The Awakening of Spring: A Tragedy of Childhood

SCENE SIXTH.

Men and women wine-dressers in the vineyard.The sun is setting behind the peaks of the mountains in the west.A clear sound of bells rises from the valley below.Hans Rilow and Ernest Röbel roll about in the dry grass of the highest plot under the overhanging rocks.

Ernest.

I have overworked myself.

Hans.

Don't let us be sad! ——It's a pity the minutes are passing.

Ernest.

One sees them hanging and can't manage any more——and to-morrow they are in the wine press.

Hans.

Fatigue is as intolerable to me as hunger.

Ernest.

Oh, I can't eat any more.

Hans.

Just this shining muscatelle!

Ernest.

My elasticity has its limit.

Hans.

If I bend down the vine, we can sway it from mouth to mouth. Neither of us will have to disturb himself. We can bite off the grapes and let the branches fly back to the trunk.

Ernest.

One hardly decides upon a thing, when, see, that vanishing power begins to darken.

Hans.

Hence the flaming firmament——and the evening bells——I promise myself little more for the future.

Ernest.

Sometimes I see myself already as a worthy pastor—with a good-natured little wife, a well-filled library and offices and dignities all about me. For six days one has to think, and on the seventh one opens one's mouth. When out walking, one gives one's hand to the school-girls and boys, and when one comes home the coffee steams, the cookies are brought out and the maids fetch apples through the garden door. ——Can you imagine anything more beautiful?

Hans.

I imagine half-closed eyelids, half-open lips and Turkish draperies. ——I do not believe in pathos. Our elders show us long faces in order to hide their stupidity. Among themselves they call each other donkeys just as we do. I know that. ——When I am a millionaire I'll erect a monument to God. ——Imagine the future as a milkshake with sugar and cinnamon. One fellow upsets it and howls, another stirs it all together and sweats. Why not skim off the cream? ——Or don't you believe that one can learn how?

Ernest.

Let us skim!

Hans.

What remains the hens will eat. ——I have pulled my head out of so many traps already——

Ernest.

Let us skim, Hans! ——Why do you laugh?

Hans.

Are you beginning again already?

Ernest.

But one of us must begin.

Hans.

Thirty years from now, on some evening like to-day, if we recall this one, perhaps it will seem too beautiful for expression.

Ernest.

And how everything springs from self!

Hans.

Why not?

Ernest.

If by chance one were alone——one might like to weep!

Hans.

Don't let us be sad! (He kisses him on the mouth.)

Ernest.

(Returning the kiss.)

I left the house with the idea of just speaking to you and turning back again.

Hans.

I waited for you. ——Virtue is not a bad garment, but it requires an imposing figure.

Ernest.

It fits us loosely as yet. ——I should not have been content if I had not met you. ——I love you, Hans, as I have never loved a soul——

Hans.

Let us not be sad. ——If we recall this in thirty years, perhaps we shall make fun of it. ——And yet everything is so beautiful. The mountains glow; the grapes hang before our mouths and the evening breeze caresses the rocks like a playful flatterer. ——

SCENE SEVENTH.

A clear November night.The dry foliage of the bushes and trees rustles.Torn clouds chase each other beneath the moon——Melchior clambers over the churchyard wall.

Melchior.

(Springing down inside.)

The pack won't follow me here. ——While they are searching the brothels I can get my breath and discover how much I have accomplished.

Coat in tatters, pockets empty——I'm not safe from the most harmless. ——I must try to get deeper into the wood to-morrow.

I have trampled down a cross——Even to-day the flowers are frozen! ——The earth is cold all around——

In the domain of the dead! ——

To climb out of the hole in the roof was not as hard as this road! ——It was only there that I kept my presence of mind——

I hung over the abyss——everything was lost in it, vanished——Oh, if I could have stayed there.

Why she, on my account! ——Why not the guilty! ——Inscrutable providence! ——I would have broken stones and gone hungry! ——What is to keep me straight now? ——Offense follows offense. I am swallowed up in the morass. I haven't strength left to get out of it——

I was not bad! ——I was not bad! ——I was not bad! ——No mortal ever wandered so dejectedly over graves before. ——Pah! ——I won't lose courage! Oh, if I should go crazy——during this very night!

I must seek there among the latest ones! ——The wind pipes on every stone in a different key——an anguishing symphony! ——The decayed wreaths rip apart and swing with their long threads in bits about the marble crosses——A wood of scarecrows! ——Scarecrows on every grave, each more gruesome than the other——as high as houses, from which the devil runs away. ——The golden letters sparkle so coldly——The weeping willows groan and move their giant fingers over the inscriptions——

A praying angel——a tablet.

