I’ve got to . . . agnes: But you’re always alone as it is. Do you call this living together? (the mother takes pierre’s hand and holds it in her own.) tradel: So you’re running away. I figured this would happen. It had to. (The first caller, from the back of the room, seems to be listening carefully.)

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pierre (wearily): You wouldn’t understand. And I don’t have the energy to go back over each step of the work, and show you every obstacle, and all the problems I had to solve, and which I did solve. I can only say this much: everything that I have brought to light remains desperately lifeless. Flat. (He repeats several times the word ‘‘flat,’’ like a man who no longer understands the meaning of words, but is hypnotized by their sound, as if he had never heard them before.) Do you know exactly what that means? Flattened? Suddenly removed from space? (the mother lets go of pierre’s hand. The audience must feel that pierre’s words have caused a general consternation.) tradel: But that’s crazy! You’re insulting Jean as if you were a . . . common critic. pierre: I won’t be satisfied until these things have got their meaning back again. tradel: But there’s nothing for them to get back. They are what they are, and that’s that. If you’re disappointed it’s because you no longer have faith in your own work. pierre: It wasn’t so long ago that I couldn’t even get to the end of a sentence; I used to torture myself for hours with the simplest questions. (Separating his words.) Why does one say: ‘‘He is coming’’? Who is this ‘‘he’’—what’s he got to do with me? Why does one say: ‘‘on time,’’ rather than ‘‘at the time’’? I’ve lost too much time thinking about such things. (Pause.) What I must find is not the meaning of a word, but its shape, its movement. (Pause.) I’m not going to look for anything any more. (Pause.) I’ll just wait, patiently, in a vacuum. I’ll become very attentive. (Pause.) I’ve got to leave as soon as possible. agnes: But not right away. tradel: You’re not going to leave now, when the papers can be taken from us at any moment. the mother: Will you be gone long? pierre: Don’t worry, I won’t be going far. I just want to spend a few days in there (pointing to the door at upstage center), in the back room. agnes: But you can’t live in there. You’ll suffocate. the mother: We could make it more liveable. tradel: Where will you keep the papers in there? pierre: I’m not going to take them. It’s the only way I can keep from breaking down again. tradel (rushes toward pierre and seizes his arm): Stop! I beg you to stay here! I feel, no, I’m sure that between the two of us we can work something out. (pierre listens to tradel and begins to pace the floor again. tradel stands speechless where he was. agnes goes to pierre as if she were going to speak to him, but the first caller comes toward her. pierre stops and watches the two of them.)

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first caller (low, to agnes): Is there still something you want to tell him? agnes (half-turning, in a low voice): No, everything has been said. (She goes back to sit down. pierre watches her for a second. The first caller goes toward agnes, but the mother signals for him to move away. He goes to the window, opens it, and leans out.) pierre: If anything else is going to happen, it’s going to have to happen in there. (agnes stands up. pierre goes to kiss the mother, and then agnes, who pulls away. He goes toward the door at upstage center.) tradel (preventing pierre from leaving): You don’t know what you’re doing! agnes (she goes to pierre and places her hands on his shoulders; he hesitates): Don’t go. (The first caller turns and slams the window shut. tradel is still standing by the door.) pierre (separating himself slowly from agnes’s arms): Don’t worry about me. (agnes moves away.) the mother: I’ll see to it that the room is heated. pierre: Not now, please. We’ll see about that later on. the mother: I’ll bring you your meals at the usual hours. pierre: I must ask you especially never to talk to me. (He goes to the chest of drawers and points to the papers.) I’m leaving these here. I know you’ll take good care of them. the mother: Don’t worry. tradel (exploding): You know what you’re risking. You’ve been warned. I’ve done all I could to keep you here. (He goes to the door.) O.K. Let them take them. Let them take everything you’ve got, that’s what you’d like! (He goes out.) first caller (he moves toward pierre, swinging his arms): At least we’re finally rid of that creep! agnes (to pierre): Will I be able to come and see you? pierre (still at the chest of drawers, obviously undecided): We’ll see, later. agnes: Very well. (pierre goes quickly to the door at upstage center and leaves. agnes buries her face in her hands and doesn’t move. The first caller is questioning the mother in sign language. the mother answers him with a gesture meaning ‘‘you can leave now.’’ The first caller goes toward agnes.) first caller (going to agnes, arms open): And what about me, who dreams only of you? agnes (uncovering her face, distressed): You’re very kind. the mother: I didn’t want to go against Pierre’s will. Besides, no one could, even if he had a right to. (The lights suddenly go out. Total darkness. First, only whispers can be heard, then low voices. They become more and more distinct, until at the end they are perfectly clear.)

ACT IV Same scene, but now everything is in complete order. The furniture is very neatly distributed; there are no papers anywhere in sight. There are curtains on the window and doilies on all the furniture. the mother’s armchair is now downstage center, facing the audience. The typewriter is no longer in the same place and is now covered. On the chest of drawers, a hot plate and a tea kettle. Beside it is a serving cart, on which is a tea service. At the back of the room, a little to the left, a large mirror. The floor is completely carpeted. the mother is sitting in her armchair. She is without her newspaper. She is wearing an impressive housecoat. One must get the idea, as soon as the curtain goes up, that she is now mistress of the house.

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agnes: No, not now. I can’t leave just like that, without anything. first caller: We can find your things. I’ll help you. agnes: I’ll never be able to write a letter in this darkness. I want to leave a note, at least. first caller: You can write to him tomorrow. (Good-naturedly.) You’ll feel better. agnes: I can’t leave without my notebook. first caller: What notebook? agnes: The one that Jean gave me. He made me promise always to keep it with me. That’s one promise I want to keep, at least. first caller: Remember mine, Agnes. (A long silence.) agnes: That raincoat’s still there. Have you got it? first caller (laughing): Yes, and you with it. agnes (in one breath): You’re taking me far away from here, aren’t you? We’ll be going near the Nive River. I’ve only been there once, with Pierre, just after we met . . . The whole length of it was fenced off, but I was able to see anyway. (Pause.) It was raining, and we got soaked. (She laughs nervously.) I wonder why they’re always working around there? (Pause.) I would like so much to see it again, but, at the same time, I’m afraid. first caller: Not of me, I hope. agnes: No, with you, I won’t be afraid. You can lift me up in your arms. I’ll be able to see it easily. You’re so tall . . . first caller: And you so small! agnes: Hold me in your arms. (A very harsh light fills the room. We see the first caller, agnes in his arms, going toward the door at right. agnes is dragging a raincoat. The first caller is carrying two overcoats. the mother bursts into a vulgar laugh, slapping her hips.) Curtain

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the woman friend, standing before the mirror, is looking approvingly at herself from head to foot. She has just come to visit, and is still wearing her hat. the mother (gets up and goes to the chest of drawers to prepare some tea): I haven’t felt this happy in a long while. the woman friend: In any case, we had a narrow escape. the mother: I knew that everything would turn out all right. (She pours tea into the cups.) The only thing was, I couldn’t tell just when things would fall into place. the woman friend: We didn’t let up once. the mother (pushing the serving cart toward the front of the stage): I never liked the idea of preserving peace at any price. What I’ve always looked for is ordered justice. (Pause.) You know, you won’t believe this, but yesterday, when I learned that this immigration, which was really becoming an obsession with me, was finally stopped, it was such a relief—more than a relief: a kind of joy. (She hands a cup to the woman friend, who has moved over to her. the woman friend sits down, cup in hand.) the mother (sitting down in her chair): Pierre is coming back today. the woman friend: I don’t believe it! Really? (She gets up.) I really must congratulate you. (She leans toward the mother and kisses her, then sits down again.) the mother: He just told me, when I took him something to eat. He should be out any minute now. the woman friend: I don’t know how he’s been able to stand being cooped up in there for two weeks! the mother: Two weeks! As a matter of fact, it has only been two weeks. Somehow it’s seemed much longer than that to me. the woman friend: And Agnes? Have you heard from her? the mother: From what I’ve heard, it gets worse every day. the woman friend: What do you mean? Didn’t her friend work out? the mother: But that was inevitable. After all, all you had to do was look at him . . . the woman friend: He was handsome enough, but so ill-bred! (She laughs knowingly.) Naturally, Pierre doesn’t know anything about it? the mother (more serious): Not yet. (pierre enters from the back, very tiredlooking; his mind seems to be elsewhere. His clothes are wrinkled, and he has a two-week-old beard. He takes several steps, looking all around. He is obviously looking for something.) the mother (getting up): Oh, I’m so glad this is finally all over with! Come here so I can kiss you. (pierre goes toward the mother and kisses her, mechanically.)

