Spring Awakening

by Frank Wedekind

  Our introduction is heavily indebted to both Peter Jelavich: Art and Mammon in Wilhelmine Germany: The Case of Frank Wedekind (in Central European History, Vol. 12, Issue 03, September 1979) and Elizabeth Boa: The Sexual Circus. Wedekind’s Theatre of Subversion (Oxford, 1987), which is especially illuminating on the play’s non-Naturalistic elements. Jelavich’s Munich and Theatrical Modernism: Politics, Playwriting and Performance 1890–1914 (Harvard University Press, 1985) contains further excellent sections on Wedekind. Alan Best: Frank Wedekind (Wolff, 1975) combines biographical background with astute critical assessment of the works. The playwright’s sexual and other adventures can be pursued in his diaries: Diary of an Erotic Life (Blackwell, 1990, ed. Gerhard Hay, translated by W. E. Yuill).

  Biographical detail especially relevant to Spring Awakening – from Rolf Kieser’s excellent German biography of Wedekind’s early years: Benjamin Franklin Wedekind: Biographie einer Jugend (Zurich, 1990) – has been distilled for non-German readers in Gerald N. Izenberg: Modernism and Masculinity: Mann, Wedekind and Kandinsky through World War One (University of Chicago Press, 2000), which contains much of interest on the social and cultural background. Gordon Birrell’s article The Wollen-Sollen Equation in Wedekind’s Frühlings Erwachen (in The Germanic Review, Vol. 57, 1982) begins as an analysis of the Masked Man’s ‘definition’ of morality but expands into an insightful examination of the play as a whole. The chapter on Wedekind in H.F. Garten: Modern German Drama (Methuen, 1959) examines his ‘gospel’ of sexual freedom and physical vitality and the acrobats, adventurers and crooks who influenced his work, while H. McLean’s article on The Marquis of Keith (in The Germanic Review, Vol. 43, 1968) is worth reading for its analysis of the metaphor of Elastizität.

  For a fascinating description of Wedekind’s idiosyncratic acting style see the introduction by Lion Feuchtwanger to the original edition of Stephen Spender and Frances Fawcett’s translations Five Tragedies of Sex (Vision, 1952). The Spender versions of the Lulu plays have been republished by Calder and Boyars but without the introduction. Finally, for a detailed account of the violent reaction to the play’s premiere in New York see Anita Block: The Changing World in Plays and Theatre (Little, Brown, 1939).

  Translators’ Note

  This translation, with some changes, was first staged by Greenwich Studio Theatre Company at Battersea Arts Centre (BAC), London in May 1997, directed by Margarete Forsyth, with costumes by Astrid Schulz and lighting by Alex Wardle, and performed by Charlotte Bicknell, Gareth Corke, Mark Cronfield, Terry Edwards, Reg Eppey, Julian Forsyth, Andrew Hallett, Zoe Hart, John Hart Dyke, Sarah Howe, Bernard Kay, Tony Kirwood, Jeremy Kitcat, Kenneth Owens, Iain Regnier-Wilson, Simon Scardifield, Andy Spiegel, Jonathan Steed, Alwyne Taylor, Joan Walker and Catriona Yuill.

  Cuts and changes made for that production are indicated by footnotes in the text, with the omissions included in the Appendix.

  SPRING AWAKENING

  Dedicated by the author to

  The Masked Man

  Characters

  MELCHIOR GABOR

  WENDLA BERGMANN

  MORITZ STIEFEL

  Schoolboys

  HANS RILOW

  ERNST

  OTTO

  ROBERT

  GEORG

  LÄMMERMEIER

  Schoolgirls

  MARTHA

  THEA

  ILSE, an artist’s model

  MRS BERGMANN

  MR GABOR

  MRS GABOR

  MR STIEFEL

  INA MÜLLER,

  Wendla’s sister

  Schoolmasters

  THE HEADMASTER

  THE PASTOR

  AARDVARK

  BLUEBOTTLE

  HAMMERHEAD

  INKFISH

  LOGOSPASM

  SCOOT, the school janitor

  Inmates of a Reformatory

  DIETHELM

  REINHOLD

  RUPRECHT

  HELMUTH

  GASTON

  DR PROKRUSTES,

  Warden of the Reformatory

  A LOCKSMITH

  THE MASKED MAN

  ACT ONE

  Scene One

  A living room. WENDLA, MRS BERGMANN.