The clouds throw their shadows over it. ——How the wind hurries and howls! ——Like the march of an army it drives in from the east. ——Not a star in the heavens——

Evergreen in the garden plot? ——Evergreen? ——A maiden——

And I am her murderer. I am her murderer! ——Despair is left me——I dare not weep here. Away from here! ——Away——

Moritz Stiefel.

(With his head under his arm, comes stamping over the graves.)

A moment, Melchior! The opportunity will not occur so readily again. You can't guess what depends upon the place and the time——

Melchior.

Where do you come from?

Moritz.

From over there——over by the wall. You knocked down my cross. I lie by the wall. ——Give me your hand, Melchior. ——

Melchior.

You are not Moritz Stiefel!

Moritz.

Give me your hand. I am convinced you will thank me. It won't be so easy again! This is an unusually fortunate encounter. ——I came out especially——

Melchior.

Don't you sleep?

Moritz.

Not what you call sleep. ——We sit on the church-tower, on the high gables of the roof——wherever we please. ——

Melchior.

Restless?

Moritz.

Half happy. ——We wander among the Mayflowers, among the lonely paths in the woods. We hover over gatherings of people, over the scene of accidents, gardens, festivals. ——We cower in the chimneys of dwelling-places and behind the bed curtains. ——Give me your hand. ——We don't associate with each other, but we see and hear everything that is going on in the world. We know that everything is stupidity, everything that men do and contend for, and we laugh at it.

Melchior.

What good does that do?

Moritz.

What good does it have to do? ——We are fit for nothing more, neither good nor evil. We stand high, high above earthly beings—each for himself alone. We do not associate with each other, because it would bore us. Not one of us cares for anything which he might lose. We are indifferent both to sorrow and to joy. We are satisfied with ourselves and that is all. We despise the living so heartily that we can hardly pity them. They amuse us with their doings, because, being alive, they are not worthy of compassion. We laugh at their tragedies—each by himself——and make reflections upon them. ——Give me your hand! If you give me your hand, you will fall down with laughter over the sensation which made you give me your hand.

Melchior.

Doesn't that disgust you?

Moritz.

We are too high for that. We smile! ——At my burial I was among the mourners. I had a right good time. That is sublimity, Melchior! I howled louder than any and slunk over to the wall to hold my belly from shaking with laughter. Our unapproachable sublimity is the only viewpoint which the trash understands——They would have laughed at me also before I swung myself off.

Melchior.

I have no desire to laugh at myself.

Moritz.

The living, as such, are not really worth compassion! ——I admit I should not have thought so either. And now it is incomprehensible to me how one can be so naïve. I see through the fraud so clearly that not a cloud remains. ——Why do you want to loiter now, Melchior! Give me your hand! In the turn of a head you will stand heaven high above yourself. ——Your life is a sin of omission——

Melchior.

Can you forget?

Moritz.

We can do everything. Give me your hand! We can pity the young, who take their timidity for idealism, and the old, who break their hearts from stoical deliberation. We see the Kaiser tremble at a scurrilous ballad and the lazzaroni before the youngest policeman. We ignore the masks of comedians and see the poet in the shadow of the mask. We see happiness in beggars' rags and the capitalist in misery and toil. We observe lovers and see them blush before each other, foreseeing that they are deceived deceivers. We see parents bringing children into the world that they may be able to say to them: “How happy you are to have such parents!” ——and see the children go and do likewise. We can observe the innocent girl in the qualms of her first love, and the five-groschen harlot reading Schiller. ——We see God and the devil blaming each other, and cherish the unspeakable belief that both of them are drunk——Peace and joy, Melchior! You only need to reach me your little finger. You may become snow-white before you have such a favorable opportunity again!

Melchior.

If I gave you my hand, Moritz, it would be from self-contempt. ——I see myself outlawed. What lent me courage lies in the grave. I can no longer consider noble emotions as worthy. ——And see nothing, nothing, that can save me now from my degradation. ——To myself I am the most contemptible creature in the universe.

Moritz.

What delays you? ——

(A masked man appears.)

The Masked Man.

(To Melchior.)

You are trembling from hunger. You are not fit to judge. (To Moritz.) You go!

Melchior.

Who are you?

The Masked Man.

I refuse to tell. (To Moritz.) Vanish! ——What business have you here! ——Why haven't you on your head?

Moritz.

I shot myself.

The Masked Man.