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the woman friend (leaning toward him): How about me? (pierre doesn’t seem to notice the woman friend; he is pacing up and down.) the mother: Promise me that from now on you’ll try to conserve your strength. pierre: Don’t worry. There’s no longer any question of research or work. the woman friend: But . . . (the mother makes a sign to her not to say anything.) pierre: You will be very happy to know that I have decided to live like everyone else. What I learned in there (pointing at the door) is that I’ll never get anywhere until I can learn to live a completely ordinary life. (He looks around once more, takes a step toward the mother as if he wants to speak to her, but thinks better of it. The lights begin to grow dim.) the mother: Are you looking for your papers? I piled them in a chest. (She points to a huge object covered with a red curtain.) There, behind you; just lift the curtain. (To the woman friend.) Turn the lights on, will you? The electricity must be back on by now. (the woman friend gets up and goes to the right.) pierre: I see, you’ve put everything in order. (pierre goes to the chest, opens it, and stands there in front of it. the woman friend turns on the light switch.). the woman friend: Perhaps we’ll be able to see, at least! (She goes back and sits down. pierre stands for a second before the open chest, his back to the audience. He kneels down, slowly takes the papers from the chest, looks at some of them, and sets them all on the floor. He contemplates them for at least a minute, then takes several of them and tears them, first very quickly, then more and more slowly. The scraps begin to accumulate. pierre appears to be drowning in the middle of them. Since pierre has come in, the mother has not taken her eyes off him. the woman friend, who is also watching him, suddenly gets up and tries the light switch again. The light still doesn’t come on.) the woman friend: Still no light. This can’t go on! pierre (stops tearing the papers for a second, almost to himself ): Forgive me for not having understood sooner. (He takes the last few pages and gets up, tearing them as he walks across the room, almost in a trance. The torn papers now take up a good part of the room.) the woman friend (to the mother): I would like so much to stay. But you must excuse me. I’m already very late. (She goes toward the door at right.) the mother: Of course, of course. (the woman friend gets ready to leave.)

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pierre (sits in a chair, in a corner, to the left of the stage): Where is Agnes? I want to see her. (the woman friend stops at the door, and comes back to the window, from where she watches pierre.) the mother (she stands, her hands resting on the back of her chair): Pierre, it’s time you knew the truth. Agnes is gone. the woman friend: With the First Caller! pierre: What do you mean, gone? You mean she has gone out? the mother: No. She left, right after you did. pierre: Right away! the mother (laughing): There was some trouble. I guess she took advantage of it. (pierre tries to get up, but cannot.) pierre: There was nothing else she could do, of course. Where would she have found the energy to put up with such disorganization? the mother (going toward pierre): But she was the one responsible for all the disorder. She brought it into our lives. pierre: She left too late, or too soon. If she had had a little more patience, we could’ve begun again. the mother: Then, it’s perfect. You’re so easy-going, you won’t mind being alone. And then . . . you can get back to your work. (pierre gets up and goes toward the back room.) the woman friend (to pierre): Did you forget something, in there? pierre: Yes. (He goes out. the mother goes back slowly and sits down in her chair. Pause.) the woman friend (to the mother): You have always been too indulgent with her. (She takes a few steps. the mother doesn’t move. The stage gets darker. Then suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps. tradel appears at the door at left, a suitcase in his hand. the woman friend is once again very much at ease. She will continuously circle tradel, sneering.) tradel: Didn’t anyone come? (the mother makes an evasive movement. tradel motions toward the wings as if to invite someone to come in. mme tradel enters, a very thin and pale woman, followed by the child, an ordinary-looking boy of about seven. Both are poorly dressed and carry canvas bags rolled under their arms.) tradel (quickly): They’ll be here any minute now. Don’t you understand? I know, since I was the one who told them to come. Yes, it’s a rendezvous, but I won’t be there. Nor will they find what they’re looking for. (Pause.) What have I done? All this, just because of a moment’s aberration. (Pause.) Where is Pierre? Where are all the papers? the mother: There—right under your feet. You’re walking on them. (tradel jumps, then bends down and feverishly gathers the scraps of

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paper. He sees some others farther on, then still others. He panics, runs to gather them all, and ends up almost crawling on all fours. the woman friend laughs loudly. mme tradel watches tradel without moving. the child sits down on the floor.) the mother: You should’ve come five minutes ago . . . Pierre has just finished tearing them up. (tradel and mme tradel gather the scraps of paper and push them into the suitcase and the bags. They put one of the bags on a chair at left, the other bag and the suitcase at the foot of the chair.) the woman friend (to the mother): Why don’t you stop them? (the mother makes a gesture meaning: ‘‘What do I care? There’s nothing I can do.’’) tradel (handing a bag to mme tradel): You go on, I’ll be with you shortly. mme tradel (putting the bag down): But what’ll I do if I meet them? I’d rather wait for you. (Sound of an elevator. tradel grabs the curtain that covered the chest and throws it over the suitcase and the bags. The chair also disappears under the curtain. The lights come back on.) the woman friend: At last! (She goes and sits down near the mother. agnes appears at the door at right. She is wearing her raincoat. mme tradel starts toward agnes, then stops.) the mother (turning her head toward agnes): Well, come in, Agnes. agnes (she comes over timidly, looking around as if lost ): Nothing has changed. (Pause.) Yes, it is a little brighter. (She takes a few steps toward the back. the mother gets up suddenly, but agnes changes direction, and the mother sits back down. tradel has noticed this action. He paces back and forth.) agnes (she walks, hesitatingly, aimlessly): I don’t see the typewriter. (To the mother.) I’m sorry I mentioned that, but I was so used to seeing it there. (She looks at where the machine used to be.) Anyway . . . I just came to borrow it from you . . . I’ve been trying to rent one, but . . . the mother: I know, they’re hard to find. agnes (stammering): Yes . . . We’re having so much trouble, that I thought I might . . . I know Pierre uses it quite a lot. But we won’t keep it long. Only a few days . . . the woman friend: We didn’t think we’d be seeing you again. (She gets up and goes to look at herself in the mirror.) mme tradel (going to kiss agnes): I’ve thought about you a lot since you left. the mother (to agnes): Yes, Pierre was just talking about you. agnes: How is he? (the woman friend sneers. mme tradel moves away. agnes begins to walk around.)

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the mother: He was asking for you. (agnes starts.) But not all that much. (agnes wants to speak.) To tell the truth, the typewriter isn’t in very good condition. It will have to be repaired. I think that would cost you less than getting another, though. agnes (stammering): Thank you. the woman friend (still in front of the mirror, turning): Does your friend still have his job? agnes (to the mother): There is something else I wanted to ask Pierre. Do you think he’ll be back soon? I can’t wait. I have very little time. the mother (getting up): You know as well as I do that Pierre never tells anyone whether he’s coming or going. (She takes a step toward agnes.) You risk waiting for nothing, and since you are in a hurry . . . (She takes another step toward agnes, who still does not move.) mme tradel (to agnes): Promise me that you’ll come and see us. agnes (vaguely): I’ll come. (She starts toward the door at right. the mother, still standing, doesn’t move. the woman friend goes toward agnes.) the woman friend: Do you have a minute? agnes: Oh! No, I’ve got to be going. I must get back before the doctor gets there . . . The nurse is sick, and I have to give him his shots . . . the woman friend: What, your friend is sick? Such a strong fellow . . . agnes: He took sick all of a sudden. He didn’t even feel it coming on. the woman friend: That’s terrible. Who takes care of his business? agnes: No one at present. I can’t do it. I was never able to learn accounting. For me, numbers are a complete mystery . . . the mother (she goes toward agnes, forcing her back to the door at right ): You were always full of good wishes. (She takes agnes by the arm and pushes her outside, closing the door after her. the woman friend cackles.) mme tradel (almost to herself ): Poor Agnes! (the woman friend, snickering, taps the mother on the shoulder. the mother pulls away and goes back to her chair with some difficulty. She sits down and places her hands on the arms of the chair. the child has grown tired of sitting still and has lifted a corner of the curtain that was covering the chair and the bags. He takes from the bag on the floor some scraps of paper that he scatters about him. tradel is still pacing the floor.) tradel (stopping suddenly, to the mother): You lied. (Pointing to the door, upstage center.) I have a feeling that Pierre is in there. the mother: Yes, he’s in there. (tradel bounds toward the door and goes out. the mother doesn’t move. mme tradel starts, as if to follow Tradel, but stops. the woman friend puts her ear to the door at upstage center. the child continues to empty the bag at the foot of the chair and to scatter the papers around him.)

