The Secret Life of Salvador Dali (26 page)

On one occasion my girl cousin purposely crushed a large grasshopper on my neck. I felt the same unnamable and slobbery sliminess that I had noticed in the fish; and though it was eviscerated and abundantly sticky with a loathsome fluid, it still stirred, half destroyed, between my shirt-collar and my flesh, and its jagged legs clutched my neck with such force that I felt they would be torn off sooner than relax their death-grip. I remained for a moment in a half faint, after which my parents succeeded in detaching that “horrible half-living nightmare” from me. I spent the afternoon frantically rubbing my neck and washing it with sea-water. Still tonight, as I write these lines, shudders of horror shoot through my back, while in spite of myself my mouth keeps contracting
into a grimace of repugnance mingled with the bitterest moral malaise, which (to the eyes of an imaginary observer) must make my facial expression as sickly and horrible to behold as that of the half-crushed grasshopper which I have just described and which I am probably imitating, identifying myself with its martyrdom by the irresistible reflexes and mimicry of my facial muscles.

But my own martyrdom awaited me on my return to Figueras. For there, once my terror was discovered, and my parents not being constantly present to protect me, I was the victim of the most refined cruelty on the part of my schoolmates, who would think of nothing but catching grasshoppers to make me run—and how I rani—like a real madman, possessed by all the demons. But I rarely escaped the sacrifice—the grasshopper would land on me, half-dead, cadaverous, hideous! At times it was on opening my book that I would find it, crushed, bathed in a yellow juice, its heavy horse-head separated from its body, its legs still stirring, hi hi hi hi! !

Even in this state it was still capable of jumping on me! Once after such a discovery I flung my book away, breaking a pane of glass in the door, right in the midst of class while everyone was listening to the teacher expounding a geometry problem. That day the teacher made me leave class, and for two days I was afraid that my parents would receive a communication on the subject.

In Figueras the grasshoppers attain much greater dimensions than those of Cadaques, and this species terrified me much more. Those horrible grasshoppers of Figueras, half-crushed on the edges of the sidewalks, dragging a long foul string tied to their legs and subjected to the slow and fierce martyrdom of the games which the children inflict on them—I can see them now! There they are, there they are, those grasshoppers—motionless, convulsed with pain and terror, covered with dust like loathsome croquettes of pure fear. There they are, clutching at the edge of the sidewalk, their heads lowered, their heavy horse-heads, their inexpressive, impassive, unintelligent, frightful heads, with their blind, concentrated look, swollen with pain; there they are, motionless, motionless ...And suddenly—hi hi hi hi hi!—they jump, released with all the explosive unconsciousness of their long contained waiting, as if all of a sudden the spring of their capacity for suffering had reached the breaking-point, and they had to fling themselves, no matter where—on me!

In school my fear of grasshoppers finally took up all the space of my imagination. I saw them everywhere, even where there were none: a grayish paper, suddenly seen, and looking to me like a grasshopper, would make me utter a shrill cry which delighted everyone; a simple pellet of bread or gum thrown from behind that struck me in the head would make me jump up on my desk with both feet, trembling, looking around me, mortally anguished by the fear of discovering the horrible insect, ever ready to spring.

My nervous state became so alarming that I decided on a stratagem
in order to liberate myself, not of this fear, which I knew to be all-powerful, but at least of my schoolmates’ plaguing. I accordingly invented the “counter-grasshopper.” This consisted of a simple
cocotte
made by folding a sheet of white paper into the shape of a rooster, and I pretended one day that this paper rooster frightened me much more than grasshoppers, and begged everyone never to show me such a thing. When I saw a grasshopper I did my utmost to repress the display of my fear. But when they showed me a
cocotte
I would utter screams and simulate such a wild fit that one might have thought I was being murdered. This false phobia had an immense success, not only by its novelty and its doubly scandalous effect but also and especially because it was infinitely easier to make a little
cocotte
of white paper than to go and hunt a grasshopper; moreover the fear produced by the white
cocotte
appeared more spectacular. Thanks to this stratagem I was almost freed of the grasshoppers, to which I was less and less exposed as they were replaced by the white
cocottes.
For a real terror I had thus succeeded in substituting its simulation, which amused and tyrannized me at the same time, for I had constantly to play my role to perfection, otherwise I risked being assailed again by a new period of real grasshoppers, and consequently of authentic terrors.

Cocottes.

But the disorder into which my hysterical reactions to each apparition of the white
cocottes
plunged the class became so spectacular and constant that the teachers began to be seriously concerned about my case; they decided to punish the pupils severely each time they showed me one of those white
cocottes,
explaining to them that my reaction was the result of a nervous state which was peculiar to me and which it was criminal to exasperate.

Not all the teachers, however, interpreted my simulation so generously. One day we were in a class with our Superior, who did not know very much about my case, when I found a large white paper
cocotte
inside my cap. I knew that all the pupils were just waiting for my reaction, and I therefore had to utter a cry that would measure up to my supposed irremediable repugnance Outraged by my scream, the teacher asked me to bring him the
cocotte
that had created the disturbance, but I answered, “Not for all the world!” His patience getting out of bounds, he began to insist and peremptorily called upon me to obey him. Then, going up to a stand on which stood an immense bottle of ink from which all the inkwells in the class were periodically filled, I took the bottle with both hands and let it drop on the paper
cocotte.
The bottle shattered into a thousand pieces and the flood of ink dyed the
cocotte
a deep blue. Delicately picking up the soaked
cocotte
still dripping with ink between my thumb and forefinger, I threw it on the teacher’s desk, and said, “Now I can obey you. Since it isn’t white it doesn’t frighten me any more!”