Then stay where you belong. You are done with! Don't annoy us here with your stink of the grave. It's inconceivable! ——Look at your fingers! Pfu, the devil! They will crumble soon.

Moritz.

Please don't send me away——

Melchior.

Who are you, sir??

Moritz.

Please don't send me away. Please don't. Let me stay here a bit with you; I won't disturb you in anything——It is so dreadful down there.

The Masked Man.

Why do you gabble about sublimity, then? ——You know that that is humbug——sour grapes! Why do you lie so diligently, you chimera? If you consider it so great a favor, you may stay, as far as I am concerned. But take yourself to leeward, my dear friend——and please keep your dead man's hand out of the game!

Melchior.

Will you tell me once for all who you are, or not?

The Masked Man.

No——I propose to you that you shall confide yourself to me. I will take care of your future success.

Melchior.

You are——my father?

The Masked Man.

Wouldn't you know your father by his voice?

Melchior.

No.

The Masked Man.

Your father seeks consolation at this moment in the sturdy arms of your mother. ——I will open the world to you. Your momentary lack of resolution springs from your miserable condition. With a warm supper inside of you, you will make fun of it.

Melchior.

(To himself.)

It can only be the devil! (Aloud.) After that of which I have been guilty, a warm supper cannot give me back my peace!

The Masked Man.

That will follow the supper! ——I can tell you this much, the girl had better have given birth. She was built properly. Unfortunately, she was killed by the abortives given by Mother Schmidt. ——I will take you out among men. I will give you the opportunity to enlarge your horizon fabulously. I will make you thoroughly acquainted with everything interesting that the world has to offer.

Melchior.

Who are you? Who are you? ——I can't trust a man that I don't know.

The Masked Man.

You can't learn to know me unless you trust me.

Melchior.

Do you think so?

The Masked Man.

Of course! ——Besides, you have no choice.

Melchior.

I can reach my hand to my friend here at any moment.

The Masked Man.

Your friend is a charlatan. Nobody laughs who has a pfennig left in cash. The sublime humorist is the most miserable, most pitiable creature in creation.

Melchior.

Let the humorist be what he may; you tell me who you are, or I'll reach the humorist my hand.

The Masked Man.

What then?

Moritz.

He is right, Melchior. I have boasted. Take his advice and profit by it. No matter how masked he is——he is, at least.

Melchior.

Do you believe in God?

The Masked Man.

Yes, conditionally.

Melchior.

Will you tell me who discovered gunpowder?

The Masked Man.

Berthold Schwarz——alias Konstantin Anklitzen. ——A Franciscan monk at Freiburg in Breisgau, in 1330.

Moritz.

What wouldn't I give if he had let it alone!

The Masked Man.

You would only have hanged yourself then.

Melchior.

What do you think about morals?

The Masked Man.

You rascal, am I your schoolboy?

Melchior.

Do I know what you are?

Moritz.

Don't quarrel! ——Please don't quarrel. What good does that do? ——Why should we sit, two living men and a corpse, together in a churchyard at two o'clock in the morning if we want to quarrel like topers! It will be a pleasure to me to arbitrate between you. If you want to quarrel, I'll take my head under my arm and go!

Melchior.

You are the same old 'fraid cat as ever.

The Masked Man.

The phantom is not wrong. One shouldn't forget one's dignity. ——By morals I understand the real product of two imaginary quantities. The imaginary quantities are “shall” and “will.” The product is called morals and leaves no doubt of its reality.

Moritz.

If you had only told me that earlier! My morals hounded me to death. For the sake of my dear parents I killed myself. “Honor thy father and mother that thy days may be long in the land.” The text made a phenomenal fool of me.

The Masked Man.

Give yourself up to no more illusions, dear friend. Your dear parents would have died as little from it as you did. Judged righteously, they would only have raged and stormed from the healthiest necessity.

Melchior.

That may be right as far as it goes. ——I can assure you, however, sir, that if I reach Moritz my hand, sooner or later my morals alone will have to bear the blame.

The Masked Man.

That is just the reason you are not Moritz!

Moritz.

But I don't believe the difference is so material, so compulsive at least, esteemed unknown, but what by chance the same thing might have happened to you as happened to me that time when I trotted through the alder grove with a pistol in my pocket.

The Masked Man.

Don't you remember me? You have been standing for the moment actually between life and death. ——Moreover, in my opinion, this is not exactly the place in which to continue such a profound debate.

Moritz.

Certainly, it's growing cold, gentlemen! They dressed me in my Sunday suit, but I wear neither undershirt nor drawers.

Melchior.