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tradel (he reappears suddenly at the door, upstage center, practically knocking over the woman friend): Pierre . . . Pierre is dead. I’ll never forgive myself ! (mme tradel buries her head in her hands. the woman friend stands completely still, her mouth hanging open: she is seen in profile. the mother slowly leans her head on the back of the chair, her hands still holding on to the arms of the chair. the child continues to play with the scraps of paper. tradel, after a moment’s hesitation, leaves quickly by the door at right. mme tradel follows him, dragging the child, who resists at first, then follows. He has had time to gather several pieces of paper, which he takes with him. the woman friend goes to the mother.) the woman friend (putting her arms around the mother’s shoulders, and in a voice falser than ever): I know just how you feel. (the mother doesn’t move.) Curtain

m

artin Esslin (1918–2002) wrote the seminal book The Theatre of the Absurd (1961), the first to analyze the plays of the genre in the context of their avant-garde predecessors. The book, which evoked Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus (1951) as the philosophical touchstone of the new drama, coined the term ‘‘Theater of the Absurd.’’ A native of Hungary who was raised in Vienna, Esslin fled to Brussels and then England after the Nazis occupied Austria. He worked at the British Broadcasting Corporation as producer and scriptwriter of radio drama from 1940 to 1962 and as head of radio drama from 1963 to 1977. Esslin next moved to Stanford University, where he was a drama professor until 1988. He wrote and lectured extensively on modern drama, especially the works of Harold Pinter, Antonin Artaud, and Bertolt Brecht.

The Theater of the Absurd Martin Esslin

The reception of Waiting for Godot at San Quentin,1 and the wide acclaim given to plays by Ionesco, Adamov, Pinter, and others, testify that these plays, which are so often superciliously dismissed as nonsense or mystification, have something to say and can be understood. Most of the incomprehension with which plays of this type are still being received by critics and theatrical reviewers, most of the bewilderment they have caused and to which they still give rise, come from the fact that they are part of a new, and still developing, stage convention that has not yet been generally understood and has hardly ever been defined. Inevitably, plays written in this new convention will, when judged by the standards and criteria of another, be regarded as impertinent and outrageous impostures. If a good play must have a cleverly constructed story, these have no story or plot to speak of; if a good play is judged by subtlety of characterization and motivation, these are often without recognizable characters and present the audience with almost mechanical puppets; if a good play has to have a fully explained theme, which is neatly exposed and finally solved, these often have neither a beginning nor an end; if a good play is to hold the mirror up to nature and portray the manners and mannerisms of the age in finely observed sketches, these seem often to be reflections of dreams and nightmares; if a good play relies on witty repartee and pointed dialogue, these often consist of incoherent babblings. But the plays we are concerned with here pursue ends quite different Reprinted from Martin Esslin, preface, The Theatre of the Absurd (Garden City, New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1969), 668–72. ∫ Martin Esslin 1. Given by the San Francisco Actor’s Workshop in 1957.

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from those of the conventional play and therefore use quite different methods. They can be judged only by the standards of the Theater of the Absurd, which it is the purpose of his book to define and clarify. It must be stressed, however, that the dramatists whose work is here discussed do not form part of any self-proclaimed or self-conscious school of movement. On the contrary, each of the writers in question is an individual who regards himself as a lone outsider, cut off and isolated in his private world. Each has his own personal approach to both subject matter and form; his own roots, sources, and background. If they also, very clearly and in spite of themselves, have a good deal in common, it is because their work most sensitively mirrors and reflects the preoccupations and anxieties, the emotions and thinking of many of their contemporaries in the Western world. This is not to say that their works are representative of mass attitudes. It is an oversimplification to assume that any age presents a homogeneous pattern. Ours being, more than most others, an age of transition, it displays a bewildering stratified picture: medieval beliefs still held and overlaid by eighteenth-century rationalism and mid-nineteenth-century Marxism, rocked by sudden volcanic eruptions of prehistoric fanaticisms and primitive tribal cults. Each of these components of the cultural pattern of the age finds its own artistic expression. The Theater of the Absurd, however, can be seen as the reflection of what seems to be the attitude most genuinely representative of our own time. The hallmark of this attitude is its sense that the certitudes and unshakable basic assumptions of former ages have been swept away, that they have been tested and found wanting, that they have been discredited as cheap and somewhat childish illusions. The decline of religious faith was masked until the end of the Second World War by the substitute religions of faith in progress, nationalism, and various totalitarian fallacies. All this was shattered by the war. By 1942, Albert Camus was calmly putting the question why, since life had lost all meaning, man should not seek escape in suicide. In one of the great, seminal heart-searchings of our time, The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus tried to diagnose the human situation in a world of shattered beliefs: A world that can be explained by reasoning, however faulty, is a familiar world. But in a universe that is suddenly deprived of illusions and of light, man feels a stranger. His is an irremediable exile, because he is deprived of memories of a lost homeland as much as he lacks the hope of a promised land to come. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, truly constitutes the feeling of Absurdity.2

‘‘Absurd’’ originally means ‘‘out of harmony,’’ in a musical context. Hence its dictionary definition: ‘‘out of harmony with reason or propriety; incongruous, unreasonable, illogical.’’ In common usage, ‘‘absurd’’ may simply mean ‘‘ridiculous,’’ but this is not the sense in which Camus uses the 2. Albert Camus, Le Mythe de Sisyphe (Paris: Gallimard, 1942), p. 18.

3. Eugène Ionesco, ‘‘Dans les armes de la ville,’’ Cahiers de la Compagnie Madeleine RenaudJean-Louis Barrault, Paris, no. 20, October 1957.

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word, and in which it is used when we speak of the Theater of the Absurd. In an essay on Kafka, Ionesco defined his understanding of the term as follows: ‘‘Absurd is that which is devoid of purpose. . . . Cut off from his religious, metaphysical, and transcendental roots, man is lost; all his actions become senseless, absurd, useless.’’3 This sense of metaphysical anguish at the absurdity of the human condition is, broadly speaking, the theme of the plays of Beckett, Adamov, Ionesco, Genêt, and the other writers discussed in this book. But it is not merely the subject matter that defines what is here called the Theater of the Absurd. A similar sense of the senselessness of life, of the inevitable devaluation of ideals, purity, and purpose, is also the theme of much of the work of dramatists like Giraudoux, Anouilh, Salacrou, Sartre, and Camus himself. Yet these writers differ from the dramatists of the Absurd in an important respect: they present their sense of the irrationality of the human condition in the form of highly lucid and logically constructed reasoning, while the Theater of the Absurd strives to express its sense of the senselessness of the human condition and the inadequacy of the rational approach by the open abandonment of rational devices and discursive thought. While Sartre or Camus expresses the new content in the old convention, the Theater of the Absurd goes a step further in trying to achieve a unity between its basic assumptions and the form in which these are expressed. In some senses, the theater of Sartre and Camus is less adequate as an expression of the philosophy of Sartre and Camus—in artistic, as distinct from philosophic, terms— than the Theater of the Absurd. If Camus argued that in our disillusioned age the world has ceased to make sense, he did so in the elegantly rationalistic and discursive style of an eighteenth-century moralist, in well-constructed and polished plays. If Sartre argues that existence comes before essence and that human personality can be reduced to pure potentiality and the freedom to choose itself anew at any moment, he presents his ideas in plays based on brilliantly drawn characters who remain wholly consistent and thus reflect the old convention that each human being has a core of immutable, unchanging essence—in fact, an immortal soul. And the beautiful phrasing and argumentative brilliance of both Sartre and Camus in their relentless probing still, by implication, proclaim a tacit conviction that logical discourse can offer valid solutions, that the analysis of language will lead to the uncovering of basic concepts—Platonic ideas. This is an inner contradiction that the dramatists of the Absurd are trying, by instinct and intuition rather than by conscious effort, to overcome and resolve. The Theater of the Absurd has renounced arguing about the absurdity of the human condition; it merely presents it in being—that is, in terms of concrete stage images. This is the difference between the approach of the

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philosopher and that of the poet; the difference, to take an example from another sphere, between the idea of God in the works of Thomas Aquinas or Spinoza and the intuition of God in those of St. John of the Cross or Meister Eckhart—the difference between theory and experience. It is this striving for an integration between the subject matter and the form in which it is expressed that separates the Theater of the Absurd from the Existentialist theater. It must also be distinguished from another important, and parallel, trend in the contemporary French theater, which is equally preoccupied with the absurdity and uncertainty of the human condition: the ‘‘poetic avant-garde’’ theater of dramatists like Michel de Ghelderode, Jacques Audiberti, Georges Neveux, and, in the younger generation, Georges Schéhadé, Henri Pichette, and Jean Vauthier, to name only some of its most important exponents. This is an even more difficult dividing line to draw, for the two approaches overlap a good deal. The ‘‘poetic avant-garde’’ relies on fantasy and dream reality as much as the Theater of the Absurd does; it also disregards such traditional axioms as that of the basic unity and consistency of each character or the need for a plot. Yet basically the ‘‘poetic avant-garde’’ represents a different mood; it is more lyrical, and far less violent and grotesque. Even more important is its different attitude toward language: the ‘‘poetic avant-garde’’ relies to a far greater extent on consciously ‘‘poetic’’ speech; it aspires to plays that are in effect poems, images composed of a rich web of verbal associations. The Theater of the Absurd, on the other hand, tends toward a radical devaluation of language, toward a poetry that is to emerge from the concrete and objectified images of the stage itself. The element of language still plays an important part in this conception, but what happens on the stage transcends, and often contradicts, the words spoken by the characters. In Ionesco’s Chairs, for example, the poetic content of a powerfully poetic play does not lie in the banal words that are uttered but in the fact that they are spoken to an ever-growing number of empty chairs.