  WENDLA. The dress is too long, Mother. Why did you make it so long?

  MRS BERGMANN. You are fourteen years old today.

  WENDLA. I don’t want to be fourteen if it means wearing a dress as long as this.

  MRS BERGMANN. It isn’t too long, Wendla. What do you expect? It isn’t my fault if my daughter is two inches taller with every spring. You’re a big girl now, you can’t always run about in your little princess frock.

  WENDLA. But it suits me so much better than this baggy nightshirt. – Please, Mother, let me wear it a little longer. Just this summer. Keep this piece of sackcloth for my next birthday. I would only step on the braid and tear it.

  MRS BERGMANN. I don’t know what to say. I would love to keep you just the way you are. Other girls are so gangly and awkward at your age. You’re the opposite. – I wonder what you’ll be like when the others have developed.

  WENDLA. Who knows – perhaps I won’t be here at all.

  MRS BERGMANN. Wendla, what puts such thoughts in your head!

  WENDLA. Don’t, Mother. Don’t be sad.

  MRS BERGMANN (kissing her). My precious!

  WENDLA. They creep up on me at night when I can’t fall asleep. They don’t upset me at all, and I know I’ll sleep that much better. – Mother, is it sinful to think such things?

  MRS BERGMANN. Go and hang the sackcloth in your wardrobe. Stay in your little princess frock, if you must! I’ll sew a flounce around the bottom when I have time.

  WENDLA. Oh no.

  MRS BERGMANN. Just so you don’t catch a chill!

  WENDLA. Now, when summer’s coming? And Mother, no one catches diphtheria in their knees. Why do you worry so? Girls don’t feel the cold at my age – especially not in their legs. Would you rather I was too hot? Be thankful that your precious doesn’t cut off the sleeves and walk around all day without shoes and stockings! – When it’s time to wear the sackcloth, I’m going to dress like a fairy queen underneath . . . Oh, don’t be cross, Mother! Nobody will see it!

  Scene Two

  Sunday evening. MELCHIOR, MORITZ, OTTO, HANS RILOW, GEORG, ROBERT, ERNST.

  MELCHIOR. This game is boring. I’ve had enough.

  OTTO. Then we might as well stop too.

  HANS. Have you done your homework, Melchior?

  MELCHIOR. Why don’t you carry on?

  MORITZ. Where are you going?

  MELCHIOR. For a walk.

  GEORG. But it’s getting dark.

  ROBERT. Have you done your homework?

  MELCHIOR. Why shouldn’t I go for a walk in the dark?

  ERNST. Central America! Louis the Fifteenth! Sixty verses of Homer! Seven equations!

  ROBERT. Bloody homework!

  GEORG. If only the Latin composition didn’t have to be in tomorrow!

  MORITZ. You can’t think of anything without homework getting in the way.

  OTTO. I’m going home.

  GEORG. Me too. To do my homework.

  ERNST. Same here.

  ROBERT. Good night, Melchior.

  MELCHIOR. Sleep well!

  They all leave except MORITZ and MELCHIOR.

  Can anyone tell me why we actually exist?

  MORITZ. You know, I’d rather be a cart-horse than a schoolboy. Why do we go to school? To sit exams. And why do we sit exams? So we can fail. They’ll have to fail seven of us. The upper classroom only holds sixty. – I’ve been feeling so strange since Christmas . . . damn it, if it wasn’t for my father, I’d pack my bags and emigrate to America.

  MELCHIOR. Let’s talk about something else.

  They go for a walk.

  MORITZ. You see that black cat with its tail in the air?

  MELCHIOR. Do you believe in omens?

  MORITZ. I’m not sure. – It came from over there
. I don’t suppose it means anything.

  MELCHIOR. We sail the narrow strait between Scylla and Charybdis – between the rocks of religious delusion and the whirlpool of superstition. – Let’s sit down under this beech tree.1

  MORITZ. It’s getting dark. I can hardly see you. – Melchior, do you agree that a human being’s sense of shame is just a product of his education?

