The Balcony

A Play

Jean Genet

• Verlag: Grove Press
• Jahr: 1994
• ISBN:
  9780802194299
• Thema: Literatura
• Thema: Arte dramático europeo

A masterpiece of twentieth-century drama by the iconic author of Our Lady of the Flowers: "ingenious, intellectually exciting, and, yes, still quite shocking" ( The New York Times ). In the midst of a city ravaged by violent rebellion, a brothel caters to the elaborate role-playing fantasies of men from all walks of life. A gas company worker pretends to be a bishop while, in the next room, another customer dons a judge's robe to savor the erotic pleasures of meting out justice—and punishment. These perverse costumed masquerades parody the larger, more violent dramas of the outside world. But as the anarchic political struggle threatens to topple society, even the revolutionaries come to believe that illusions are preferable to reality. A poet, novelist, playwright, and outlaw, Jean Genet helped define French existential theater of the mid-twentieth century. Deeply influential and widely acclaimed, Genet's The Balcony presents an unrelentingly profound and critical reflection of contemporary society.

SCENE ONE

On the ceiling, a chandelier, which will remain the same in each scene. The set seems to represent a sacristy, formed by three blood-red, cloth folding-screens. The one at the rear has a built-in door. Above, a huge Spanish crucifix, drawn in trompe l'oeil. On the right wall, a mirror, with a carved gilt frame, reflects an unmade bed which, if the room were arranged logically, would be in the first rows of the orchestra. A table with a large jug. A yellow armchair. On the chair, a pair of black trousers, a shirt and a jacket. THE BISHOP, in mitre and gilded cope, is sitting in the chair. He is obviously larger than life. The role is played by an actor wearing tragedian's cothurni about twenty inches high. His shoulders, on which the cope lies, are inordinately broadened so that when the curtain rises he looks huge and stiff, like a scarecrow. He wears garish make-up. At the side, a woman, rather young, highly made up and wearing a lace dressing-gown, is drying her hands with a towel. Standing by is another woman, IRMA. She is about forty, dark, severe-looking, and is wearing a black tailored suit and a hat with a tight string (like a chin-strap).

THE BISHOP (sitting in the chair, middle of the stage. In a low but fervent voice) : In truth, the mark of a prelate is not mildness or unction, but the most rigorous intelligence. Our heart is our undoing. We think we are master of our kindness; we are the slaves of a serene laxity. It is something quite other than intelligence that is involved. . . . (He hesitates.) It may be cruelty. And beyond that cruelty—and through it—a skilful, vigorous course towards Absence. Towards Death. God? (Smiling)I can read your mind! (To his mitre)Mitre, bishop's bonnet, when my eyes close for the last time, it is you that I shall see behind my eyelids, you, my beautiful gilded hat . . . you, my handsome ornaments, copes, laces. . . .

IRMA (bluntly) : An agreement's an agreement. When a deal's been made. . . .

(Throughout the scene she hardly moves. She is standing very near the door.)

THE BISHOP (very gently, waving her aside with a gesture) : And when the die is cast. . . .

IRMA : No. Twenty. Twenty and no nonsense. Or I'll lose my temper. And that's not like me. . . . Now, if you have any difficulties. . . .

THE BISHOP (curtly, and tossing away the mitre) : Thank you.

IRMA : And don't break anything. We need that. (To the woman) Put it away.

(She lays the mitre on the table, near the jug.)

THE BISHOP (after a deep sigh) : I've been told that this house is going to be besieged. The rebels have already crossed the river.

IRMA : There's blood everywhere. . . . You can slip round behind the Archbishop's Palace. Then, down Fishmarket Street. . . .

(Suddenly a scream of pain, uttered by a woman off-stage.)

IRMA (annoyed) : But I told them to be quiet. Good thing I remembered to cover the windows with padded curtains.

(Suddenly amiable, insidious)

Well, and what was it this evening? A blessing? A prayer? A mass? A perpetual adoration?

THE BISHOP (gravely) : Let's not talk about that now. It's over. I'm concerned only about getting home. . . . You say the city's splashed with blood. . . .

THE WOMAN : There was a blessing, Madame. Then, my confession. . . .

IRMA : And after that?

THE BISHOP : That'll do!

THE WOMAN : That was all. At the end, my absolution.

IRMA : Won't anyone be able to witness it? Just once?

THE BISHOP (frightened) : No, no. Those things must remain secret, and they shall. It's indecent enough to talk about them while I'm being undressed. Nobody. And all the doors must be closed. Firmly closed, shut, buttoned, laced, hooked, sewn. . . .

IRMA : I merely asked. . . .

THE BISHOP : Sewn, Madame.

IRMA (annoyed) : You'll allow me at least, won't you, to feel a little uneasy . . . professionally? I said twenty.

THE BISHOP (his voice suddenly grows clear and sharp, as if he were awakening. He displays a little annoyance) : We didn't tire ourselves. Barely six sins, and far from my favourite ones.

THE WOMAN : Six, but deadly ones! And it was a job finding those.

THE BISHOP (uneasy) : What? You mean they were false?

THE WOMAN : They were real, all right! I mean it was a job committing them. If only you realized what it takes, what a person has to go through, in order to reach the point of disobedience.

THE BISHOP : I can imagine, my child. The order of the world is so lax that you can do as you please there—or almost. But if your sins were false, you may say so now.

IRMA : Oh no! I can hear you complaining already the next time you come. No. They were real. (To the woman) Untie his laces. Take off his shoes. And when you dress him, be careful he doesn't catch cold. (To the Bishop) Would you like a toddy, a hot drink?

THE BISHOP : Thank you. I haven't time. I must be going. (Dreamily)

Yes, six, but deadly ones!

IRMA : Come here, we'll undress you!

THE BISHOP (pleading, almost on his knees) : No, no, not yet.

IRMA : It's time. Come on! Quick! Make it snappy!

(While they talk, the women undress him. Or rather they merely remove pins and untie cords that seem to secure the cope, stole and surplice.)

THE BISHOP (to the woman) : About the sins, you really did commit them?

THE WOMAN : I did.

THE BISHOP : You really made the gestures? All the gestures?

THE WOMAN: I did.

THE BISHOP : When you moved towards me with your face forward, was it really aglow with the light of the flames?

THE WOMAN : It was.

THE BISHOP : And when my ringed hand came down on your forehead, forgiving it. . . .

THE WOMAN : It was.

THE BISHOP : And when my gaze pierced your lovely eyes?

THE WOMAN : It was.

IRMA : Was there at least a glimmer of repentance in her lovely eyes, my Lord?

THE BISHOP (standing up) : A fleeting glimmer...