general bibliography This bibliography covers articles and books relating to avant-garde drama that was written between 1890 and 1950. In selecting works for the general bibliography, I excluded any criticism dedicated to individual dramatists or theater artists that is listed in the selected bibliographies at the end of each section. Instead, I have focused on sources that examine avant-garde theatrical movements or national traditions, or on the contributions of particular theater artists to the development of avantgarde theater as a whole. Adamowicz, Elza. Surrealist Collage in Text and Image: Dissecting the Exquisite Corpse. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Ahrends, Günter. ‘‘The Nature and Function of Cruelty in the Theatre of Artaud and Foreman.’’ Forum Modernes Theater 9.1 (1994): 3–12. ———, and Hans-Jürgen Diller. Chapters from the History of Stage Cruelty. Tübingen: Narr, 1994. Allsop, Kenneth. The Angry Decade: A Survey of the Cultural Revolt of the 1950s. London: P. Owen, 1958. Apollonio, Umbro, ed. Futurist Manifestos. New York: Viking, 1973. Armstrong, William A., ed. Experimental Drama. London: G. Bell, 1963. Aronson, Arnold. American Avant-Garde Theatre: A History. London: Routledge, 2000. Artaud, Antonin. The Theatre and Its Double. Trans. Caroline Richards. New York: Grove Press, 1958. Ashmore, Jerome. ‘‘Interdisciplinary Roots of the Theater of the Absurd.’’ Modern Drama 14 (1971): 72–83. Aycock, Wendell M., ed. Myths and Realities of Contemporary French Theater: Comparative Views. Lubbock: Texas Tech University Press, 1985. Baer, Nancy Van Norman. Theatre in Revolution: Russian Avant-Garde Stage Design, 1913–35. New York: Thames and Hudson, 1991.

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Bakshy, Alexander. The Path of the Modern Russian Stage and Other Essays. London: Cecil Palmer, 1916. Balakian, Anna. ‘‘Dada-Surrealism: Fundamental Differences.’’ In Proceedings of the Comparative Literature Symposium III, ‘‘From Surrealism to the Absurd.’’ Lubbock: Texas Tech University Press, 1970. ———. Surrealism: The Road to the Absolute. 1959. Rev. ed. New York: Dutton, 1970. ———. The Symbolist Movement: A Critical Appraisal. 1967. New York: New York University Press, 1977. Barooshian, Vahan D. Russian Cubo-Futurism 1910–1930: A Study in Avant-Gardism. The Hague: Mouton, 1974. Beil, Ralf, and Claudia Dillmann. The Total Artwork in Expressionism: Art, Film, Literature, Theater, Dance, and Architecture, 1905–25. Ostfildern, Germany: Hatje Cantz, 2011. Benedikt, Michael, and George E. Wellwarth, eds. Modern French Theatre: The AvantGarde, Dada, and Surrealism: An Anthology of Plays. New York: Dutton, 1964. ———, eds. Modern Spanish Theatre: An Anthology of Plays. New York: Dutton, 1968. ———, eds. and trans. Postwar German Theatre: An Anthology of Plays. New York: Dutton, 1967. Benson, Renate. German Expressionist Drama: Ernst Toller and Georg Kaiser. New York: Grove, 1984. Bentley, Eric, ed. The Theory of the Modern Stage. 1968. Rev. ed. New York: Penguin, 1976. Berg, Christian, Frank Durieux, Geert Lernout, and Walter Gobbers, eds. The Turn of the Century: Modernism and Modernity in Literature and the Arts. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1995. Berghaus, Günter. Avant-Garde Performance: Live Events and Electronic Technologies. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. ———. ‘‘Dada Theatre of: The Genesis of Anti-Bourgeois Performance Art.’’ German Life and Letters 38 (1988): 293–312. ———. ‘‘Fulvia Giuliani: Portrait of a Futurist Actress.’’ New Theatre Quarterly 10.38 (May 1994): 117–21. ———. ‘‘From Futurism to Neo-Futurism: Continuities and New Departures in TwentiethCentury Avant-Garde Performance.’’ In Avant-Garde/Neo-Avant-Garde, ed. Dietrich Scheunemann. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005: 195–224. ———. Futurism and Politics: Between Anarchist Rebellion and Fascist Reaction, 1909– 1944. Providence, R.I.: Berghahn, 1996. ———. Futurism and the Technological Imagination. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2009. ———. International Futurism in Arts and Literature. Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2000. ———. Italian Futurist Theatre, 1909–1944. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. ———. Theatre, Performance, and the Historical Avant-Garde. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. ———. ‘‘A Theatre of Image, Sound, and Motion: On Synaesthesia and the Idea of a Total Work of Art.’’ Maske und Kothurn: International Beiträge zur Theaterwissenschaft 32.1–2 (1986): 7–28. Bergman, Gösta M. ‘‘Strindberg and the Intima Teatern.’’ Theatre Research 9 (1967): 14–47. ———. The Breakthrough of the Modern Theatre, 1870–1925. London, 1973.

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Bigsby, C. W. E. Dada and Surrealism. London: Methuen, 1972. Bishop, Thomas. Pirandello and the French Theater. New York: New York University Press, 1966. Bishop, Tom. ‘‘What Ever Happened to the Avant-Garde?’’ Yale French Studies 112 (2007): 7–13. Block, Haskell M. ‘‘Symbolist Drama: Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Strindberg, and Yeats.’’ New York Literary Forum 4 (1980): 43–48. ———. Mallarmé and the Symbolist Drama. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1963. Bohn, Willard. The Other Futurism: Futurist Activity in Venice, Padua, and Verona. Toronto: University of Toronto, 2004. Borovsky, V. ‘‘The Origins of Symbolist Theatre in Russia: Theory and Practice.’’ Irish Slavonic Studies 14 (1993): 41–68. Bowlt, John E., and Olga Malick, eds. Laboratory of Dreams: The Russian Avant-Garde and Cultural Experiment. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996. Bradby, David. Modern French Drama, 1940–1990. 1984. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Bradshaw, Martha., ed. Soviet Theatres: 1917–1941. New York: Research Program on the U.S.S.R., 1954. Brandt, George W., ed. Modern Theories of Drama: A Selection of Writings on Drama and Theatre. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Brater, Enoch, and Ruby Cohn, eds. Around the Absurd: Essays on Modern and Postmodern Drama. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990. Braun, Edward. The Director and the Stage: From Naturalism to Grotowski. New York: Holmes and Meier, 1982. Breton, André. Manifestoes of Surrealism. Trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane. 1969. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1972. Brockett, Oscar, and Robert R. Findlay. Century of Innovation: A History of European Drama and Theatre Since the Late Nineteenth Century. 1973. 2nd ed. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1991. Brotchie, Alastair, and Mel Gooding. A Book of Surrealist Games: Including the Little Surrealist Dictionary. Boston: Shambhala Redstone Editions, 1995. Brown, John Mason. The Modern Theatre in Revolt. New York: Norton, 1929. Bru, Sascha, Jan Baetens, Benedikt Hjartarson, and Peter Nicholls, eds. Europa! Europa? The Avant-Garde, Modernism, and the Fate of a Continent. New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2009. Brustein, Robert. The Theatre of Revolt: An Approach to the Modern Drama. 1964. Chicago: Elephant Paperbacks, 1991. Bürger, Peter. Theory of the Avant-Garde. Trans. Michael Shaw. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989. Campen, Cretien van. The Hidden Sense: Synesthesia in Art and Science. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2008. Carlson, Marvin. Chaps. 16–19 in Theories of the Theatre: A Historical and Critical Survey from the Greeks to the Present. 1984. Rev. ed. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993. Carter, Huntly. The New Spirit in the European Theatre, 1914–1924. London: Ernest Benn, 1925.