  MELCHIOR. I was thinking about that only the other day. It seems to me it must be deeply rooted in human nature. Imagine you had to undress completely in front of your best friend. You’d only do it if he did it at the same time.2

  MORITZ. You know, if I have children, I’ll let them sleep in the same room, boys and girls, perhaps in the same bed from an early age, I’d let them help each other dress in the morning and undress in the evening, and in the hot summers I’d dress them all in short white cotton tunics with a leather belt, boys and girls. I think if they grew up like that, they’d be less uptight than we are.

  MELCHIOR. I am sure you’re right, Moritz. The problem is: what if the girls get pregnant?

  MORITZ. Why should they get pregnant?

  MELCHIOR. You see, I believe in a certain instinct in these matters. If you take two cats, a tom and a female, and lock them up together from an early age and shield them from all contact with the outside world so they only have their instincts – the female will still get pregnant sooner or later, even without other cats to show them what to do.

  MORITZ. With animals it just happens, doesn’t it?

  MELCHIOR. So why not with humans? Come on, Moritz, if your boys sleep in the same bed with the girls and all of a sudden they feel the first . . . stirrings of manhood – I’m willing to bet . . .

  MORITZ. You may be right. – Nevertheless.

  MELCHIOR. And the same applies to girls of the same age! Not that a girl actually . . . you can’t really tell, can you . . . but we can assume . . . and curiosity would do the rest.

  MORITZ. Can I ask you a question?

  MELCHIOR. Well?

  MORITZ. Will you give me an honest answer?

  MELCHIOR. Of course.

  MORITZ. Really?

  MELCHIOR. Cross my heart. Well, Moritz?

  MORITZ. Have you finished your Latin composition?

  MELCHIOR. Come on, spit it out. No one can hear us.

  MORITZ. Of course my children would have to work during the day in the yard or the garden, or play games that are physically strenuous. Riding, gymnastics, climbing – and most of all they wouldn’t sleep on soft mattresses at night as we do. We are terribly effeminate. I’m sure you don’t have dreams in a hard bed.

  MELCHIOR. My bed folds up behind the stove. From now until harvest I’m sleeping in a hammock. – Last winter I dreamed that I whipped our dog again and again until he stopped moving. That was the most terrible dream I’ve ever had. – Why are you staring at me like that?

  MORITZ. Have you felt them yet?

  MELCHIOR. Felt what?

  MORITZ. What did you call it?

  MELCHIOR. Stirrings of manhood?

  MORITZ. Mmm.

  MELCHIOR. And how!

  MORITZ. Me too. –

  MELCHIOR. I have done for quite some time. Almost a year now.

  MORITZ. It hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  MELCHIOR. Were you having a dream?

  MORITZ. It was only a short one . . . about legs in bright blue stockings climbing over the teacher’s desk. I only saw them for a moment.

  MELCHIOR. Georg dreamed about his mother.

  MORITZ. Did he tell you that?

  MELCHIOR. Out on Gallows Hill.

  MORITZ. If you knew what I’ve been through since that night!

  MELCHIOR. Feelings of guilt?

  MORITZ. No, more than guilt – mortal terror!

  MELCHIOR. God Almighty.

  MORITZ. I thought I was incurable. That I was suffering from some deep-rooted disease. – I only calmed down when I started writing my memoirs. You know, Melchior, these last three weeks have been my Garden of Gethsemane.

  MELCHIOR. I was more or less expecting it. I was a bit embarrassed. That’s all.

  MORITZ. And to think you’re almost a year younger than I am!

  MELCHIOR. I wouldn’t worry, Moritz. In my experience there’s no set age for these . . . manifestations. You know Lämmermeier? He’s three years older than me, but Hans Rilow says all he dreams of is cream cakes and apricot jam.

  MORITZ. How would Hans know?

  MELCHIOR. He asked him.

  MORITZ. He asked Lämmermeier? I would never dare ask anyone.

  MELCHIOR. You asked me.

  MORITZ. So I did. – I wonder if Hans has also made a will? – It’s a strange game they play with us, and yet we’re supposed to be grateful. I can’t remember ever wanting to feel such excitement. Why couldn’t I be left in peace? My parents could have had much more suitable children. But God knows how or why, I came along and feel as though I owe them an apology. – Have you ever wondered, Melchior, how we actually arrived in this madhouse?

  MELCHIOR. You mean you don’t know, Moritz?

