The Infernal Machine and Other Plays

by Jean Cocteau

  COMMISSIONER, turning to his Clerk. Just what we expected him to say. And the victim’s wife … where is she? We’ll see what she says about your story.

  HEURTEBISE. She’s gone.

  COMMISSIONER. How convenient!

  HEURTEBISE. She’d already left her husband before the crime was committed.

  COMMISSIONER. You don’t say!

  To Clerk.

  Why don’t you sit at the table so you can take notes.

  The Clerk sits at the writing table where pen and paper are waiting for him. The Clerk starts to sit, his back to the mirror, but Heurtebise is in his way so he has to drag the table upstage where it blocks the exit.

  HEURTEBISE. But I…

  CLERK. Quiet, you!

  COMMISSIONER. Now , one thing at a time. And don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Where’s the body?

  HEURTEBISE. What body?

  COMMISSIONER. When there’s a crime there’s always a body. Where is it?

  HEURTEBISE. But, Commissioner, there is no body. It was torn to pieces, decapitated, and carried away by those raving women.

  COMMISSIONER. Primo, you are not to insult those ladies. They were performing a holy duty. Secondo, I have five hundred eyewitnesses who will say you’re not telling the truth.

  HEURTEBISE: You mean … ?

  COMMISSIONER. Quiet!

  HEURTEBISE. But I…

  COMMISSIONER, pompously. Quiet, I said. Now listen carefully, young man. This afternoon there was an eclipse of the sun. This eclipse has brought about a reversal of public sentiment in favor of Orpheus. The whole town is in mourning. We’re going to have a state funeral and the authorities want to take possession of his mortal remains. Now it so happens that the Bacchantes saw Orpheus walk out onto the balcony, smeared with blood and crying for help. I know they had come to make trouble for him, but they (and five hundred other witnesses) would have flown to his side if he hadn’t fallen to the ground, dead, right in front of their eyes.

  I repeat. The ladies had organized a mass protest, they were out to make trouble by shouting “Down with Orpheus” when suddenly the window opened and a blood-drenched Orpheus rushed onto the balcony screaming for help. The ladies would have rushed to his side, but it was too late. Orpheus tumbled to the ground, and all five hundred of them (don’t forget that these were women … and women make a lot of noise, but they can’t stand the sight of blood), all five hundred of them took to their heels and ran. And then an eclipse of the sun. In town they interpret the eclipse as a sign that the sun is angry at this lack of respect for one of its former priests. The authorities assembled and went out to meet the crowd returning from Orpheus’ house. Speaking for the women, all five hundred of them, Aglaonice described the strange crime they had witnessed outside that window. The whole town is up in arms. We have riot squads patrolling the streets. And they’ve sent me, the Chief of Police, to interrogate you on the scene of the crime. So you see, I do not expect to be treated like any ordinary cop on the beat. Enough said.

  HEURTEBISE. But I didn’t mean to …

  CLERK. Quiet! Nobody asked your opinion.

  COMMISSIONER. Now, one thing at a time.

  To Clerk.

  Where was I?

  CLERK. The head. May I remind you, sir, about the head?

  COMMISSIONER. Oh yes, the bust of Orpheus.

  To Heurtebise.

  Do you live here?

  HEURTEBISE. I’m a friend of the family.

  COMMISSIONER. The town fathers want a bust of Orpheus to carry in the procession. Is there one in the house?

  Heurtebise walks to the door, closes it. We see the head on the pedestal. The Commissioner and the Clerk turn to look at it.

  COMMISSIONER. It doesn’t look much like him.

  HEURTEBISE. I find it quite beautiful.

  COMMISSIONER. Who’s it by?

  HEURTEBISE. I don’t know.

  COMMISSIONER. Didn’t the artist sign it?

  HEURTEBISE. No.

  COMMISSIONER. Take this down: one bust, presumed to be head of Orpheus.

  HEURTEBISE. It’s Orpheus, all right, I’m sure of that. What’s in doubt is the sculptor.

  COMMISSIONER. Cross that out. Write: one head of Orpheus, artist unknown.

  To Heurtebise.

  Name?