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———. The New Spirit in the Russian Theatre, 1917–1928. London: Bretano’s, 1929. Caws, Mary Ann. ‘‘(Dada and Surrealist) Film and Theatre.’’ Dada/Surrealism 3 (1973): 7–42. Caws, Mary Ann, Rudolf E. Kuenzli, and Gloria Gwen Raaberg, eds. Surrealism and Women. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1991. Chandler, Frank Wadleigh. Aspects of Modern Drama. New York: Macmillan, 1914. ———. The Contemporary Drama of France. 1920. Boston: Little, Brown, 1925. ———. Modern Continental Playwrights. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1931. Cheshire, David F. ‘‘Futurism, Marinetti, and the Music Hall.’’ Theatre Quarterly 1.3 (July–Sept. 1971): 53–59. Chiari, Joseph. The Contemporary French Theatre: Flight from Naturalism. London: Rockliff, 1958. Clark, Barrett H. Contemporary French Dramatists. Cincinnati, OH: Stewart and Kidd Company, 1915. ——— , ed. ‘‘French Dramatic Criticism of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,’’ in European Theories of the Drama, 392–407. New York: Crown, 1947. Rev. ed. Henry Popkin. ———, and George Freedly, eds. A History of Modern Drama. New York: AppletonCentury, 1947. Cohn, Ruby. From Desire to Godot: Pocket Theatre of Postwar Paris. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Cornell, Kenneth. The Symbolist Movement. Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1951. Cornwell, Neil, Robin Milner-Gulland, and Julian Graffy, eds. Daniil Kharms and the Poetics of the Absurd. Houndmills, England: Macmillan, 1991. Dana, H. W. L. Handbook of Soviet Drama. New York: The American Russian Institute for Cultural Relations with the Soviet Union, 1938. Daniels, May. The French Drama of the Unspoken. 1953. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1977. Dashwood, Julie R. ‘‘The Italian Futurist Theatre.’’ In Drama and Society, ed. James Redwood, 129–46. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979. Deak, Frantisek. Symbolist Theater: The Formation of an Avant-Garde. Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993. ———, Jacques F. Hovis, P. N. Roinard, Leonora Champagne, and Norma Jean Deak. ‘‘Symbolist Staging at the Théâtre d’Art.’’ Drama Review 20.3 (1976): 117–22. Demastes, William W. Theatre of Chaos: Beyond Absurdism, into Orderly Disorder. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Dickerman, Leah, ed. Dada: Zürich, Berlin, Hannover, Cologne, New York, Paris. Washington, D.C.: Distributed Art, 2005. Dickinson, Thomas H. The Contemporary Drama in England. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1931. ———. The Theater in a Changing Europe. New York: Henry Holt, 1937. Diethe, Carol. Aspects of Distorted Sexual Attitudes in German Expressionist Drama: With Particular Reference to Wedekind, Kokoschka, and Kaiser. New York: Peter Lang, 1988. Dobrez, Livio A. C. The Existential and Its Exits: Literary and Philosophical Perspectives on the Works of Beckett, Ionesco, Genêt, and Pinter. London: Athlone, 1986. Docherty, Brian, ed. Twentieth-Century European Drama. New York: St. Martin’s, 1994.

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Donahue, Thomas J. ‘‘Fernando Arrabal: His Panic Theory and Theatre and the AvantGarde.’’ Journal of Spanish Studies 3 (1975): 101–13. Drain, Richard, ed. Twentieth-Century Theatre: A Sourcebook. New York: Routledge, 1995. Dukore, Bernard F., and Daniel C. Gerould, eds. Avant-Garde Drama: A Casebook. Originally published as Avant-Garde Drama: Major Plays and Documents, Post World War I, 1969. New York: Crowell, 1976. ———, eds. Dramatic Theory and Criticism: Greeks to Grotowski. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1974. ———. ‘‘Explosions and Implosions: Avant-Garde Drama Between World Wars.’’ Educational Theatre Journal 21 (1969): 1–16. Eaton, Katherine. The Theater of Meyerhold and Brecht. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1985. Ellmann, Richard, and Charles Feidelson, Jr., eds. The Modern Tradition: Backgrounds of Modern Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1965. Eng, Jan van der, ed. Avant-Garde: Interdisciplinary and International Review. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1991. Erickson, John D. ‘‘Apocalyptic Mind: The Dada Manifesto and Classic Anarchism.’’ French Literature Series 7 (1980): 98–109. ———. Dada: Performance, Poetry, and Art. Boston: Twayne, 1984. Eskin, Stanley G. ‘‘Theatricality in the Avant-Garde Drama: A Reconsideration of a Theme in the Light of The Balcony and The Connection.’’ Modern Drama 7 (1964): 213–22. Esslin, Martin. ‘‘Modernist Drama: Wedekind to Brecht.’’ 1976. In Modernism, 1890– 1930, ed. Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane, 527–60. Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1978. ———. The Theatre of the Absurd. 1961. Rev. ed. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor, 1989. Evans, Calvin. ‘‘Mallarméan Antecedents in the Avant-Garde Theater.’’ Modern Drama 6 (1963): 12–19. Finter, Helga. ‘‘Antonin Artaud and the Impossible Theatre: The Legacy of the Theatre of Cruelty.’’ Trans. Matthew Griffin. TDR 41 (Winter 1997): 15–40. Fitch, Andrew. ‘‘A Fusion Avant-Garde.’’ Drama Survey 5 (1966): 53–59. Forum for Modern Language Studies. Special issue: ‘‘The International Avant-Garde, 1905–1924,’’ 32.2 (April 1996). Fowlie, Wallace. Age of Surrealism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1960. ———. ‘‘Antitheatre.’’ In Climate of Violence: The French Literary Tradition from Baudelaire to the Present, 219–34. New York: Macmillan, 1967. ———. Dionysus in Paris: A Guide to Contemporary French Theatre. New York: Meridian Books, 1960. Fuchs, Elinor, and Una Chaudhuri. Land/Scape/Theater. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2002. Gaensbauer, Deborah B. The French Theater of the Absurd. Boston: Twayne, 1991. Garten, H. F. Modern German Drama. London: Methuen, 1959. ———, trans. Seven Expressionist Plays: Kokoschka to Barlach. London: Calder & Boyars, 1968. Gascoigne, Bamber. Twentieth-Century Drama. London: Hutchinson, 1962.

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Gaskell, Ronald. Drama and Reality: The European Theatre Since Ibsen. London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1972. Gassner, John. Directions in Modern Theatre and Drama. Expanded ed. of Form and Idea in Modern Theatre, 1956. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1965. Gerould, Daniel, ed. Twentieth-Century Polish Avant-Garde Drama: Plays, Scenarios, Critical Documents. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1977. ———, ed. Doubles, Demons, and Dreamers: An International Collection of Symbolist Drama. New York: PAJ, 1985. ———, and Jadwiga Kosicka. ‘‘The Drama of the Unseen: Turn-of-the-Century Paradigms from Occult Drama.’’ New York Literary Forum 4 (1980): 3–42. Gibian, George. Russian Modernism: Culture and the Avant-Garde. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1976. ———, ed. and trans. The Man with the Black Coat: Russia’s Literature of the Absurd— Selected Works of Daniil Kharms and Alexander Vvedensky, 1971. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1987. Gilman, Richard. ‘‘The Idea of the Avant-Garde.’’ Partisan Review 29.3 (1972): 382–96. ———. The Making of Modern Drama: A Study of Büchner, Ibsen, Strindberg, Chekhov, Pirandello, Brecht, Beckett, Handke. 1974. New York: Da Capo, 1987. Glover, J. Garrett. The Cubist Theatre. Ann Arbor, Mich.: UMI Research, 1983. Glytzouris, Antonis. ‘‘On the Emergence of European Avant-Garde Theatre.’’ Theatre History Studies 28 (2008): 131–46. Goldberg, Isaac. The Drama of Transition. Cincinnati: Stewart Kidd, 1922. Goldberg, Roselee. Performance Art: From Futurism to the Present. Rev. and expanded ed. Originally published as Performance: Live Art, 1909 to the Present, 1979. New York: Thames & Hudson, 2001. Goodall, Jane. ‘‘The Plague and Its Powers in Artaudian Theatre.’’ Modern Drama 33.4 (1990): 529–542. Gorchakov, Nikolai A. The Theatre in Soviet Russia. Translated by Edgar Lehman. New York: Columbia University Press, 1957. Gordon, Mel. ‘‘The Control of Ecstasy: German Expressionist Acting.’’ Drama Review 19.3 (1975): 34–50. ———, ed. Dada Performance. New York: PAJ, 1987. ———, ed. Expressionist Texts. New York: PAJ, 1986. Gordon, R. S. ‘‘The Italian Futurist Theatre: A Reappraisal.’’ Modern Language Review 85.2 (April 1990): 349–61. Gorse, Naomi. Women in Dada: Essays on Sex, Gender, and Identity. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1998. Graver, David. The Aesthetics of Disturbance: Anti-Art in Avant-Garde Drama. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995. Gray, Ronald. The German Tradition in Literature, 1871–1945. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965. Green, Michael, ed. and trans. The Russian Symbolist Theatre: An Anthology of Plays and Critical Texts. Ann Arbor, Mich.: Ardis, 1986. ———. ‘‘The Russian Symbolist Theater: Some Connections.’’ Pacific Coast Philology 12 (1977): 5–14.