Farewell, dear Moritz. I don't know where the man is taking me. But he is a man——

Moritz.

Don't blame me for seeking to kill you, Melchior. It was old attachment. All my life I shall only be able to complain and lament that I cannot accompany you once more.

The Masked Man.

At the end everyone has his part——You the consoling consciousness of having nothing——you an enervating doubt of everything. —Farewell.

Melchior.

Farewell, Moritz. Take my heartfelt thanks for appearing before me again. How many former bright days have we lived together during the fourteen years! I promise you, Moritz, come what may, whether during the coming years I become ten times another, whether I prosper or fail, I shall never forget you——

Moritz.

Thanks, thanks, dear friend.

Melchior.

——and when at last I am an old man with gray hair, then, perhaps, you will again stand closer to me than all those living about me.

Moritz.

I thank you. Good luck to your journey, gentlemen. Do not delay any longer.

The Masked Man.

Come, child! (He lays his arm upon that of Melchior and disappears with him over the graves.)

Moritz.

(Alone.)

Now I sit here with my head under my arm. ——The moon covers her face, unveils herself again and seems not a hair the cleverer. ——I will go back to my place, right my cross, which that madcap trampled down so inconsiderately, and when everything is in order I will lie down on my back again, warm myself in the corruption and smile.

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FROM A LENGTHY ESSAY IN “THE FRANKFURTER ZEITUNG.”

Wedekind's dramas are reminiscent of the pre-Shakespearian stage. But often enough one may recall Shakespeare himself. ——But we do not wish to fall into the error of that unstable enthusiasm which always makes comparison with the very greatest when only something remarkable is in question. The aim of these lines is not to hail Wedekind as the Messiah of the drama, nor as the John of a coming Messiah. For all I care, he might be the devil himself. Only one thing is certain: he is a power without his like among us, and where such a power has worked once it produces after results. Power releases power. With this drink in their bodies the public will not long continue to support either lyrical lemonade on the stage nor the dregs of dramatic penury.

This poet, this artist is at the same time a knower of life. One cannot be mistaken! This is no joke. Behind all this swarm of jumping, dancing, tumbling, contending, inflamed, agitated discourse; behind all this pushing, roaring, foaming, gargling, flood of action, stands intuition of the world, stands the sense of life, as made manifest in the thoughts of Wedekind. It is no tearer, no eradicator, no falterer, who in this frightfully beautiful bustle of passion and inevitableness has given a picture of his own dissoluteness. He is a poet-animal trainer, who knows and rules his beasts. A man—if you please.

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LIST IN BELLES-LETTRES

Published by BROWN BROTHERS
LAFAYETTE BUILDING, PHILADELPHIA

THE AWAKENING OF SPRING. By Frank Wedekind. A tragedy of childhood, dealing with the sex question in its relationship to the education of children. A new edition just out. Cloth, gilt top, deckle edge, $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35. “Here is a play which on its production caused a sensation in Germany, and can without exaggeration be described as remarkable. These studies of adolescence are as impressive as they are unique.” —The Athenæum, London.

THE CREDITOR. By August Strindberg. Translated from the Swedish by Francis J. Ziegler. A psychological study of the divorce question by the greatest living Scandinavian dramatist. Cloth, $1.00 net; postage, 8 cents. “Fordringsägare” was produced for the first time in 1889, when it was given at Copenhagen as a substitute for “Fröken Julie,” the performance of which was forbidden by the censor. Four years later Berlin audiences made its acquaintance, since when it has remained the most popular of Strindberg's plays in Germany.

A DILEMMA. By Leonidas Andreiyeff. Translated from the Russian by John Cournos. Cloth, 75 cents net; postage, 7 cents. A remarkable analysis of mental subtleties as experienced by a man who is uncertain as to whether or not he is insane. A story that is Poe-like in its intensity and full of grim humor. “One of the most interesting literary studies of crime since Dostoieffsky's Crime and Punishment.” —Chicago Evening Post.

DISCORDS. A volume of poems by Donald Evans. With the publication of this volume must end the oft-repeated complaint that real English poetry is no longer being written. These poems have no sermon to preach, no evils to arraign, no new scheme of things to propound. They are poems written in the sincere joy of artistic creation, and they possess a compelling music and an abiding beauty. This poet, who is singing only for the pleasure of singing, in his sixty or more poems that make up the volume, offers vivid glimpses of the stress and strain of modern life. He thinks frankly, and his utterances are full of free sweep and a passionate intensity. Dark green boards, $1.00 net; postage, 8 cents.

