J'étais dans ma maison et j'attendais que la pluie vienne: this play came into my life like a break-and-enter. I had left the book on a shelf without even bothering to open it, as one often does with the books and plays that arrive: they're put off till tomorrow, till later, sometimes till never. However, one evening, the title caught my eye. That's not a title, I thought, it's almost a poem. You've really got to have a cheek, a nerve, to do that, I thought … I opened the book, read the first words, the whole of the first speech - when the eldest sister describes the young brother's arrival - and immediately closed it again, captivated, shattered, bruised. I had to find a different setting to continue reading, a place where I could be alone with the writing, in the necessary intimacy which I presupposed. So I immediately went home, and in the half-light of the apartment, devoured the play. In one go. With a nervousness like that of a teenager on his way to his first romantic rendezvous.

Once the reading finished, the book re-placed - this time with care -, I was absolutely certain of one thing: I would not be putting off, not until tomorrow, nor until later, nor for ever, the desire to direct this play. And the performance took place a few months later at the Théâtre de l'Ancre. I think I can safely say that it was a real success, where pleasure and emotion were combined, both on stage and in the auditorium.
Here it is today at the Atelier Théâtre Jean Vilar . A pleasure which, I hope, you will share.

Philippe Sireuil