Schoolroom of the Sorbonne, a Thurdsay evening in Paris
Allendy and Artaud were sitting at the big desk. Allendy introduced Artaud.
The room was crowded.
The blackboard made a strange backdrop.
There were people of all ages, followers of Allendy's lectures on New Ideas.
The light was crude. It made Artaud's eyes shrink into darkness, as they are deep-set. This brought into relief the intensity of his gestures.
He looked tormented. His hair, rather long, fell at times over his forehead. He has the actor's nimbleness and quickness of gestures. His face is lean, as if ravaged by fevers. His eyes do not seem to see the people. They are the eyes of a visionary.
His hands are long, long-fingered. Beside him Allendy looks earthy, heavy, gray. He sits at the desk, massive, brooding. Artaud steps out on the platform, and begins to talk about " The Theater and the Plague."
He asked me to sit in the front row. It seems to me that all he is asking for is intensity, a more heightened form of feeling and living. Is he trying to remind us that it was during the Plague that so many marvelous works of art and theater came to be, because, whipped by the fear of death, man seeks immortality, or to escape, or to surpass himself.
But then, imperceptibly almost, he let go of the thread we were following and began to act out dying by plague.
NO ONE QUITE KNEW WHEN IT BEGAN. TO ILLUSTRATE HIS CONFERENCE, HE WAS ACTING OUT AN AGONY.
"LA PESTE " IN FRENCH IS SO MUCH MORE TERRIBLE THAN "THE PLAGUE " IN ENGLISH.
BUT NO WORD COULD DESCRIBE WHAT ARTAUD ACTED OUT ON THE PLATFORM OF THE SORBONNE.
HE FORGOT ABOUT HIS CONFERENCE, THE THEATER, HIS IDEAS, DR. ALLENDY SITTING THERE, THE PUBLIC, THE YOUNG STUDENTS, PROFESSORS, AND DIRECTORS.
HIS FACE WAS CONTORTED WITH ANGUISH, ONE COULD SEE THE PERSPIRATION DAMPENING HIS HAIR. HIS EYES DILATED, HIS MUSCLES BECAME CRAMPED, HIS FINGERS STRUGGLED TO RETAIN THEIR FLEXIBILITY.
HE MADE ONE FEEL THE PARCHED AND BURNING THROAT, THE PAINS, THE FEAR, THE FIRE IN THE GUTS.
HE WAS IN AGONY.
HE WAS SCREAMING.
HE WAS DELIRIOUS.
HE WAS ENACTING HIS OWN DEATH,
HIS OWN CRUCIFIXION.
At first people gasped.
And then they began to laugh.
Everyone was laughing.
They hissed.
Then one by one, they began to leave, noisily, talking, protesting.
They banged the door as they left.
The only ones who did not move were Allendy, his wife, the Lalous and Marguerite.
More protestations.
More jeering.
But Artaud went on, until the last gasp.
HE STAYED ON THE FLOOR.
Then when the hall had emptied of all but his small group of friends, he walked straight up to me and kissed my hand. He asked me to go the the cafe with him. Everyone else had something to do. We all parted at the door of the Sorbonne, and Artaud and I walked out in a fine mist. We walked, walked through the dark streets.
HE WAS HURT, WOUNDED, BAFFLED BY THE JEERING.
HE SPAT OUT HIS ANGER.
"THEY ALWAYS WANT TO HEAR ABOUT;
THEY WANT TO HEAR AN OBJECTIVE CONFERENCE ON
THE THEATER AND THE PLAGUE,
I WANT TO GIVE THEM THE EXPERIENCE ITSELF,
THE PLAGUE ITSELF,
SO THEY WILL BE TERRIFIED,
AND AWAKEN".
"I WANT TO AWAKEN THEM.
BECAUSE THEY DO NOT REALIZE THEY ARE DEAD.
THEIR DEATH IS TOTAL, LIKE DEAFNESS AND BLINDNESS.
THIS IS AGONY I PORTRAYED.
MINE YES,
AND EVERYONE WHO IS ALIVE. "
The mist fell on his face, he pushed his hair away from his forehead. He looked taut and obsessed, but now he spoke quietly. We sat in the Coupole. He forgot the conference.
"I HAVE NEVER FOUND ANYONE WHO FELT AS I DID.
I HAVE BEEN AN OPIUM ADDICT FOR FIFTEEN YEARS.
IT WAS FIRST GIVEN TO ME WHEN I WAS VERY YOUNG,
TO CALM SOME TERRIBLE PAINS IN MY HEAD. "
"I FEEL SOMETIMES THAT I AM NOT WRITING,
BUT DESCRIBING THE STRUGGLES WITH WRITING,
THE STRUGGLES OF BIRTH."
He recited poetry. We talked about form, the theater, his work.
"YOU HAVE GREEN, AND SOMETIMES VIOLET EYES."
HE GREW GENTLE AND CALM.
WE WALKED AGAIN, IN THE RAIN.
FOR HIM THE PLAGUE WAS NO WORSE THAN
DEATH BY MEDIOCRITY
DEATH BY COMMERCIALISM
AND DEATH BY THE CORRUPTION WHICH SURROUNDED US.
HE WANTED TO MAKE PEOPLE AWARE THAT THEY WERE DYING.
TO FORCE THEM INTO A POETIC STATE.
THE HOSTILITY ONLY PROVED THAT YOU DISTURBED THEM, I SAID.
BUT WHAT A SHOCK TO SEE A SENSITIVE POET CONFRONTING A HOSTILE PUBLIC.
WHAT BRUTALITY, WHAT UGLINESS IN THE PUBLIC.