  HEURTEBISE. Pardon?

  CLERK. He asked for your name? Last name first, please.

  COMMISSIONER. A matter of form, that’s all; I know whom I’m dealing with.

  He walks to window and taps the panes.

  Young man, you’re the glazier.

  HEURTEBISE, smiling. I admit it.

  COMMISSIONER. Admit everything, young man. That will be your best defense.

  CLERK. Excuse me, Commissioner, but wouldn’t it save time if we just asked for his papers?

  COMMISSIONER. Give the clerk your papers, young man.

  HEURTEBISE. But I… I don’t have any.

  COMMISSIONER. What’s that?

  CLERK. Oh-oh!

  COMMISSIONER. You’ve been walking around with no papers? Where are they? Where do you live?

  HEURTEBISE. I live … that is, I used to live…

  COMMISSIONER. I don’t care where you used to live. I want your present address.

  HEURTEBISE. Right now I don’t have any.

  COMMISSIONER. No papers. No residence. A clear case of vagrancy. How old are you?

  HEURTEBISE, hesitating, I…

  COMMISSIONER, turning away, eyes to the ceiling, in the manner of a professional cross-examiner. I suppose you do have an age …

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Eighteen.

  CLERK, writing. Seventeen.

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Eighteen.

  COMMISSIONER. Place of birth?

  CLERK. Not so fast, Commissioner. I’ve got to erase something.

  Eurydice appears in the mirror and puts one foot into the room.

  EURYDICE. Heurtebise … Heurtebise … I’ve found out who you are. Come with us, we’re waiting for you.

  Heurtebise hesitates.

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Hurry, Heurtebise. Go with my wife. I’ll answer his questions — even if I have to make something up.

  Heurtebise disappears into the mirror.

  CLERK. I’m ready, Commissioner.

  COMMISSIONER. Place of birth?

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Maisons-Laffitte.

  CLERK. What’s that?

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Maisons-Laffitte. Two f’s and two t’s.

  COMMISSIONER. Well, now that you’ve told us where you were bom, maybe you can remember your name …

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Jean.

  COMMISSIONER. Jean what?

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Jean Cocteau.

  COMMISSIONER. COC …

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. C-O-C-T-E-A-U. Cocteau.

  COMMISSIONER. That’s a name to walk the streets with. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and will tell us where you live …

  ORPHEUS’ HEAD. Number 10, Rue d’Anjou.

  COMMISSIONER. That’s more like it.

  CLERK. Sign here, please …

  COMMISSIONER. Give him the pen.

  To Heurtebise.

  Over here, young man. Over here. He won’t eat you.

  He turns around.

  Well!

  CLERK. What’s wrong?

  COMMISSIONER. Thunder in heaven, the accused has disappeared!

  CLERK. Magic!

  COMMISSIONER. Magic … magic! There’s no such thing.

  He paces the stage.

  I refuse to believe in magic. An eclipse is an eclipse. A table is a table. An accused is an accused. Now, one thing at a time. That door …

  CLERK. Impossible, sir. If he went out that door he’d have jostled my chair.

  COMMISSIONER. That leaves the window.

  CLERK. If he went out that window he’d have walked in front of us. Besides, he was answering questions until you turned around.

  COMMISSIONER. Well then?

  CLERK. I can’t imagine wha
t happened to him.

  COMMISSIONER. Then the murderer must have escaped through a secret door. Anyway, we have our proof. If he ran away that proves he’s the criminal. Tap the walls, see if they’re solid.

  The clerk taps the walls.

  CLERK. They sound solid to me.

  COMMISSIONER. Good. That means he’s hiding somewhere in this room. And I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction of watching us search.

  In a loud voice.

  I have the house surrounded. If he goes into the garden he’ll be caught. If he stays inside he’ll starve to death.

  CLERK. This is scandalous.

  COMMISSIONER. What’s scandalous about it? You see a scandal everywhere you look.

  They leave. When the door opens it covers the bust and the actor substitutes a papier-mâché head for his own on the pedestal. The stage remains empty for a moment. Then the Commissioner returns.

  We forgot the bust of Orpheus.