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Gregor, Joseph, and René Fülöp-Miller. The Russian Theatre. Trans. Paul England. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1929. Grossman, Manuel L. Dada: Paradox, Mystification, and Ambiguity in European Literature. New York: Pegasus, 1971. Grossvogel, David. Four Playwrights and a Postscript: Brecht, Ionesco, Beckett, Genet. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1963. ———. Twentieth Century French Drama. Originally published as The Self-Conscious Stage in Modern French Drama, 1958. New York: Gordian, 1967. Guicharnaud, Jacques. Modern French Theatre: From Giraudoux to Beckett. 1961. Rev. ed. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967. Hadjinicoloaou, Nicos. ‘‘On the Ideology of the Avant-Garde.’’ Trans. Diane Belle James. Praxis: A Journal of Culture and Criticism 6 (1982): 39–70. Hansen, Al. A Primer of Happenings and Space/Time Art. New York: Something Else Press, 1966. Harding, James M., ed. Contours of the Theatrical Avant-Garde: Performance and Textuality. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Harding, James Martin, and John Rouse. Not the Other Avant-Garde: The Transnational Foundations of Avant-Garde Performance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006. ———. The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s): Exorcising Experimental Theater and Performance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013. Hayman, Ronald. Artaud and After. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977. Hedges, Inez. Languages of Revolt: Dada and Surrealist Literature and Film. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1983. Heller, Otto. Prophets of Dissent: Essays on Maeterlinck, Strindberg, Nietzsche, and Tolstoy. New York: A. A. Knopf, 1918. Hemus, Ruth. Dada’s Women. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009. Henderson, Archibald. European Dramatists. 1913. New York: Appleton, 1926. Henderson, John A. The First Avant-Garde, 1887–1894: Sources of the Modern French Theatre. London: Harrap, 1971. Hewitt, Andrew. Fascist Modernism: Aesthetics, Politics, and the Avant-Garde. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993. Hill, Claude, and Ralph Ley. The Drama of German Expressionism. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1960. Hinchliffe, Arnold. The Absurd. London: Methuen, 1969. Hobson, Harold. The French Theatre of Today. London: B. Blom, 1953. Homan, Sydney. The Audience as Actor and Character: The Modern Theater of Beckett, Brecht, Genêt, Ionesco, Pinter, Stoppard, and Williams. Lewisburg, Pa.: Bucknell University Press, 1989. Hooker, Ward. ‘‘Irony and Absurdity in the Avant-Garde Theatre.’’ In Essays in the Modern Drama, ed. Morris Freedman, 335–48. Boston: D. C. Heath, 1964. House, Jane, and Antonio Attisani, eds. Twentieth-Century Italian Drama: The First Fifty Years: An Anthology. New York: Columbia University Press, 1995. Huxley, Michael, and Noel Witts, eds. The Twentieth-Century Performance Reader. New York: Routledge, 1996.

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index a Adamov, Arthur, 56, 441, 473, 475; La grande et la petite manoeuvre, 442; The Invasion, 442–45; Paoli Paoli, 441; The Parody, 441– 43; Le Ping Pong, 444 Akara (Weingarten), 57 American Avant-Garde Theatre (Aronson), 2 Andreyev, Leonid, 178; The Life of Man, 158 Anouilh, Jean, 475 Antichrist (Sorge), 183 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 333–34 Appia, Adolphe, 55 Aquinas, Thomas, 476 Aragon, Thomas, 11 Arcana Cœlestia (Swedenborg), 137–42 Aristophanes, 99 Aristotle, 52; Poetics, 7; unities of, 103 Aron, Robert, 301, 348 Aronson, Arnold, 7; American Avant-Garde Theatre, 2 Arrabal, Fernando, 56–58 L’arresto (Marinetti), 167 Artaud, Antonin, 6, 9, 11, 14, 54, 56–58, 301–2, 306, 441; The Burnt Belly, or The Crazy Mother, 347; The Cenci, 347, 350; collaborations with Robert Vitrac, 301–2, 306; latent fascism of, 14; The Philosopher’s Stone, 347; The Spurt of Blood, 4, 14, 349;

The Theater and Its Double, 296, 347; Theater of Cruelty, 296, 347–51, 359, 361, 363, 388 L’artiste, le savant et l’industriel (the SaintSimonian Olinde Rodriques), 2 Audiberti, Jacques, 476 Augier, Emile, 99 automatic writing, 5, 148, 301, 338, 395 avant-garde: definition of, 1–3; feminist critique of, 12–14; linear causality, undermining of, 4; psychological motivations, undercutting of, 4; Western canon, departures from, 9 Avant-Garde Theatre, 1892–1992 (Innes), 11

b Bakhterev, Igor, 391, 394 The Bald Soprano (Ionesco), 364 Balla, Giacomo: Per comprendere il pianto, 169 Barrières (Breton and Soupault), 346 Le basi (Marinetti), 168 Baty, Gaston, 56 Baudelaire, Charles, 100 Bauhaus, 145 Beckett, Samuel, 56–57, 367, 441; absurdism of, 475; affinities with Stein, 396, 398;

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Beckett (cont.) affinities with Witkiewicz, 266; Endgame, 58, Waiting for Godot, 473 Bernhardt, Sarah, 435 Berti, Ettore, 182 Björnson, Björnstjerne, 35 Black and White (Kandinsky), 145, 147 Der Blaue Reiter, 145 Blin, Roger, 350, 442 The Blind (Maeterlinck), 17 The Blue Bird (Maeterlinck), 18 Boccioni, Umberto, 165; Il corpo che sale, 169; Futurist Painting and Sculpture, 165; Genius and Culture, 4, 13, 165; Kultur, 167 Böcklin, Arnold, 107 Booth, Edwin, 435 Braque, Georges, 395 Brecht, Bertolt, 11, 441, 472 Breton, André, 2, 239, 302, 338, 395; and automatic writing, 338, 395; First Surrealist Manifesto, 301, 338; If You Please, 338; The Magnetic Fields, 338, 346; Nadja, 302–3, 306; Second Surrealist Manifesto, 338; What Is Surrealism?, 338 Briusov, Valery, 9 Brod, Max, 442 Brook, Peter, 14, 348; and London Theatre of Cruelty, 349 Büchner, Georg, 441 Bulgakov, Mikhail, 367 The Burned House (Strindberg), 106 The Burnt Belly, or the Crazy Mother (Artaud), 347 Buzzi, Paoli: Il pesce d’aprile, 169

c cabalism, 107 Cabaret Voltaire, 239–40 Caccia all’usignolo (Govoni), 168 Camus, Albert, 398, 475; The Myth of Sisyphus, 472, 474 Cangiullo, Francesco, 166; Non c’è un cane, 169; Detonation, 168–69; Decisione, 169; Piedigrotta, 166 Carli, Marlo: Stati d’animo, 168 Carlson, Marvin, 10–11 The Cenci (Artaud), 347, 350 Cézanne, Paul, 259, 395 The Chairs (Ionesco), 476 chamber theater. See Intimate Theater

Die Chaplinade (Goll), 236 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 241 Chekhov, Anton, 441; The Seagull, 48; Uncle Vanya, 50–51 Un chiaro di luna (Marinetti), 168 Chirico, Giorgio de, 343 Chiti, Remo, 182 Christmas at the Ivanovs’ (Vvedensky), 5–6 Claudel, Paul, 178 Cocteau, Jean, 441 Colori (Depero), 168 communism, 338 Communist Party, 2, 239 Concerning the Spiritual in Art (Kandinsky), 145 Constructivism, 14, 184 Copeau, Jacques, 295 Coriolanus (Shakespeare), 242 Il corpo che sale (Boccioni), 169 Corra, Bruno, 168–69; Dalla finestra, 169; Passatismo, 169; Verso la conquista, 169 Correspondences, 107, 137–38, 140, 145–48, 169 Craig, Edward Gordon, 53, 55–56 The Crazy Locomotive (Witkiewicz), 265 Crémieux, Benjamin, 295 Crevel, René, 11 Cricot II, 266–67 Cubism, 259, 395 cummings, e. e.: him, 397 Curtain Raiser (Stein), 437 The Cuttlefish (Witkiewicz), 265–66, 267–70

d Dada, 5, 9, 147, 236, 239–45; and formal similarities to Stein, 397; image of female in, 12; influence of Jarry on, 53; misogynistic tendencies of, 12–13; primitivism of, 11, 258; Surrealism’s break with, 338; use of enigmatic titles, 269; use of language in, 6 Dada Manifesto, 1918 (Tzara), 239, 241 Dalla finestra (Corra and Settimelli), 169 The Dance of Death (Strindberg), 100, 184 D’Annunzio, Gabriele: Più che l’Amore, 180; La Figlia di Jorio, 180 Dante (Alighieri), 142 Daphnis and Chloe (Kandinsky), 147 DeAngelis, Rudolfo, 166 Decisione (Cangiullo), 169 Depero, Fortunato: Colori, 168

Desnos, Robert, 342 Detonation (Cangiullo), 169 Deutsches Theater, 184–85 Dissonanza (Corra and Settimelli), 167 Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights (Stein), 395 The Double Garden (Maeterlinck), 17 A Dream Play (Strindberg), 103 Duchamp, Marcel, 54 Dullin, Charles, 347 Dumas, Alexandre, fils, 35, 99 Duncan, Isadora, 436

