Cendrars: [Say out loud as he looks through the notebook. I’m going to war, Marc.
[He flips through pages.
God, how I wish you were here.
[Sighs and stops on a passage. He reads it silently but it is heard in Chagall’s voice.
Chagall’s voice reading:
“…like a rain, unexpected, crossed through, the meaning of your words whips us. You surely dream of watercolors! A new face of pictures, poets, bitter destinies. All of us, about whom you ever said a word.”
Cendrars turns to a page that holds several letters, stuffed inside. He opens one. He smokes again and reads silently.
(Actual quotes from letters of correspondence between Chagall and a school friend, Fragments of Letters*.)
Cendrar’s voice reading:
…How do you live? Is it true that you have a glass roof – a lot of light. I am happy (God knows about what). In part, because I shall certainly be in Paris. At what boundary did our strength expire, where did it end, the last resonance of our smoke-filled kiss at the railroad station.
I only feel that for me, you are a dear, from the past (you were necessary), you have passed, you are almost nonexistent.
This feeling may also be in Paris. But I know - and this is forever - I will love you, perhaps did love and love now. I prostrate myself to a worthy person, I demean myself, wherever and however I stand. I shall not conceal one word and shall humble myself before him.
[Cendrars’ eyes scan down the page.
Cendrar’s voice reading: Yours, Viktor Mekler.
[Cendrars opens a second letter.
Cendrar’s voice reading:
…It seems to me, no my friend, I did not ‘change’. I guarantee you, no one among us, in general, among all people, no one can essentially change. I find in myself terribly much of ‘such, you know’, feminine. And though I know that there is much of ‘such, you know’, feminine in you too… I am still afraid to send you so much written trash. In Paris, there are so many misfortunes along with all the best… Love, or is it Hate? Viktor Mekler.
[Cendrars opens another letter. He rubs his cheek and mouth, down to his chin. He looks nervous. Sighs. Continues reading.
Cendrar’s voice reading: Shoot me right after the first line for daring to write to you (so many times I started and did not finish). Death sentence. What else could I do? If I had done it at least out of deep hatred. I feel that at this moment my lines would not flow for anyone as freely as for you. But for you too this is exclusively the first thing and the further I move the more I feel this ‘indisposition’ - inside me it becomes desolate and withers away, like fainting in a lukewarm bath (no harm in recalling Marat here).
I don’t want to write to you about anything, anything, but do you want my soul? It doesn’t exist. And you cannot see it (and there is nothing to see). One must know…
[Several tears form in Cendrars’ eyes. He wipes one with his hand. He folds the letter. Looks at the painted words on the bare walls, opens another letter, reads.
Cendrar’s voice reading: I shall not invoke any curses. They have no impact on you. I only want to tell you, perhaps for the last time, that you treat me unjustly as a swine.
After 6 – 7 years of [sic] friendship, you could have been softer…
[Cendrars cries. Lays back, crying. He rolls to his side and holds his head in his hands, knees bend upward and he cries and sobs.
[The viewpoint goes out the window over Marevna at the Metro Station, and then down to the city street where she is standing. A Market girl passes by her. Marevna notices the way she is dressed and stares; pleated skirt, black stockings, low-neck blouse. She pushes a cart of fruits and vegetables.* She hums. Marevna continues to stare, between glances up at Rivera’s window.
Act VI, Scene 2: Preparing Men for War
Setting: Interior. Medical Building. Paris.
Time: Day. December. 1914.
Cendrars, Modi, Kisling, Leger, Lhote, Canudo, Max Jacob and Appollinaire stand in a long line of men, near the front. The line runs through a dingy, white-walled hallway and out the front door, down the street.
Modi: [Watches a nurse walk by. I don’t really want to go to war. Do you?
Cendrars: No man ever wants to go to war. It’s a duty, a responsibility.
Modi: Well, it’s not my responsibility. I didn’t start this war.
Max Jacob: “Every artist dreams of an absolutely free life and freedom to create.”
Canudo: Poets, at war. This’ll be great. (sarcasm.)
Lhote: I haven’t ever even held a gun. Have you?
