The Green Fever

In French high cultural circles, mere excellence is not considered the whole guarantee of immortality. The distinguished men who at any one time occupy the 40 chairs of the famed Academie Franc,aise enjoy a specific patent of immortality that dates back to Cardinal Richelieu. But many of France's greatest writers have been barred from the academy for reasons that had little to do with their greatness. The academy's mythical "41st chair," reserved by legend for those who never made the grade, has been occupied by such greats as Jean-Jacques Rousseau, whose loose living and houseful of illegitimate children were too much for the academicians; Encyclopedist Denis Diderot, who was a deal too outspoken; and plump, ill-dressed, Bohemian Honore de Balzac, who seemed just too much of a mess.

Last week the 34 living members of the ancient Academie took a bold step in amending its reputation for crusty conservatism by receiving into their august midst a literary figure as contentious as he is unpredictable. The new member: Jean Cocteau, poet, painter, novelist, dancer, movie producer (Blood of a Poet), playwright, poseur and talker. Now 66 and still savoring his reputation as France's esthetic enfant terrible, Cocteau in times past has taken a gamin's delight in cocking a snook at the stuffy academicians. But things change, he explained, and "one wants to be oneself and yet the opposite." Like others before him, nonconformist Cocteau had succumbed to "the Green Fever," the desire to wear the gold-embroidered green uniform of the academy's Immortals.

Humble Pie. "When our number is 40, they mock and tease; when we're 39, they're down on their knees," runs an old academy jingle. However talented and rebellious, aspirants to this particular Olympus must first appease the gods-in-being by eating a certain amount of literary humble pie. An applicant must beg for admission in terms as carefully prescribed as an ancient Hittite ritual; his friends must sedulously woo the Immortals in his behalf. "Is your poetry any good?" snapped a windy old Immortal at Victor Hugo when he was seeking entrance. "I have been told, sir," answered Hugo, "that it is as fine as your speeches, but I don't believe it."

Once past the barrier, the life of an Immortal is less taxing. It consists largely in collecting an annual stipend of 60,000 francs ($171) and showing up every Thursday in the Academie chamber beneath the great dome of the Institut de France, there to pursue in quiet deliberation tasks ordained by Richelieu 320 years ago. Chief of these tasks is that of "keeping the French language elegant" by constant revision of an official dictionary. It is slow work. The Immortals, though their average age is 73, are in no hurry. The last revised edition of their dictionary was finished in 1932, and they are only up to the B for braise in the new version. Naturally, one must not rush headlong into the definition of words as delicate as bouillabaisse (should it, or should it not, include a slice of floating stale bread?), or to the admission of such Americanisms as bluff (accepted). So, with only the deadline of immortality to achieve, the academicians ponder the verities, polish their language and, each year, award a prize to some young Frenchwoman who, "born in comfort, but forced by Fortune to work, prefers a life of honest and honorable poverty to that offered women who choose wealth, to the detriment of their honor."

"Astonish Me!" Last week, as Cocteau took his place at last in the charmed circle of immortality, devoted crowds of the avant-garde gathered outside the former Palais Mazarin, and free tickets to the induction ceremony were scalped for as much as $50. Most were hoping to be shocked, for the yearning to startle and shock has infused much of Cocteau's gaudy swoopings, soarings and occasional pancake landings among the lively arts. The value of surprise was brought home to Cocteau one day 40 years ago, when the ballet impresario Diaghilev turned a coolly monocled eye on Cocteau and quieted his cocky babble of witticisms with a curt "Astonish me!" To astonish, Cocteau has since dabbled furiously, rebelliously and often brilliantly in every branch of the arts and senses (he tried opium briefly, and then religion, also briefly). He has been sometimes hooted at, sometimes hailed and invariably noticed.

The only surprises Cocteau prepared for his entry into the academy, however, were his costume, an especially fancy Academie uniform tailored (by Lanvin) of midnight blue instead of the traditional green with gold braid, and his sword (by Cartier) with a hilt modeled to represent a profile of Oedipus. In his initiation speech, Cocteau turned the flow of his conversation on the Immortals with a respect tempered only gently by the old glint of satiric impertinence. "The time is coming when one will no longer be able to read or write, when a few mandarins will whimper secrets to each other," he told the assembled academicians. "I express the wish that the academy at that time protect the persons suspected of individualism. I would like to think that our doors would open for the singular persecuted by the plural."

Somberly dubbed an Immortal, Cocteau promised: "Entrance to the Academie is the last scandal I will create."

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