coming from France to give talks about his Institute of Self-Knowledge at Rambouillet and was bringing a group of pupils to demonstrate his teaching of self-development. I had read about him and his famous disciples. Yesterday morning Mary Doyle telephoned to say the demonstration would take place last night at the Allen Street Theatre and that she thought Lucy would be interested. Lucy wasn't but I was and she indulged me because it was my first time out for ten days.
Lucy was surprised to see so many people she knew at so out of the way a theatre on the lower East Side. Damon St. John, and especially Tessie Soler, whose interest in anything is limited to its possible good for her career or finances. To me it was the same crowd (including myself) that turns up any place having to do with modern art—except that this had nothing directly to do with writing, music, or painting. Cynski was there, waving his arms and ranting something about Einstein having overlooked the fifth and ninth dimensions which were the ultimate. Ilona and Vent were taking it all in solemnly.
But there were many strange-looking persons, mostly women, in addition to the usual Village crowd, and some who looked as though they might be doctors and psychologists. Perhaps because I was still wobbly it seemed to me that no matter how richly or poorly dressed, the expressions on the faces of most of the women were all the same; it was an expression of avidity for some crucial excitement they hoped to find. What I call an Ilona face—and which I hope is not mine too! Can one tell?
Many in the audience knew each other and called and talked across those who didn't, as at the modern music concerts. We did too and Mary Doyle came over and told us we were going to experience a revelation. Lucy said to me, "I'll bet it's going to be like that funny Cynski thing at Figente's."
The curtain had been up all this time and the stage was hung with a plain dark-grey backdrop. A few overhead colorless lights were turned on and off a few times and finally left halfway, which made the stage slightly darker than the front which was not darkened at all.
Eight women, without makeup and in ankle-length purplish=grey cotton robes, walked in and about the stage without any visible intention or pattern and each began slowly to turn any way she felt like it. Their faces as well as their bodies were relaxed and their eyes unblinking. As they turned, gradually