Foreman, Richard, 396 Four Saints in Three Acts (Stein), 438–39 Freud, Sigmund: influences on Breton, 338– 40, 343 Futurism, 9, 14, 239, 259, 363; and Fascism, 2, 14; misogynist tendencies of, 13; sintesi, 5, 163–64, 167–69; use of gibberish, 6 Futurist Painting and Sculpture (Boccioni), 165

g

The Gas Heart (Tzara), 4–5, 239 Gémier, Fermin, 100 Genêt, Jean, 9, 57, 348, 475 Genius and Culture (Boccioni), 4, 13, 165 The Earth (Briusov), 38 Geography and Plays (Stein), 437 Electra (Strauss), 436 George, Lloyd, 304–8 Eliot, T. S.: The Waste Land, 106 Elizabeth Bam (Vvedensky), 363, 367, 388, 394 Gesamtkunstwerk, 147 Emerson, Ralph Waldo: Representative Men, Ghelderode, Michel de, 56, 476 The Ghost Sonata (Strindberg), 5, 104 140 Ghosts (Ibsen), 158 Endgame (Beckett), 58 The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s) (Harding), 2 Entrée libre (Vitrac), 302, 305 Gilbert and Sullivan: H.M.S. Pinafore, 434 Erdman, Nikolai, 367 Gilbert-Lecomte, Roger, 442 Esslin, Martin, 472; The Theatre of the Gillette, William, 436 Absurd, 9 Giradoux, Jean, 475 Euripides, 238 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von: Wilhelm Evreinov, Nikolai: Introduction to MonoMeisters Lehrjahre, 185 drama, 38 Gogol, Nikolai, 441 existentialism, 476 Goll, Yvan, 236: Die Chaplinade, 236; The The Explicit Body in Performance Immortals, 236; Methusalem, oder Der (Schneider), 12 ewige Bürger, 236 Expressionism, 266; and influence on AdaGorky, Maxim, 441 mov, 441; and influence on Kandinsky, Govoni, Corrado: Caccia all’usignolo, 168 147; Strindberg’s influence on, 103–4; Graham-Jones, Jean, 10–11 Witkiewicz’s affinities with, 266 La grande et la petite manoeuvre (Adamov), Exquisite Corpse, 5, 15 442 The Green Sound (Kandinsky), 145, 147 Grosz, Georg, 236 grotesco criollo, 11 Falck, August, 104 grotesque, 238 The Father (Strindberg), 103 Grotowski, Jerzy, 348 Feminist Manifesto (Loy), 13 guignol, 56 Fiebach, Joachim, 10–11 La Figlia di Jorio (D’Annunzio), 180 ‘‘Film No. 1’’ (Razumovsky and Mints), 393 Filinov, Pavel, 390 First Celestial Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine Hamlet (Shakespeare), 32, 50, 143, 435 (Tzara), 239 Hamsum, Knut, 343 First Surrealist Manifesto (Breton), 301, 338 Happenings, 10, 164 Fischer, Samuel, 184 Harding, James, 3, 8; The Ghosts of the AvantLes Flaireurs (Van Lerberghe), 100 Garde(s), 2

f

h

495

u•u

Index

e

u•u I N D E X

496

Hartmann, Thomas von, 145 Hasenclever, Walter, 184, 186 Hauptmann, Gerhart, 18, 35, 194 Haviland, Paul, 12 Heaven and Hell (Swedenborg), 106–7 Hedda Gabler (Ibsen), 3 Hegel, Friedrich, 344 Heisenberg, Werner: indeterminacy (uncertainty) principle, 105 Henry VI (Shakespeare), 433 Heym, Georg, 186 him (cummings), 397 H.M.S. Pinafore (Gilbert and Sullivan), 434 Hoddis, Jakob von, 186 Hoffman, Michael, 397 Hofmannstahl, Hugo von, 184 Hollaender, Felix, 184 Huelsenbeck, Richard, 240

i Ibsen, Henrik, 3, 18, 35–37, 52, 101, 178, 180; Ghosts, 158; Hedda Gabler, 3; Peer Gynt, 100; When We Dead Awaken, 50 If You Please (Breton and Soupault), 303–4, 338 The Immortals (Goll), 236 Impressionism, 184 In Circles (Stein), 395 Innes, Christopher: Avant-Garde Theatre, 1892–1992, 11 The Inspector General (Terentev), 390 Interior (Maeterlinck), 17 Intimate Theater, 104, 105 Introduction to Monodrama (Evreinov), 38 An Introduction to the Theory of Pure Form in the Theater (Witkiewicz), 295 The Intruder (Maeterlinck), 17 The Invasion (Adamov), 441 Ionesco, Eugène, 9, 56–58, 364, 441, 473; absurdism of, 475; affinities with Stein, 396; affinities with Witkiewicz, 266; The Bald Soprano, 58, 364; The Chairs, 476; influence of Artaud, 348; influence of Vitrac, 301; Macbett, 56 It [What] Happened, a Play (Stein), 395

j Janco, Marcel, 12, 240 Jannarone, Kimberly, 14 Janulka, Daughter of Fizdejko (Witkiewicz), 265

Jarry, Alfred, 5–6: King Ubu, 5, 163; Messaline, 57; Le surmâle, 57; Ubu Bound, 5, 54; Ubu Cuckolded, 5, 54 Joyce, James: Ulysses, 106

k Kafka, Franz, 442, 475 Kandinsky, Wassily, 9–10; Black and White, 145, 147; Concerning the Spiritual in Art, 145; Daphnis and Chloe, 147; The Green Sound, 145, 147; ‘‘On Stage Composition,’’ 145, 147; Violet, 145, 147 Kantor, Tadeusz, 266–67 Kharms, Daniil, 363–64, 367, 388, 392, 394 King Lear (Shakespeare), 32 King Ubu (Jarry), 5, 163 Kleist, Heinrich von, 441 Kokoschka, Oskar: Sphinx und Strohmann, 240 Kornfeld, Paul, 184 Kultur (Boccioni), 167

l Labiche, Eugène, 99 Ladies Voices (Stein), 437 landscape drama, 4 ‘‘L’Artiste, le savant et l’industriel’’ (Rodriques), 2 Lauckner, Rolf, 184 Lautréamont, comte de, 358 Le Roi Bombance (Marinetti), 163 Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm von, 140 Leprince de Beaumont, Marie, 100 Levin, Boris, 392, 394 The Life of Man (Andreyev), 158 Lights (Cangiullo), 166 Linnaeus, Carolus, 140 liturgical drama, 183 Living Theater, 348, 396 Lohengrin (Wagner), 434 Loti, Pierre, 101 Loy, Mina: Feminist Manifesto, 13 Lucy Church, Amiably (Stein), 438 Lugné-Poë, Aurélien, 17, 100, 347

m Macbeth (Shakespeare), 32, 53 Macbett (Ionesco), 56

Nietzsche, Friedrich, 183, 270 Non c’è un cane (Cangiullo), 169 Le nouveau monde (Adam), 49

o Oberiu, 9 Odysseus (Sorge), 183 Oedipus Rex (Sophocles), 356 ‘‘On Stage Composition’’ (Kandinsky), 145, 147 Operas and Plays (Stein), 438 Othello (Shakespeare), 32 Our Town (Wilder), 397–98

n

r

u•u

Paoli Paoli (Adamov), 441 The Parody (Adamov), 441–43 Passatismo (Corra and Settimelli), 169 Pataphysics, 53–101; see also Jarry, Alfred The Paunch of the Vase (Cangiullo), 166 Peer Gynt (Ibsen), 100 Pelléas and Mélisande (Maeterlinck), 100 Per comprendere il pianto (Balla), 169 performance art, 10, 348 Il pesce d’aprile (Buzzi), 169 Petrolini, Ettore, 182 The Philosopher’s Stone (Artaud), 347 Picabia, Francis, 13, 239 Picasso, Pablo, 12–13, 236, 297–98, 395 Pichette, Henri, 476 Piedigrotta (Cangiullo), 166 Le Ping Pong (Adamov), 444 Pinter, Harold, 367, 396, 472, 473 Pitoëff, Georges, 347 Più che l’Amore (D’Annunzio), 180 Poetics (Aristotle), 7 Poupées électriques (Marinetti), 163 Pratella, Balilla, 182 primitivism, 11, 13 Princess Maleine (Maeterlinck), 17 problem plays, 3 Prometheus (Scriabin), 145 Nadja (Breton), 302–3, 306 Naturalism, 3; acting style of the Moscow Art Prometheus (Sorge), 183 Theater, 38; of early Strindberg plays, 103– psychoanalysis, 103, 261, 360 Pythagoras, 140 4; principles and traditions of, 55 Nerval, Gérard de, 344 Neveux, Georges, 476 The New Deliverance (Witkiewicz), 268 New Futurist Theatre, 166 Raarberg, Gwen: Surrealism and Women, 12 Newton, Sir Isaac, 140 Rabelais, François, 99

