PREFACE
The astounding death of Ludwig II of
Bavaria is very well-known, and the enigma it presents and the innumerable
texts attempting to resolve it. It seemed to me, rereading some of these texts,
that it would be interesting and auspicious for the great work of the theater,
to invent an historical news flash of that order and then to write a play to
reveal its secret.
Reading these books on the king’s death
plunged me back in the atmosphere of that family who, unable to create
masterpieces, wished to be them, and even if they ended as awfully as could be,
as they must.
I had to invent the story, the place,
the characters, the leading figures which could distract and satisfy the taste
for recognizing the public prefers to knowing, doubtless because it
requires less outlay of attention.
The fine study by Remy de Gourmont in
the Literary Portraits gave me the style of my queen. She should have
the easy pride, the grace, the fire, the courage, the elegance, the sense of
destiny, of the empress Elizabeth of Austria. I borrowed one or two phrases
that are attributed to her.
The true misfortune of these princes,
superior to their task, is they are rather ideas than beings. Besides it often
happens that another idea kills them. I thought then of presenting two ideas in
confrontation and the necessity they find themselves in to take on flesh. An
anarchistically-minded queen, a regally-minded anarchist, if the crime waits,
if they talk, if it’s not the knife in the back on the pier at Lake Geneva, our
queen will not take long to become a woman, not long will our anarchist be in becoming
a man. They betray their causes to make one of them. They become a star-configuration,
or better still a meteor which flames a second and disappears.
For some time I have sought to know the
causes of a certain degeneracy of the drama, of a failure of the active
theater in favor of a theater of talk and decoration. I found them in cinematography,
which on the one hand causes the public to see heroes played by young artists,
on the other accustoms these young artists to speak softly and move as little
as possible. This brought about that the very foundations of theatrical
conventions have been shaken, the great players have disappeared who with their
mannerisms, their voices, their masklike faces of old animals, their mighty
lungs, their own legends, formed the indispensable relief against the sloping
boards and long footlights which devour nearly everything. The old Orestes, the
old Hermiones have gone out of fashion, more’s the pity, and lacking caryatids
to bear them up, the great roles have also disappeared. We have instead substituted,
without even being aware of it, for their speech talking and production values.
Talking and decoration have thus acquired a position the Sarah Bernhardts, the
de Maxes, the Réjanes, the Mounet-Sullys, the Lucien Guitrys never dreamed of. On
the boards where these ancestors evolved, the décor took care of itself
and never spoke louder than they did.
That is why I so much admired the Richard
III of the Old Vic Theater in which, from the way the women walked to
Laurence Olivier’s manner of dragging his foot and putting his hair up, everything
was a discovery, the backdrops looked like old backdrops, the costumes old
costumes, the actors conventional actors, although they were not at all and the
merest detail had been invented to show off the genius of an actor who kept his
relief from one end to the other, without flattening the acting of his comrades.
The appearance of the tragicomedian is
the real novelty of the theater of our time. By enlarging to extremes the
bounds of comedy he joins again without ridicule the sublime grimaces the cinema
has deprived us, Mr. Jean Marais gave us its premiere example in Les Parents
terribles. in which he decided on an acting style free of taste, in
short living, shouting, suffering, moving the same way he believed his
illustrious predecessors did.
One other example of this undertaking
was the Britannicus in which he invented an unforgettable Nero.
Without Edwige Feuillere, worthy of the
greatest roles, without Marais, who has proved himself, I could never have
dared to stage this mechanism exhausting for modem actors.
P.S. —I should add that a great role has
nothing to do with a play. Writing plays that have great roles is one of Racine’s
feats. The ladies Sarah Bernhardt and Réjane, gentlemen de Max and Mounet-Sully
won fame by a multitude of mediocre plays in which great roles were only
pretexts for showing off their genius. To marry these two strengths—the humane
play and the great role—is this not the way to save theater and return its efficacity
to it?
The undertaking is dangerous. It is true
that the true public stays away from a too-intellectual theater. But a weighty elite
fallen from the habit of violent action, lulled by phrases, may take this
trumpetcall reveille quite badly and mistake it for melodrama.
No matter. It must exist.
P.P.S. —I emphasize the psychology more
or less heraldic of the characters no more is psychology properly
speaking than fabulous animals (Lion carrying its banner. Unicorn seeing itself
in a mirror) look like real ones.