Canudo: [Laughs. No, come to think of it, I haven’t…
Cendrars: The French Foreign Legion has a good training program… you won’t just be stuck out on the battle field without any knowledge… War is strategy, not just shooting at people.
Apollinaire: War, Cendrars, is hell. There isn’t a strategy to hell. It’s a myth, a concept, a smoke screen… as if there is some science to the madness. Most who’d be been at the front line of a battle field and lived to tell, are aware that it is pure chaos… The illusion that intelligent men are able to control the chaos of war through stratagem is a fallacy; since the truth says, if true intelligence prevailed, there would be no war at all. Anyone who’s lost someone there knows this. But delude yourself if you wish, because we’re most likely going, and even if we are not chosen, from the frequency of the bomb raids, we’ll be in one already.
Canudo: Putting it that way, I suppose I’d rather have a gun in my hands than not…
Kisling: Good point. I’d agree to that.
Modi: I could survive here, much easier than on some front line somewhere. And who is it my responsibility to protect anyway? I’m from Italy. I have no relatives here…
Canudo: Young, low-income, immigrant, and an artist… Where are you going to go? That’s how the government
looks at you… a statistic, a number… no matter that you are one of the most talented young artists in this city, no matter… you are a statistic, and your inclusion in this particular statistic makes you one of the first rounds of men the French Foreign Legion would like to enlist.
Modi: There’s got to be a way out of it…
Leger: There isn’t. You could offer to paint the doctor… and his nurse.
Kisling: Offer to paint his nurse in the nude!
Modi: I’d paint the entire god-damned Foreign Legion if I had to…
Canudo: In the nude?
Modi: …I don’t want to go.
Lhote: Wow, you’re really nervous. Calm down. Here. [Hands him a handkerchief.
You’re breaking out in a sweat.
Cendrars: Relax, man. We all gotta die sometime.
Lhote: Shut up, Cendrars.
Setting Change: Interior. Examination Room.
Modi walks into the examination room. The doctor shuts the door. Modi smiles at the nurse in the room.
Doctor: Take off your shirt, please. And sit up on the table.
[Modi takes off his shirt and hands it to the nurse. Sits and takes a shallow breath.
Doctor: You’re a little nervous, I hear.
Modi: Yeah. More than a little. I don’t believe in war. I didn’t start it.
Doctor: Well, I’m not here to discuss your faith.
Modi: It’s not religious, I just… Doctor, I’m an artist. A painter. Modigliani… ever hear of me?
Doctor: Hmmm… yes, actually, I have. I frequent the Salons. Had an exhibit there recently, didn’t you?
Modi: Yes. Yes I did. I just can’t imagine… I can’t imagine going to war, doctor, I just can’t.
Doctor: [Holds up the stethescope. Makes you nervous.
Modi: Very.
Doctor: Breathe. Deep breath. Exhale.
Modi: Ever have your portrait painted?
Doctor: No. No I haven’t. Deepest breath you can take now. Exhale again. Thank you. Tilt your head back, please…
Modi: Your wife?
Se
tting Change: Interior. Hallway line in front of Examination Room.
Modi exits the doctor’s office, smiling.
Lhote: What?! You got out of it, didn’t you?!
Canudo: What happened? What did he say?
Modi: [Holds up a piece of paper. Does a little dance step. Predisposition to tuberculosis! Yeah!
Lhote: Yeah!... are you kidding me?
[Modi hugs Max Jacob. Apollinaire pats him on the back.
Nurse: Blaise Cendrars?
[He enters the exam room. The door closes.
Apollinaire: Fantastic news!
Lhote: What’d you say?
Modi: I’ll tell you. Talk to him about being an artist.
[Doctor hadn’t ever heard of Lhote. Lhote had to go.
[Cendrars exits the doctor’s office. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.
Cendrars: Looks like I’m going. But, I figured I would be. I can’t sit around pretending to write while half this city is being blown up… all this beauty, in this city… I feel like lashing someone every time I hear those bombs, in that shelter, anyway. May as well.
[Canudo pats him on the back.
