WENDLA. I heard a knock at the door.
MRS BERGMANN. I heard nothing. (She goes to the door.)
WENDLA. I definitely heard a knock. – Who is it?
MRS BERGMANN. No one. – It’s just Mother Schmidt from the Gartenstrasse. I’m expecting her.
Scene Six
Men and women at work in a hillside vineyard. The sun is setting behind the mountains. Bells toll in the valley. On the highest terrace of vines, beneath overhanging rocks, HANS RILOW and ERNST RÖBEL are rolling in the dry grass.
ERNST. I’ve been working too hard.
HANS. Let’s not be sad. – It’s wasting precious minutes.
ERNST. You see the grapes hanging there, but you’re too exhausted to reach. Tomorrow they’ll all be pressed.
HANS. I hate feeling spent as much as I hate being hungry.
ERNST. I just can’t go on.
HANS. Just one more shiny muscatel.
ERNST. I don’t have the elasticity.
HANS. If I pull the branch down and swing it from my mouth to yours, neither of us has to move. We bite off the fruit and let the stems snap back to the vine.
ERNST. You think you’re done and, lo and behold, your vanished strength comes surging back again.
HANS. A fiery sunset – evening bells – I can’t see life getting any better than this.
ERNST. Sometimes I see myself as a parson, with a homely wife, a well-stocked library, and a cosy round of parish duties. I’ll have six days to think, and I’ll open my mouth on the seventh. As I walk round the parish, schoolchildren greet me politely, and back in the parsonage I am welcomed by steaming hot coffee and freshly baked cake, and girls bringing apples from the orchard. – Can you imagine anything more beautiful?
HANS. A Turkish boudoir. Half-closed eyelids. Half-parted lips. – I don’t believe in pious sentimentality. Grown-ups only look solemn to hide their ignorance. When we are not around, they call each other numskulls just like us. I know. – Perhaps, when I am a millionaire, I shall erect a huge tombstone to God. – I imagine the future as a milk pudding with cinnamon and sugar. You can upset the plate and then scream like a baby. Or you can put your back out stirring it all into an unholy mess. Or you can skim the cream off the top. Do you think we could learn to do that?
ERNST. Let’s skim a little of the cream.
HANS. The chickens will eat the rest.
ERNST. Let’s skim the cream, Hans. – What are you smiling at?
HANS. Are you starting again?
ERNST. Somebody has to start.
HANS. Thirty years from now, when we both think back to this day, it may seem indescribably beautiful.
ERNST. How effortless and spontaneous everything seems.
HANS. And why not?
ERNST. If I were alone now, I might even shed a tear.
HANS. Don’t be sad. (He kisses ERNST on the lips.)
ERNST (kissing him back). I came out intending to speak to you, and then go straight back home.
HANS. I was expecting you. – Virtue is such an elegant suit of clothes, but you have to have the figure for it.
ERNST. It’s a size too big for us. – If I hadn’t found you, I wouldn’t have had any peace. Hans, I have never loved anyone as I love you.
HANS. Don’t be sad. – If we remember all this in thirty years’ time, we might laugh. But now – it’s heaven. The mountains glow; the grapes hang in our mouths and the evening breeze strokes the cliffs like a naughty little kitten.
Scene Seven
Bright November night. Tattered clouds chase across the moon. MELCHIOR climbs over the churchyard wall.
MELCHIOR. I can throw them off the scent in here. While they’re searching the brothels, I’ll get my breath and take stock of my situation. Jacket in shreds, pockets empty. I’m vulnerable to anyone I meet. When dawn comes, I’ll escape through the woods. – I knocked a cross over back there. – The frost will kill the flowers tonight. Nothing but bare ground. The land of the dead.
Climbing through that skylight was nothing compared to this. I wasn’t prepared for this.22 Why her? Why not me? I’m the guilty one. – The inscrutable ways of Providence. I would have worked so hard, broken stones in a quarry, gone hungry . . . What is there now to keep me honest? From one crime to the next. Deeper and deeper into the swamp. Without the strength to put an end to it.
I wasn’t bad! – I wasn’t bad! – I wasn’t bad . . .