  MORITZ. How could I? I see that hens lay eggs and I’m told that my mother carried me in her womb. Is that enough?3 I also notice I can hardly speak to a girl now without thinking – well, something disgusting, but – I swear to you, Melchior – I don’t know what.

  MELCHIOR. I’ll tell you everything. – I got it partly from books, partly from illustrations, partly by observing nature. You’ll be amazed. It made me turn atheist. I told Georg, and Georg was going to tell Hans, but Hans had already had everything explained to him as a child by his nanny.

  MORITZ. I’ve been through the Shorter Encyclopaedia from A to Z! Words – nothing but words! Not one simple explanation. Oh, this terrible feeling of shame! What use is an encyclopaedia that doesn’t answer life’s number one question?

  MELCHIOR. Have you ever watched dogs in the street?

  MORITZ. No, don’t! Don’t say anything now, Melchior. I still have to do Central America, Louis the Fifteenth, sixty verses of Homer, seven equations and a Latin composition. I can only swot with a clear head.

  MELCHIOR. Why don’t you come home with me? In less than an hour I’ll have finished the Homer, the equations and two compositions. I’ll smuggle a few harmless mistakes into yours. My mother will mix us some lemonade and we’ll have a nice cosy chat about reproduction.

  MORITZ. I can’t! I can’t have a nice cosy chat about reproduction! Do me a favour and write down everything you know. Keep it as simple as you can and slip it into one of my books during the sports lesson tomorrow. I’ll take it home with me without knowing it’s there. And then I’ll simply stumble across it one day . . . if it’s absolutely necessary you can add some illustrations in the margin.

  MELCHIOR. You’re like a girl, Moritz. – But if that’s what you want . . . it’ll be an interesting challenge. – One question, Moritz.

  MORITZ. Mmm?

  MELCHIOR. Have you ever seen a girl?

  MORITZ. Yes.

  MELCHIOR. I mean, all of her?

  MORITZ. Everything.

  MELCHIOR. Me too. Then illustrations won’t be necessary.

  MORITZ. At the fairground Anatomical Museum. If the school had found out, I’d probably have been expelled. – She was beautiful as a summer’s day, and so lifelike!

  MELCHIOR. I was with my mother in Frankfurt last summer – Are you going already, Moritz?

  MORITZ. Homework. – Good night.

  MELCHIOR. Good night.

  Scene Three

  WENDLA, THEA and MARTHA arm in arm.

  MARTHA. How the water gets in your shoes!

  WENDLA. How the wind sings around your ears!

  THEA. How your heart thumps!

  WENDLA. Let’s go to the bridge. They say whole trees and bushes have been swept away in the flood. The boys have built a raft. I heard Melchi Gabor almost drowned last night.

  THEA. But he’s such a good swimmer!

  MARTHA. Of
course he is.

  WENDLA. If he wasn’t a good swimmer, he would definitely have drowned.

  THEA. Your plait’s coming undone, Martha.

  MARTHA. Who cares! It drives me mad. I’m not allowed to cut my hair short, I’m not allowed to wear it loose like Wendla, I’m not allowed to have a fringe. Even at home I have to keep it in a plait – to please my aunts.

  WENDLA. I’ll bring a pair of scissors into religion tomorrow, and while you recite ‘Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,’ I’ll cut it off.

  MARTHA. For heaven’s sake, Wendla! Father will beat me black and blue, and Mother will lock me in the coal cellar.

  WENDLA. What does he beat you with, Martha?

  MARTHA. You know, I think they’d feel cheated if they didn’t have a misfit like me to pick on.

  THEA. Martha!

  MARTHA. Are you allowed to thread a light blue ribbon through the top of your nightdress?

  THEA. Pink satin. Mother says pink goes best with my eyes.

  MARTHA. Blue suits me. But Mother grabbed me by the hair when she saw it and pulled me out of bed. I landed on the floor on my knees. – Mother prays with us every night, you see . . .

  WENDLA. If I were you, I would have run away long ago.

  MARTHA. ‘So that’s what you’re up to!’ she says. ‘We’ll see about that, my girl. At least you won’t be able to blame your mother when something goes wrong.’

  THEA. Well I never!

  MARTHA. Do you know what she meant by that, Thea?

  THEA. No idea. What about you, Wendla?