SWANWHITE. By August Strindberg. A Fairy Drama, translated by Francis J. Ziegler. Printed on deckle edge paper and attractively bound in cloth, $1.00 net; postage, 8 cents. “A poetic idyl, which is charming in its sweet purity, delightful in its optimism, elusive in its complete symbolism, but wholesome in its message that pure love can conquer evil. So out of the cold North, out of the mouth of the world's most terrible misogynist, comes a strange message—one which is as sweet as it is unexpected. And August Strindberg, the enemy of love, sings that pure love is all powerful and all-conquering.” —Springfield, Mass., Republican.

THE WOMAN AND THE FIDDLER. A play in three acts by Arne Norrevang. Translated from the Norwegian by Mrs. Herman Sandby. Cloth, uncut edges, $1.00 net. By mail, $1.08. This play is based upon one of the legends of the fiddlers who used to go about from valley to valley, playing for the peasants at their festivities.

FOR A NIGHT. A novelette by Emile Zola. Translated from the French by Alison M. Lederer. $1.00 net. Postage, 10 cents. The imaginative realism, the poetic psychology, of this story of the abnormal Thérèse who kills her lover; of the simple minded Julien who becomes an accessory after the fact for love of her, and finally “let himself fall” into the river, having first dropped the body of Colombel over, are gripping and intense. The masochism at the basis of the love of Thérèse and Colombel, resulting in the murder, is depicted with wonderful art and yet without any coarseness. The author does not moralize, but with relentless pen delineates that madness of Thérèse sown in her soul from birth—a madness which her convent training rather enhances than abrogates. The book contains two other typical Zola stories: “The Maid of the Dawber” and “Complements”—two delightful, crisp bits of literature.

FRÖKEN JULIE (Countess Julia). A Naturalistic Tragedy, by August Strindberg. Cloth, $1.00 net; by mail, $1.08. Says Mr. James Huneker; It is an emotional bombshell. The social world seems topsy-turvied after a first reading. After a second, while the gripping power does not relax, one realizes the writers deep, almost abysmal knowledge of human nature.... Passion there is, and a horrible atmosphere of reality. Everything is brought about naturally, inevitably. Be it understood, Strindberg is never pornographic, nor does he show a naked soul merely to afford a charming diversion, which is the practice of some French dramatists. That kitchen—fancy a kitchen as a battlefield of souls! —with its good-hearted and pious cook, the impudent scoundrel of a valet eager for revenge on his superiors, and the hallucinated girl from above stairs—it is a tiny epic of hatred, of class against mass.

THE LIVING CORPSE (Zhivoi Trup). A Drama in six Acts and twelve Tableaux, by Count Leo N. Tolstoi. Cloth, $1.00 net; by mail, $1.08. There is no question as to the tremendous power and simple impressiveness of this posthumous work, which is the literary sensation of the day not alone in Russia, but throughout Europe. As a protest against certain marriage and divorce laws, the absurdity of which is portrayed with a satiric pen, “The Living Corpse” is a most effective document.

SUCH IS LIFE. A Play in five Acts, by Frank Wedekind, Author of “The Awakening of Spring,” etc. Cloth, gilt top, raw edge, Net, $1.25, by Mail, $1.34. Whatever Wedekind's theme may be, it is always sure to be treated in a strikingly original fashion. In “Such is Life” it is Regality and Kingship. Though the locale is mediaeval Italy, the scene might as well have been laid at the present day, but this was, perhaps, too dangerous. While satire runs as an undercurrent throughout, the play is primarily one of tense dramatic situations and a clearly outlined plot, full of color and action. Portions of the play are written in verse—verse that runs with almost Elizabethan fire and impetuosity.

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MODERN AUTHORS' SERIES:

Under this title appear from time to time short stories and dramas, chiefly translations from the works of modern European authors, each containing from 32 to 64 pages. Printed in large, clear type and tastefully bound in gray boards with paper label. Each, 25 cents net; by mail, 29 cents. Now ready:

SILENCE. From the Russian of Leonidas Andreiyeff. Second edition. An unusual short story that reads like a poem in prose by the leading exponent of the new Russian school of novelists.

MOTHERLOVE. From the Swedish of August Strindberg. An example of Strindberg's power as analyst of human nature.

A RED FLOWER. By Vsevolod Garshin. A powerful short story by one of Russia's popular authors, unknown as yet to the English-speaking public.

THE GRISLEY SUITOR. From the German of Frank Wedekind. An excellent story of the De-Maupassant type.

RABBI EZRA AND THE VICTIM. By Frank Wedekind. Two sketches characteristic of the pen of this noted German author.

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