No mortal ever stepped over graves with such envy in his heart. But I wouldn’t have the courage to do it. It would be easier if I went mad tonight. The freshly dug ones are over here. I’d better take a look. The wind is whistling on every headstone in a different key. A symphony of pain. The wreaths are rotting and dangle in shreds – a forest of scarecrows guarding each grave. The willows groan and grope at the epitaphs. There’s evergreen around this one.
HERE RESTS IN GOD
WENDLA BERMANN
BORN 5TH MAY 1878
DIED OF ANAEMIA
27TH OCTOBER 1892
I killed her. I murdered her. I mustn’t cry here. I must leave.
MORITZ comes stomping across the graves with his head under his arm.
MORITZ. Wait a minute, Melchior. It might be ages before we get another chance. If you knew how much depends on time and place –
MELCHIOR. Where have you come from?
MORITZ. Back there, by the wall. You knocked my cross over. Shake hands, Melchior. This is a strange meeting.
MELCHIOR. You can’t be Moritz Stiefel.
MORITZ. Shake hands. You won’t regret it. And you won’t find it so easy another time. I came up especially.
MELCHIOR. So you’re not at peace?
MORITZ. Not what you call peace. We perch on church spires, on chimneys –
MELCHIOR. In torment?
MORITZ. No, for fun. We skulk around maypoles, or hover above fairgrounds, or just crouch behind the stove in people’s houses. We avoid each other’s company, but we see and hear everything that happens among the living, and laugh at human stupidity.
MELCHIOR. What use is that?
MORITZ. Why should it be of use? We’re beyond earthly matters, good and bad. Each of us is a world unto himself.23 We’d feel sorry for the living if we didn’t despise them so much. They amuse us with their pretensions. We laugh at their little tragedies and make ironic observations. You know, I stood among the mourners at my own funeral, and really enjoyed myself. It was sublime. At first I wailed louder than anyone, but then I couldn’t stop laughing. I’m told they laughed at me too, until I rose to their level. Come on, shake hands.
MELCHIOR. I don’t feel like laughing at myself.
MORITZ. The living don’t deserve our pity. I never thought I would think that, but it’s true. Now that I see through the lies and deceit, I wonder how any of us could have been so naive. – Why do you hesitate, Melchior? Shake hands. In the blink of an eye you’ll be high above yourself, looking down.
MELCHIOR. Can you forget?
MORITZ. We can do anything. We can smile at the young who mistake their frustrations for idealism, and the old who bear so much heartbreak in dignified silence. We observe Emperors quake at the words of a popular song, or beggars tremble as they ponder the Day of Judgement.24 We watch lovers blush in the act of making love, and we smile in the knowledge that each is deceiving the other. We see mothers give birth so that they and their husbands can say, ‘What lucky children you are to have such parents!’ – a boast repeated by the next generation, and the next.25 And we smile most of all at the fight between God and the Devil, for we know it’s no more than a brawl between two drunken idiots! – It’s a wonderful feeling, Melchior. It’s sublime. All you have to do is give me your little finger. By the time you get such a favourable opportunity again, your hair may have turned white with grief.
MELCHIOR. If I do this, Moritz, I do it out of self-disgust. I’m an outcast. The hope that gave me courage is here, buried in a nearby grave. I’ve become unfit for honest human emo
tions, and I can see nothing standing between me – and degradation. I feel I’m the most contemptible creature in the universe.
MORITZ. Then why do you hesitate?
Enter a MASKED MAN.
THE MASKED STRANGER. You’re faint with hunger, young man. You’re in no fit state to make a decision. (To MORITZ.) Be off with you.
MELCHIOR. Who are you?
THE MASKED MAN. All in good time. (To MORITZ.) I told you to disappear. What are you doing here anyway? Why aren’t you wearing your head?
MORITZ. I shot it off.
THE MASKED MAN. Take it with you and get back in the ground where you belong. You’re done with, now. Don’t molest the living with your cemetery stench. Look at those fingers. They’re rotting away. Disgusting.
MORITZ. Please don’t send me away.
MELCHIOR. Who are you, sir?
MORITZ. Don’t send me away! Please. Let me stay for a while. I won’t argue. I just want to listen. It’s so gruesome down there.