  CLERK. It wouldn’t do to go back empty-handed.

  COMMISSIONER. There it is. Take it.

  The clerk takes the head off the pedestal and follows the Commissioner from the room.

  The walls of the room fly upward, out of view. Orpheus and Eurydice, guided by Heurtebise, step out of the mirror. They look around, as if seeing the room for the first time. They sit at the table. Eurydice motions to Heurtebise to sit on her right. All smile. They are the image of contentment.

  EURYDICE. Shall I pour the wine, dear?

  ORPHEUS. Not yet. First let’s say grace.

  The three of them stand while Orpheus recites his prayer.

  Dear God, we thank you for having made heaven of our home and for revealing your heaven to us. We thank you for having sent Heurtebise to guide us, and we are ashamed for not having recognized him as our guardian angel. We thank you for having saved Eurydice — since, for love of me, she killed the devil in the form of a horse and died a horrible death. We thank you for having saved me — since I worship poetry and poetry is what you are. Amen.

  They sit down.

  HEURTEBISE. Shall I serve the wine?

  ORPHEUS, respectfully. Let Eurydice do it…

  Eurydice pours him a glass of wine.

  HEURTEBISE. And maybe at last we’ll get something to eat.

  CURTAIN

  THE

  EIFFEL

  TOWER

  WEDDING

  PARTY

  translated by

  DUDLEY FITTS

  PREFACE

  Every work of the poetic order contains what Gide, in his preface to Paludes, so aptly calls “God’s share.” This “Share,” which eludes the poet himself, can surprise him. Such and such a phrase or gesture, which originally meant no more to him than the third dimension means to a painter, has a hidden meaning that each person will interpret in his own way. The true Symbol is never planned: it emerges by itself, so long as the bizarre, the unreal, do not enter into the reckoning.

  In a fairyland, the fairies do not appear. They walk invisibly there. To mortal eyes they can appear only on the terra firma of everyday. The unsophisticated mind is more likely than the others to see the fairies, for it will not oppose to the marvelous the resistance of the hardheaded. I might almost say that the Chief Electrician, with his reflections, has often illuminated a piece for me.

  I have been reading in Antoine’s memoirs of the scandal provoked by the presence on the stage of real quarters of beef and a fountain of real water. But now, thanks to Antoine, we have come to such a pass that the audience is displeased if real objects are not used on the stage, and if it is not subjected to a plot precisely as complex, precisely as tedious, as those from which the theater should serve as a distraction.*

  The Eiffel Tower Wedding Party, because of its candor, was first of all mistaken for a bit of esoteric writing. The mysterious inspires in the public a sort of fear. Here, I renounce mystery. I illuminate everything, I underline everything. Sunday vacuity, human livestock, ready-made expressions, dissociation of ideas into flesh and bone, the fierce cruelty of childhood, the miraculous poetry of daily life: these are my play, so well understood by the young musicians who composed the score for it.

  A remark of the Photographer’s might do well for my epigraph: “Since these mysteries are beyond me, let’s pretend that I arranged them all the time.” This is our motto, par excellence. Your prig always finds a last refuge in responsibility, Thus, for example, he will go on fighting a war after the end has been reached.

  In Wedding Party, God’s share is considerable. To the right and left of the scene the human phonographs (like the ancient Chorus, like the compère and commère of our music-hall stage), describe, without the least “literature,” the absurd action which is unfolded, danced, and pantomimed between them. I say “absurd” because instead of trying to keep this side of the absurdity of life, to lessen it, to arrange it as we arrange the story of an incident in which we played an uncomplimentary part, I accentuate it, I push it forward, I try to paint more truly than the truth.

  The poet ought to disengage objects and ideas from their veiling mists; he ought to display them suddenly, so nakedly and so quickly that they are scarcely recognizable. It is then that they strike us with their youth, as though they had never become official dotards.

  This is the case with commonplaces — old, powerful, generally esteemed after the manner of masterpieces, but whose original beauty, because of long use, no longer surprises us.

  In my play I rejuvenate the commonplace. It is my concern to present it in such a light that it recaptures its teens.

