PARIS LETTER
475
imperialists, was: are we going to be cheated of Indo-China
too.
At
best, this mood is expressed in a kind of tired irony, or in the bitter
mockery of the
Canard enchaine;
at worst, it becomes a querulous sus–
ceptibility which proves as nothing else does how incapable the French
have become of thinking in tem1s of the whole wide world. " I am a
French writer," a young dramatist told me the other day, shaking his
finger under my nose. "How do you think I feel when our representatives
have to fight, at San Francisco, for the acceptance of French as one
of the official languages of the conference?"
(As a matter of fact, this "fight" never really took place. It was
invented, practically out of the whole cloth, by the French press.)
This fellow bored me stiff. H e sounded so exactly like ten thousand
others I've listened to in the last two years. I murmured something about
it not making a great deal of difference.
"Difference!" he spluttered. "The language of Racine! I sometimes
wonder whether it's worth the trouble writing at all any more!"
So far as I can see, the October elections can only institutionalize the
basic split between east and west, and so consecrate the political weakness
of the country: most voters will also be voting for or against the pre–
ponderant influence of Stalinist Russia, for or against the leadership
of the United States. The Socialists, of course, have been much heartened
by the victory of British Labor, though in any case they feel closer to
the Democracies, capitalist or not, than to Stalin-Djugashvili's empire.
The Communists are complaining that de Gaulle, in forcefully expressing
his preference on the constituent assembly's powers, is turning the refe–
rendum into a plebiscite. Which is indeed the case. But there is reason
to doubt a.) that de Gaulle's intervention will be sufficient to stem the
tide toward a sovereign unicameral assembly and b.) whether either
Socialists or Communists will obtain a sufficient majority to give the
country a unified government.
I got out of the hospital too late to take in any of last season's
theatre, with the exception of the Vieux Colombier's remarkable pro–
duction of
Murder in the Cathedral,
which is pushing bravely on through
the summer. I went several times to see Gordon Craig, in his wonderful
workshop on the rue Ampere: the old man is in straitened circum–
stances, though he lives surrounded by priceless things (and I should ap–
preciate it if someone could suggest what we might do to help him).
In the absence of Serge Lifar, who doesn't dare show his face in a Parisian
theatre, the most interesting event of the dance season was the emergence
of Roland Petit, under the auspices of Coctcau and Boris Kochno, with
a curtain by Picasso and scenery by Brassai. In short, a great deal of
tralala, notably in
R endez-vous,
a ballet by Jacques Prevert, the poet and
cineast ; in the course of all this a narrator reads a fragment from Prevert,
and one sees some very inspired and erotic dancing by Petit and Marina