THE MASKED MAN. So what was all that boasting about the sublime? You know it’s all humbug. Sour grapes. Why do you tell so many lies? You headless flibbertigibbet! Stay if you must, if you think you’ll profit by it. But spare us your irony, my friend – and your lethal handshake.
MELCHIOR. Will you please tell me who you are?
THE MASKED MAN. No. – Your first task will be to trust me. My first task will be to organise your escape.
MELCHIOR. What are you? My father?
THE MASKED MAN. Wouldn’t you know your father by his voice?
MELCHIOR. No.
THE MASKED MAN. Your father is currently seeking comfort in the strong embrace of your mother. – Let me open the secrets of the world to you. This momentary despair comes only from your wretched situation. You’ll feel very different with a hot dinner inside you.
MELCHIOR (to himself). They can’t both be the Devil. – My guilt is so great, it will take more than a hot dinner to ease my conscience.
THE MASKED MAN. That depends on the dinner. – But I’ll tell you this – that girl would have given birth beautifully. She was perfectly designed for it. It was Mother Schmidt’s abortion pills that killed her. – I shall take you back amongst the living. I shall broaden your horizons in ways that will astonish you. I shall acquaint you with everything interesting that the world has to offer.
MELCHIOR. But who are you? I can’t put my trust in someone I don’t know.
THE MASKED MAN. You will only get to know me by trusting me first. Besides, you don’t have an alternative.
MELCHIOR. I can shake hands with my friend at any moment.
THE MASKED MAN. Your friend is a charlatan. No one smiles like that who still has cash in his pocket. There is no more miserable creature on the planet than the Smiling Ironic Observer.
MELCHIOR. Miserable or not, either you take off your mask and tell me who you are – or the Ironic Observer and I shake on it.
THE MASKED MAN (to MORITZ). Well?
MORITZ. He’s right, Melchior. I was bluffing. Take his advice, and don’t be put off by the disguise. At least he has a face worth hiding.
MELCHIOR. Do you believe in God?
THE MASKED MAN. Depends on the circumstances.
MELCHIOR. Who invented gunpowder?
THE MASKED MAN. Berthold Schwarz – alias Konstantin Anklitzen – a Franciscan monk, at Freiburg in 1330.
MORITZ. I wish to God he hadn’t.
THE MASKED MAN. You would have hanged yourself instead.
MELCHIOR. What are your views on morality?
THE MASKED MAN. Am I in school? Are you my teacher?
MORITZ. Don’t quarrel! Please don’t quarrel! What good will it do? Why do we sit in a cemetery at two in the morning, one of us dead and two of us living, if we all end up bickering like drunks? I thought I would enjoy a little live debate. If you two want to argue, I’ll take my head and go.
MELCHIOR. You’re still as highly strung as ever, Moritz.
THE MASKED MAN. The ghost has a point. We shouldn’t lose our dignity. You were asking about morality. Morality, in my view, is the real product of two imaginary entities. The imaginary entities are called Duty and Free Will. The product is called Morality and its existence is undeniable.
MORITZ. Couldn’t you have explained that to me sooner? My morality was the death of me. I blew my brains out to spare my parents. ‘Honour thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long upon the earth.’ The Good Book got it horribly wrong in my case.
THE MASKED MAN. Don’t delude yourself, my friend. Your parents didn’t need to be spared, any more than you needed to kill yourself. To be perfectly frank, they would have raged and ranted for a day or two, mainly for the sake of their health.
MELCHIOR. That may be true. But I can tell you for certain that if I’d shaken hands with Moritz just now, it would have been to satisfy my morality.
THE MASKED MAN. And because you’re not Moritz, you didn’t.
MORITZ. Surely there isn’t that much difference between us? At least, not so much that you couldn’t have crossed my path, Mr Stranger, when I was edging towards the river with my pistol in my pocket.
THE MASKED MAN. So you didn’t recognise me? – Even at the very last moment, you were delicately poised between life and death. – Brrrr! I’m sorry, but this is hardly the place to prolong such an interesting discussion.
MORITZ. You’re right, sir, it’s getting cold. They buried me in my Sunday suit, Melchior, but forgot my shirt and underwear.
MELCHIOR. Goodbye, Moritz. I don’t know where this fellow will lead me, but at least he’s flesh and blood.