  A generation devoted to obscurity, to jaded realism, does not give way before the shrug of a shoulder. I know that my text has too “obvious ” an air, that it is too readably written, like the alphabets in school. But aren’t we in school? Aren’t we still deciphering the elementary symbols?

  The young music finds itself in an analogous position. It employs a clarity, a simplicity, a good humor, that are new. The ingenuous ear is deceived: it seems to be listening to a café orchestra, but it is as mistaken as would be an eye which could not distinguish between a loud garish material and the same material copied by Ingres.

  In Wedding Party we employ all the popular resources that France will have none of at home, but will approve whenever a musician, native or foreign, exploits them outside.

  Do you think, for example, that a Russian can hear the Pétrouchka just as we do? In addition to the charms of that musical masterpiece he finds there his childhood, his Sundays in Petrograd, the lullabies of nurses.

  Why should I deny myself this double pleasure? I assure you that the orchestra of The Eiffel Tower Wedding Party moves me more than any number of Russian or Spanish dances. It is not a question of honor rolls. I think I have sufficiently exalted Russian, German, and Spanish musicians (to say nothing of Negro orchestras) to permit myself this cri du coeur.

  It is curious to observe the French everywhere repulsing bitterly whatever is truly French and embracing unreservedly the local alien spirit. It is curious, too, that in the case of Wedding Party an audience at a dress rehearsal should have been outraged by a classic blockhead character whose presence in the wedding cortege was neither more nor less controversial than the presence of the commonplaces in the text.

  Every living work of art has its own ballyhoo, and only this is seen by those who stay outside. Now in the case of new work, this first impression so shocks, irritates, angers the spectator that he will not enter. He is repelled from its true nature by its face, by the unfamiliar outward appearance which distracts him as would a clown grimacing at the door. It is this phenomenon which deceives even those critics who are least slaves to convention. They forget that they are at a performance which must be followed just as attentively as a “popular success.” They think that they are watching a sort of street carnival. A conscientious critic who would never think of writing, “The Duchess kisses the Steward” instead of “The Steward presents a letter to the Duchess” in
his review of one of these “legitimate ” dramas, will not hesitate, reviewing Wedding Party, to make the Bicycle Girl or the Collector come out of the camera — which is absurd enough. Not the organized absurdity, the desirable, the good absurdity, but simply the absurd. And he can never see the difference. Alone among the critics, M. Bidou explained to the readers of Débats that my piece was “a composition of active wit.”*

  The action of my piece is pictorial, though the text itself is not. The fact is that I am trying to substitute a “theater poetry” for the usual “poetry in the theater.” “Poetry in the theater” is a delicate lace, invisible at any considerable distance. “Theater poetry” should be a coarse lace, a lace of rigging, a ship upon the sea. Wedding Party can be as terrifying as a drop of poetry under the microscope. The scenes fit together like the words of a poem.

  The secret of theatrical success is this: you must set a decoy at the door so that part of your audience can amuse themselves there while the rest are inside. Shakspere, Molière, and the profound Chaplin know this well.

  After the hisses, confusion, and applause which marked the first performance of my piece by the Swedish dancers at the Champs-Elysées, I should have set it down as a failure if the audience of the “informed ” had not given place to the real public. This public always gives me a hearing.

  After the performance a lady complained to me that the piece did not carry beyond the footlights. Seeing that I was astonished by her criticism (for masks and megaphones are more effective beyond the footlights than ordinary voices and make-up), she went on to explain that she so greatly admired the ceiling of Maurice Denis, who decorated the theater, that she had engaged the highest seats in the house — which necessarily lessened her command of what was going on on the stage.

  I cite this as an example of the criticism offered by that little group with neither intelligence nor sympathy, the little group that the newspapers call “the élite.”

  Moreover, our senses are so unused to reacting together that the critics — even my publishers — found it hard to believe that this complicated machinery did not entail two or three pages of text. This faulty perspective must also be blamed upon the absence of the development of ideas: a development that the ear customarily perceives, since the symbolic drama and the drama à thèse. (Jarry’s Ubu and Apollinaire’s Les mamelles de Tirésias are both symbolic dramas and dramas à thèse).