Canudo: See you tonight, then? Maybe our last Friday night at my place. When do you leave?
Cendrars: I leave in two days, for the training. I’ll definitely be there tonight. Probably drinking and dancing these two days, for sure. See you tonight.
[Lights his cigarette in the open doorway to the building. Waves his right arm. Leaves.
Nurse: [Opens the door. Reads from a list. Andre Lhote!
Lhote: Ah Shit, my turn.
Modi: Remember what I told you to say.
Lhote: Yeah. Okay. [Lhote enters the doctor’s office. The door shuts.
Doctor: Take off your shirt, please. And sit up on the table. [Holds up the stethoscope.
Breathe. Deep breath. Exhale.
[Lhote breathes, deeply.
Doctor: You seem relaxed.
Lhote: I do? Is that good? To be relaxed?... You know, I’m an artist.
Doctor: Mm- hmm. Tilt your head back, please…
Lhote: I exhibit at the Salon des Independents, and I…
Doctor: You’re healthy and fit. You can put your shirt on now.
Lhote: Healthy? Don’t I have some kind of ailment, a predisposition?
Doctor: Not one.
Lhote: But, wait! You didn’t even listen to me. I have an art career here… I can’t go. I’ve got a bad leg. You didn’t even look at my legs.
Doctor: Nurse, see him out.
[He exits through a back door.
Nurse: Sir, please. We have a long line to see today.
Lhote: [Whispers. Write me up one of those voucher papers, can’t you? I can’t go.
Nurse: [Shakes her head no. Opens the door and touches his shoulder. Have a good day.
Lhote: [At the doorway. Fuck!
Modi: No!
Lhote: [Glares at Modi. Glares at Canudo as he starts to speak, tears welling up in Lhote’s eyes. Shut up.
[Lhote exits. Modi shakes his head and follows him out the door.
Nurse: [Reads from the list. Max Jacob! Come in, please.
[The door shuts.
Setting Change: Interior. Examination Room.
Max is sitting on the doctor’s table with his shirt off. He is muttering prayers. The doctor touches the stethoscope to Max’s chest.
Max Jacob: Oh god! Oh…God!!
Doctor: Is that cold?
Max Jacob: No. Ohhh, no.
Doctor: Do you have any ailments that you suffer from?
Max Jacob: I suffer, doctor, from the difficulties of life. From the temptations of the devil. [Repeats words of the prayer very quietly, then says loudly:
“Every artist dreams of an absolutely free life and freedom to create.”*
Doctor: Can you take this out, please? I’d like to look in your eyes. When you suffer… do you ever have ‘fits’?
Max Jacob: Often, doctor. Quite often.
Doctor: Hmmm… Yes. Tilt your head back a little further, please.
Max Jacob: Ohhh!....
Doctor: Feeling a little shaky? [Max nods.
Why don’t you lay down, then. Nurse, can you help me lay this down, please?
Setting Change. Interior Hallway. Outside of the Exam Room.
When Max exits the exam room, he appears to be sad, even crying. He nods to the remaining group in line and crosses himself.
Max Jacob: I’m not going. I’m not fit enough. Good luck, friends.
Nurse: [Reads from the list. Guilliame Apollinaire? Did I say that correctly? Apollinaire? [Apollinaire enters the doctor’s office. The door shuts.
Act VI, Scene 3: No Way a Worse Ending.
Setting: Exterior. Metro Station Sidewalk Corner.
Time. Same Day. Early Evening. End of the Work Day.
Market girl: What are you staring at?! What’ve I got that’s so funny? Don’t know, eh? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve got! I’ve got a brother at the war, and I work, I do, you whore! Codfish! Are you looking for drugs? I bet you’re a foreigner! What country are you from?*
Marevna: Russia.
Market girl: I knew it! Another one of those dirty Russians! [Let’s go of her barrow and runs up to Marevna. Shouts in her face.
Dirty Russian whore!*
[Marevna tries to push her aside to get away, but the Market girl grabs her by the shoulders, pulls off her cape and hat.
Marevna: Stop! You’re tearing me to pieces.
