Jean Cocteau, infant terrible of Paris
was first supported early in his career for publication
in the NRF (Nouvelle Revue Francais) by
Andre Gide (a founding editor). Privately and
publicly they were friends and enemies, yet their
common interests nourished a friendship that endured
for forty years. However strong the sentiments that
caused sporadic quarrels between them, they were
constantly present in each other's lives from the
first time they met, in 1912.
This excerpt is taken from Cocteau's book
Souvenir Portraits (Paragon House, 1990)
I have received quite a few open letters. In Gide's I was described as a squirrel and Gide as a bear at the foot of the tree. I jumped over steps, and from branch to branch. In short, I was being reprimanded, and publicly. I told him I intended answering the open letter. He snorted, agreed, told me that nothing was richer or more instructive than such exchanges.
It goes without saying that Jacques Riviere refused to publish my answer in the Nouvelle Revue Francaise, where Gide had published his letter. I confess mine was severe. Gide had no profit to draw from my answer except to answer it, which he did. He loved notes and counternotes, answers to answers. He replied to mine in Ecrits Nouveaux, which had printed it.
I confess that I did not read it. I wanted to protect myself against a reflex action and a terrifying deluge of open letters. Time went by. Montparnasse and Cubism came. Gide kept out of the way. He could forget offenses, especially those he wrote. He telephoned me and asked to take charge of ... let us say, Olivier. His disciple Olivier was bored with the books in Gide's library. I would introduce him to the Cubists, to the new music, to the circus where he loved the bands, acrobats, and clowns.
I was cautious in carrying out this order. I knew Gide and his quasi-feminine jealousy. Young Olivier found it amusing to irritate Gide by constantly singing my praises, by declaring he hardly ever left my side and that he knew Potomak by heart. I did not know this until 1942, just before leaving for Egypt. Gide confessed and told me he had wanted to kill me (sic). It was because of that story he tried to attack me in his journal. At least, he gave it as the reason.
He did not state that I had a hard time convincing him to read Proust. He called him a society writer. Gide was doubtless angry at me for having convinced him, when Proust's cramped handwriting appeared everywhere in the Nouvelle Revue Francaise.
On the day of Proust's death, Gide whispered to me at Gallimard's: "All I have here now is a mere bust."
In his person Gide combined Jean-Jacques Rousseau botanist and Grimm at Mme. D'Epinay's. He reminded me of that endless harassing hunt after a terrified animal. He had both the fear of the one and the tricks of the others. The pack and the prey were mingled in him.
The posterior of Jean-Jacques was the moon of Freud rising. Such exhibitionism was not distasteful to Gide. But if you passed around him, you found Voltaire's smile.(note 1)
note 1 : When I asked Genet why he refused to meet Gide, he answered, "A man is a defendant or a judge. I do not like judges who lean over amorously toward the defendants."