Index

p

497

Maeterlinck, Maurice, 4, 38, 52, 54, 158, 178; The Blind, 17; The Blue Bird, 17; Interior, 17; The Intruder, 17; Pelléas and Mélisande, 100; Princess Maleine, 17; The Treasure of the Humble, 17 The Magnetic Fields (Breton and Soupault), 338, 346 Malevich, Kasimir, 184, 390 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 38, 100 Maly Theater, 48 Le mani (Marinetti and Corra), 168 Marc, Franz, 145 Marcel, Gabriel, 295 Marinetti, Filippo (F. T.), 2, 14, 163–64, 166, 167–68, 181; fascist allegiances of, 2, 14; L’arresto, 167; Le Roi Bombance, 163; misogynist tendencies of, 13; Poupées électriques, 163; Simultaneità, 168; ‘‘The Variety Theater,’’ 164, 181; ‘‘Variety Theater Manifesto,’’ 166; Vengono, 168, 181 Marowitz, Charles, 57 Marxism, 474 Matisse, Henri, 395 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 367 medieval mystery plays, 183 Mendès, Catulle, 100 Messaline (Jarry), 57 Methusalem, oder Der ewige Bürger (Goll), 236 Miss Julie (Strindberg), 103 Molière, 38 monodrama, 38 Moscow Art Theater, 38, 48–51 Mrozeck, S™awomir, 367 Musset, Alfred de, 100 Mussolini, Benito, 2, 164, 306–8 The Mysteries of Love (Vitrac), 14, 301, 347 mystery plays. See medieval mystery plays The Myth of Sisyphus (Camus), 472, 474

Please, 303–4, 338; The Magnetic Fields, 338, 346 Sphinx un Strohmann (Kokoschka), 240 Spinoza, Baruch, 476 Spring Awakening (Wedekind), 184 The Spurt of Blood (Artaud), 4, 5, 13–14, 347, 349 Stati d’animo (Carli), 168 Stein, Gertrude, 4, 6, 13, 395; Curtain Raiser, 437, Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights, 4, 395; Four Saints in Three Acts, 438–40; Geography and Plays, 437; In Circles, 395; It Happened, a Play, 395; Ladies Voices, 437; Lucy Church, Amiably, 438; Operas and Plays, 438; ‘‘What Happened, a Play,’’ 437; Yes Is for a Very Young Man, 395 Stewart, Potter, 1 Stowe, Harriet Beecher: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 434 Strindberg, August, 18; The Burned House, Saint-Pol-Roux, 342 106; The Dance of Death, 103, 184; A Saint-Simon, Claude-Henri de, 2 Dream Play, 103; The Father, 103; The Salacrou, Armand, 475 Ghost Sonata, 5, 104; Miss Julie, 103; To Sartre, Jean-Paul, 398, 475 Damascus, 103 Sawelson-Gorse, Naomi: Women in Dada, 13 Studio des Champs-Elysées, 442 Schéhadé, Georges, 476 supernaturalism, 344; see also Surrealism Schlemmer, Oskar, 184 Le surmâle (Jarry), 57 Schneider, Rebecca: The Explicit Body in Surrealism, 6, 9, 266 (see also Breton, André; Performance, 12 supernaturalism); Adamov’s association Scriabin, Alexander: Prometheus, 145 with, 441; birth of, 239; and formal simThe Seagull (Chekhov), 48 ilarities to Stein, 397; and influence of Second Surrealist Manifesto (Breton), 338 Jarry, 54, 57; objectification of women by, Sell, Mike, 3, 8 12–13; Sorge’s influence on, 184; StrindSerreau, Geneviève, 442 berg’s influence on, 104 Settimelli, Emilio: Dalla finestra, 169; DisSurrealism and Women (Raarberg), 12 sonanza, 167; Passatismo, 169; Verso la Sutherland, Donald, 397 conquista, 169 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 106–8, 344; Arcana Shakespeare, William, 5, 49, 99–100, 180, Cœlestia, 137–42 185, 300, 358, 432; Coriolanus, 242; HamSymbolism, 9; Jarry’s influence on, 55; Marilet, 32, 50, 143, 435; Henry VI, 433; King netti’s early association with, 163; StrindLear, 32; Macbeth, 32, 53; Othello, 32; berg’s affinities with, 105; and synesthesia, Romeo and Juliet, 32 4; and theory of correspondences, 147 Shaw, George Bernard, 178 Synge, John Millington, 18 Sherrell, Richard, 443 Simultaneità (Marinetti), 168 sintesi, 5, 163–64, 167–69 S™owacki, Juliusz, 300 socialist realism, 266–67 Teatrino dell’amore, 168 Sophocles, 357; Oedipus Rex, 356 Terentev, Igor, 363; production of The InspecSorge, Reinhard: Odysseus, 183; Prometheus, tor General, 390 183; Antichrist, 183 Theater of the Absurd, 18, 54, 104, 266, 301, Soupault, Phillippe, 343–44, 346; If You 364, 441

498

u•u I N D E X

Radiks, 363 Realism, 3, 55, 167, 238, 265, 363, 388 Reinhardt, Max, 184–85 Repin, Elias, 389 Representative Men (Emerson), 140 Revolution, Russian, 38 Rimbaud, Arthur, 38, 100, 338, 358 ritualistic, 11 Rodriques, Olinde, 7; ‘‘L’Artiste, le savant et l’industriel,’’ 2 Le Roi Bombance (Marinetti), 163 Romanticism, 32, 36, 237, 244 Romashov, Boris, 367 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare), 32 Rouse, John, 8 Rózewicz, Tadeusz, 367

s

t

u Übermarionette. See Craig, Edward Gordon Ubu Bound (Jarry), 5, 54 Ubu Cuckolded (Jarry), 5, 54 Ulysses (Joyce), 106 Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Stowe), 434 Uncle Vanya (Chekhov), 50–51 Unruh, Fritz von, 186

v Vaché, Jacques, 338 Vaginov, Konstantin, 391 Valéry, Paul, 338 ‘‘The Variety Theater’’ (Marinetti), 164, 181 ‘‘Variety Theater Manifesto,’’ 166 Vauthier, Jean, 57, 476 Vengono (Marinetti), 168, 181 Verhaeren, Emile, 101 Verlaine, Paul, 38, 100 Versényi, Adam, 10–11 Verso la conquista (Corra and Settimelli), 169 Vian, Boris, 57–58 Victor, or The Children Take Over (Vitrac), 301, 307, 347

Vilar, Jean, 442 Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Auguste, 49; Le nouveau monde, 49 Violet (Kandinsky), 145, 147 Vitrac, Roger, 301, 347; The Mysteries of Love, 14, 301, 347; Victor, or The Children Take Over, 301, 307, 347 Vuillard, Edouard, 53 Vvedensky, Aleksandr, 363–64, 365–67, 388, 391; Christmas at the Ivanovs’, 5–6

y Yeats, W. B., 12, 18, 349 Yes Is for a Very Young Man (Stein), 395

z Zabolotsky, Nikita, 392 Zaum, 15 Zoncada, Luigi, 182

u•u

Wagner, Richard, 158–60; Gesamtkustwerk, 147 Waiting for Godot (Beckett), 473 The Waste Land (Eliot), 106 The Water Hen (Witkiewicz), 265 The Wayfarer (Briusov), 9 Wedekind, Frank: Spring Awakening, 184 ‘‘Weights, Measures, and Prices of Artistic Genius’’ (Futurist manifesto), 181 Weingarten, Romain: Akara, 57 well-made play, 103 Weston, Jessie L., 106 What Is Surrealism? (Breton), 338 When We Dead Awaken (Ibsen), 50 Wilde, Oscar, 18, 38 Wilder, Thornton, 396; Our Town, 397–98 Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (Goethe), 185 Wilson, Robert, 396 Witkiewicz, Stanis™aw Ignacy (Witkacy), 10, 265; The Crazy Locomotive, 265; The Cuttlefish, 265; Janulka, Daughter of Fizdejko, 265; The New Deliverance, 268; The Water Hen, 265 Women in Dada (Sawelson-Gorse), 13

Index

w

499

Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1950–2000 (Knopf and Listengarten), 1, 7, 8, 15 Theater Cricot, 267 Theater of Cruelty, 9, 14, 296, 347–50 The Theater and Its Double (Artaud), 296, 347 Theater of Pure Form, 9 ‘‘The Theater of Surprise’’ (Marinetti), 166 Theater of Surprise Company, 166 The Theatre of the Absurd (Esslin), 9 Théâtre Alfred Jarry, 301, 347, 350 Théâtre d’Art, 17 Théâtre Michel, 239 Théâtre de l’Oeuvre, 5, 17, 53, 100, 163, 239 Thirion, André, 11 To Damascus (Strindberg), 103 Toklas, Alice B., 13, 395 Der Tor und der Tod (Hofmannstahl), 184 total theater, 17 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 53 transnationalism, 8, 10 The Treasure of the Humble (Maeterlinck), 17 Tzara, Tristan, 239; The Gas Heart, 4–5, 239