Market girl: Trash! Traitor! Why don’t we take all the Russians still in Paris and break them?
Break their backs!*
[She slaps her across both cheeks. Marevna’s head hits the wall. She seems dizzy or out of it for a moment. A policeman steadies Marevna, keeps her from falling.
Policeman: Don’t take it to heart, Mademoiselle. She’s drunk. I know her well.*
Market girl: It’s a bit thick in the head, isn’t she? For hitting me like that?! Calling me names - and she smells!
Policeman: Shut up, you! Off with you!*
[Marevna notices people looking at her. Tears begin to roll down her pink, hot cheeks. She hurries off and into the door of La Cremerie. She cries. Her lip is split. A waiter brings her some water and gives her his handkerchief for the cut.
Act VI, Scene 4: An Inner Wild Cause of Lonely.
(Painting Inspiration: Portrait of Marevna.)
Setting: Interior. The Riveras’ Studio.
Time: Night. 8 pm.
Angelina dresses and puts on lip stick in a mirror. Diego holds the baby and smokes his pipe.
Diego: Where’s Marie? Why can’t she watch the baby?
Angelina: She’s coming with us.
Diego: Madame S. doesn’t even know her.
Angelina: [Appears drunk or tipsy. Slams the lipstick case down on the vanity table. Turns around.
She wants to come, Diego!
Diego: Fine. [Long pause. So, he’ll be asleep by then?
Angelina: I said he will, didn’t I? I gave him his medicine and he’ll be able to sleep through the night. The doctor says I can feel confident that a child of ‘such good breeding can bear popular treatment’.*
Diego: What about Marev-…
Angelina: [Nearly screaming. With my baby?
Don’t say it! Don’t, Diego. Shut up! I can’t… I can’t hear her name, not near the mention of my baby… no!… Where’s Marie? When are we going?
Diego: Calm, please. The baby is drifting off to sleep. I’ll go and fetch Marie. Here, put him in his cradle.
Angelina: Me?! I’m getting dressed… I can’t, I can’t. [Waves her arms nervously You. Please.
Diego: Shhsh. [Puts the baby in the cradle, pulls on a blanket. You’ll need another blanket, bebe…
Here. [He finds another and puts it on the baby. Kisses his fingers and touches the baby’s lips.
Sleep well.
[He sings the baby a portion of a lullaby, quietly,
in Spanish.
Angelina: [Undresses. That’s pretty, Diego. I like that. Keep singing. The baby likes that.
Setting Change: Interior. La Ruche Hallway. Outside of the Riveras’ Studio.
Marevna holds her arms. Looks at her feet in front of Diego’s doorway. She shifts and waits. She knocks on the door. Angelina opens the door. Marevna’s face is sullen. She holds her arms. She is pale. Angelina sighs.
Angelina: What do you want?
Marevna: Is Diego here?
Angelina: What do you care? You have some nerve, coming here… There isn’t anything for you here.. he won’t want you…
[Diego hears their voices and comes to the door. Looks furiously at both of them.
Marevna: I’m ill, Diego! And alone… please… Why haven’t you come to see me? Aren’t you allowed out anymore?
Angelina: You disgusting little…
Diego: Silence!
Marevena: I’m ill! I’m sorry… [Begins to cry.
Diego: I’ll come at once. Go! Now.
[Marevna runs down the stairs. The door slams on Angelina’s voice:
Angelina: I can’t believe she ….
[Outside in the cold air, Marevna leans against a building to catch her breath. Her face is covered in sweat. The fog of her breath is seen in the air.
Setting Change: Interior. Marevna’s Studio. Same Night. 9:30 pm.
Marevna flops onto her bed. She is sweaty, pale. She is crying. Diego enters. Marevna sighs with relief, sits up against the wall.
Marevna: I’m sorry. So sorry. [Marevna slips into a fit of ‘pleursy’* as Diego begins to shout and rage.
Diego: I could not believe my eyes! I can’t Have you upsetting Angelina. How could you be so selfish?… I… Oh god… Marevna?! [He sits on the bed.It is this bad?
Chagall: 12-Sided Hallway Page 8