The consequence of this new Dalinian performance was that I was expelled from school the following day.

My memories of the war were all agreeable memories, for Spain’s neutrality led my country into a period of euphoria and rapid economic prosperity. Catalonia produced a truculent and succulent flora and fauna of
nouveaux-riches
who, when they grew in Figueras, “an agricultural region of Ampurdán where madness blends most gracefully with reality,” produced a whole harvest of picturesque types whose exploits blossomed forth in a living and burning folklore and constituted a kind of piping-hot spiritual nourishment for the elite of our fellow-citizens which supplemented, and was served together with, the everyday terrestrial nourishment—which, it must be said, was very good. I remember well that during this war of 1914 everyone in Figueras was deeply concerned over the question of cooking. There was a French family that was very intimate with my parents and whose members were confirmed
gourmets;
hence a woodcock, served “high” with brandy burned over it, had no secrets for me, and I knew by heart the whole ritual for drinking a good Pernod out in the sun with a sugar-lump dipped into it, while listening to the thousand and one comic anecdotes about our
nouveaux-riches.
These anecdotes became as famous as those of Marseille. But in crossing the frontier they lose their fine effervescent flavor. They have to be consumed on the spot.

Every evening there was a large gathering of grown-ups in the back of the French family’s shop. People came there ostensibly to talk about the war and the European situation, but mostly they told endless anecdotes. Looking out on the street through the shop-window they could watch their fellow-citizens passing by, the sight of whom was a lively stimulant that kept the conversation welded to the immediacy of happenings in the town. Hilarity hovered over this predominantly masculine gathering like a whirlwind of hysteria. At times the strident roar of their paroxysms of laughter could even be heard out in the street, mingled with the choking coughs and the plaintive screams of those who exceeded all bounds and went into such convulsions that one might have thought they would die of laughing, and, with tears rolling down their cheeks, shrieked, Ay, Ay, Ay! ...

The song “Ay, Ay, Ay” was being sung at that time, and one heard everywhere the sighs of Argentine tangos which had come from Barcelona by way of traveling salesmen who told tales of the Thousand and One Nights of roulette and baccarat, that had just been legalized in the Catalonian capital. A German painter, Siegfried Burman, who painted exclusively with knives, using enormous daubs of color, spent the whole period of the war in Cadaques teaching ladies the steps of the Argentine tango and singing German songs to the accompaniment of the guitar. A rich gentleman giving a flower party had the idea of harnessing to his flower-decked chariot two horses completely covered with confetti. For this he first had the horses coated with hot glue, several men simultaneously pouring pails of it on the animals. Then the horses were made to roll on an immense pile of confetti in which they were completely
submerged. In less than an hour the two horses were dead. Ay, ay, ay–Ay, ay, ay! ...

Peace burst like a bomb. The armistice had just been signed, and preparations were made for a great celebration. The repercussions of the armistice were almost as joyous in this countryside of Catalonia as in France, for the country was unanimously Francophile. It had a pleasant, splendid and golden memory of the war, and here was victory, besides, right next door, with all its seductiveness: it was going to make the most of it, right down to the bone. A public demonstration was planned in the streets of Figueras, in which there would be popular and political representatives of all the small towns and villages of the region—flags, posters, meetings,
sardanas
⁵
and balls. The students formed an organization of a “progressive” type, which it was decided to name “Grupo Estudiantil,” and which was to adopt a platform and elect a committee charged with organizing the students’ participation in the “victory parades” that were being prepared.

The president of the “Grupo Estudiantil” came to me to ask me to make the opening speech. I had one day in which to prepare it.

“You are the only student who can do this,” he said, “but be sure to make it powerful, stirring–something in your own line.” He shook my hand vigorously.

I agreed, and immediately set myself to preparing my speech, which began something like this: “The great sacrifice of blood which has just been made on the field of battle has awakened the political conscience of all oppressed peoples! etc. etc.” I was extremely flattered at having been chosen to make the speech, which I rehearsed melodramatically before the mirror. But as time passed an encroaching and destructive timidity took hold of me, becoming so extreme that I was beginning to think it might get out of control. This was my first public speech, however, and with the legend that had already grown up around me it would be a shame to disappoint my audience at the last moment by a stupid childish timidity! If my “funk” continued I might be able to plead illness, but I could not resign myself to giving up my speech, which swelled in rhetorical splendor and profundity of ideas as my timidity grew more paralyzing. Already it prevented me from delivering my memorized speech, even without witnesses, confusing my memory, mixing up all the words, and blurring the letters of my own handwriting as with a beating heart and flushed cheeks I tried to decipher what I had written, my eyes gaping as though the letters had suddenly become an inexplicable hieroglyph! No! I could not! I could not! There was nothing to be done! And I stamped my foot with rage, burying my face devoured by shame and rancor at myself in the rumpled papers on which I had traced the brilliant path of my first speech with so much eloquence and assurance! No, no, no! I would not be capable of delivering
my speech! And I went out to roam through the outskirts of town, to try to recover courage in the contemplation of the communicative serenity of the landscape.

The speech was scheduled for the following day. Before returning home in the late afternoon I mingled with a group of students who were all making fun of the speech I was going to give, and the slight amount of courage which I had recovered in the course of my solitary walk fell back to below zero.