MORITZ. Forgive me, Melchior, for trying to take you with me. It was only for friendship’s sake. I would happily spend a lifetime feeling miserable if I could only accompany you again out of this place.
THE MASKED MAN. In the end everyone gets his due: for you, the comforting knowledge of having nothing; for you, the agonising uncertainty of everything to come.
MELCHIOR. Goodbye, Moritz. Thank you for coming back to see me. I shall remember all the happy carefree hours we spent together. I promise you that, whatever happens to me in the future, however I may alter with the years, you I will never forget.
MORITZ. Thank you. You’re still my best friend.
MELCHIOR. And when at last I am an old man with white hair, you may be closer to me again than any living person.
MORITZ. Thank you. Have a good journey, gentlemen.Don’t let me detain you.
THE MASKED MAN. Come along, young man.
The MASKED MAN and MELCHIOR go.
MORITZ. I’ll stay here till they’ve gone. – (A shadow passes across his face.) The moon is hiding behind a cloud. When it returns, it won’t look any wiser.
A pale light reappears.
What did I tell you? – It’s time to retrieve my cross from wherever that hothead has kicked it, then stretch out in my box, take what comfort I can from the progress of my decay, and smile . . .
Notes on this Translation
The biggest challenge facing any translator of this play is the school staffroom scene (Act III Scene 1). The Headmaster’s monologue is a comic masterpiece of pedantic circumlocution that parodies a particular German academic mindset. It cannot honestly be claimed that any literal version does justice to Wedekind’s dry humour, which largely depends on his teasing use of the rules of German syntax that can defer a key verb to the end of a long sentence (thus keeping the listener in suspense as to what is actually being said). Our guiding principle here and elsewhere was to be ‘as close (to the original text) as possible, as free as necessary’, recognising that strict adherence to the letter can sometimes mean sacrificing the spirit. So we have taken a few liberties with Act III Scene 1, in particular paraphrasing one of the Head’s more syntactically complex passages. The ‘nickname’ element in the teachers’ names might be lost on English readers and audiences if they were left in the original German, and we have been relatively free in choosing English equivalents.
There is no reason why producing theatres should not alter these to suit the physical or other characteristics of the actors cast in the roles.
It should not be forgotten that Wedekind initially wrote Spring Awakening to be published, not expecting it to be immediately performed. A sense of momentum while reading is different from a sense of momentum in performance. Precisely because the play’s structure is so fragmentary, Wedekind’s own performance requirements as quoted in our introduction – ‘harmless, sunny, light-hearted’ – may best be served by some textual cuts and minor structural alterations that, for a modern audience, enhance the play’s dramatic and comic momentum.
In performance, the play as it stands can seem too fragmented in the second half (Act III). Repositioning the Hans/Ernst dialogue (abridged) to the end of the burial scene, realigning the Gabor and Bergmann scenes, and going straight from the borstal to the final scene in the cemetery, separates and rounds off the individual stories in ways that drive the action forward. This is particularly so where theatre economics dictate that five schoolboys should double with the borstal inmates and five teachers with Mr Gabor, the Doctor, Prokrustes, the Locksmith, and the Masked Man. The boys are freed up early to reappear later in the borstal. Bringing the Hans/Ernst story forward to the burial scene is controversial, in that it makes their relationship more tentative. The loss can be offset by the contrast of death with the only love story in the play, and a poignant reminder of the contest between Ernst and Moritz for the last place in the upper classroom. Repositioning Wendla’s monologue (slightly abridged) to the end of the hayloft scene achieves comparable benefits in Act II.
These changes were tested over three productions, including one in German. We have compromised in this edition by restoring Wedekind’s original order of scenes but retaining some of the cuts for the sake of fluency. We advise anyone intending to produce the play in this translation to consider incorporating the structural changes as clarified below.
Wedekind said of an actress who played Lulu (not his wife): ‘The art is in what you leave out. She has put it all back in.’ In the belief that modern audiences may take less kindly than in Wedekind’s day to having things spelled out for them (Moritz’s frequent premonitions of death, for example), we have left a few things out. For those who would like them back in, the cuts are reinstated below scene by scene as numbered in the text.
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