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PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER IN
CARL STERNHEIM’S DIE KASSETTE.
THOMAS MANN’S DER ZAUBERBERG. AND
MARIELUISE FLEIBER’S PIONIERE IN INGOLSTADT
DISSERTATION
Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for
the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate
School of The Ohio State University
By
Ann Bladder Young, B.A., M.A.
*****
The Ohio State University
1 9 9 5
Dissertation Committee: Approved by
Mark Roche
Hugo Bekker Adviser Department of Germanic Linda Rugg Languages and Literatures UMI Number: 9534099
Copyright 1995 by Young, Ann Blackler All rights reserved.
DMI Microform 9534099 Copyright 1995, by DMI Company. All rights reserved.
This microform edition is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, Onited States Code.
UMI 300 North Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, MI 48103 Copyright by Ann Blackler Young 1 9 9 5 To Bernie
I I ACKNOWŒDGMEIsrrS
I would like to thank those individuals who helped me complete this project. I am grateful to Drs. Hugo Bekker and Linda Rugg who served on my committee and who offered valuable comments and recommendations throughout the writing process. I would especially like to thank my adviser, Dr. Mark Roche, for both his critical reading and his continual words of encouragement. Many thanks also to my husband, Greg, who read every last word—even when he really didn’t want to!
111 VITA
August 29, 1964 Bom— Long Beach, C a lifo rn ia
1986 B.A., Linfield College McMinnville, Oregon
1988 M.A., The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio
1986-1992 Graduate Teaching and Research Associate, The Ohio State U n ive rsity
1992-Present German Instructor, Reynoldsburg City Schools, Reynoldsburg, Ohio
FIELDS OF STUDY
Major Field: German
I V TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION ...... il
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS...... i l l
VITA ...... IV
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCTION ...... 1
Scholarly Research on Photography and Literature . 4 Choice of Time F r a m e...... 10 Selection of Primary T e x ts...... 14 The Relationship between Photography and L iteratu re...... 16 Photography in Literature: Some Common Themes . 22 The Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer Texts: Common Bonds through Photography...... 2 5
II. CARL STERNHEIM’S DIE KASSETTE: PHOTOGRAPHY AS MEDIATION ...... 3 4
Die Kassette in Sternheim Scholarship . 36 The Interrelationship between the Strongbox and Photography...... 41 Krull, Elsbeth, and Fanny: Relationships Mediated through Photographs...... 51 The Relationship between Fanny and Elsbeth . 58 Seidenschnur, Lydia, Emma, and Fanny: The Role of the Camera in Male-Female Relationships . 62 Seidenschnur as a Photographer/Artist . .7 0 Photographs and the Private S p h ere...... 76 Seidenschnur’s Photographs and Technology . .8 2 C onclusion...... 85
III. PHOTOGRAPHS IN DER ZAUBERBERG: TIME, DEATH, AND HANS CASTORP'S SEARCH FOR IDENTITY ...... 8 7
Photography and T im e...... 92 X-rays, Death, and Disease: a Photographic Glimpse behind the Facade...... 122 Photography and Hans Castorp's Search for Id e n tity...... 139 Dr. Krokowski as a Photographer Figure . .169 Photography and Parody...... 173 C onclusion...... 177
IV. TABLEAU AND PHOTOGRAPHY IN FLEIBER’S PIONIERE IN INGOLSTADT ...... 182
The Tableau...... 183 1928 Version...... 195 1929 Version...... 2 0 3 1968 Version...... 2 1 4 C onclusion...... 2 2 2
CONCLUSION ...... 2 2 4
BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 2 4 4
VI CHAPTER I
Introduction
As an artistic medium, literature has always had the capacity for reflection. It presents, through words, an image of society—or a certain segment of society—that attempts to portray life in a new way. Its mode of presentation may be an affirmation of the picture presented or it may call on people to change what they see around them. Given this nature of literature, it is not surprising that it would concern itself with other artistic forms of representation.
From very early on, authors integrated paintings (usually portraits) and painters into their works. This allowed for reflection on the way in which humans envision themselves as well as on how they are envisioned by others. In addition, it was a convenient method of integrating debates on the meaning and value of art itself into literary texts.
With the increasing industrialization of society in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however, authors were forced for the first time to deal with life on the brink of sudden and
1 constant change. Technology revolutionized not only matters of everyday life but also the way in which we perceived ourselves and our existence. The camera—with its objective eye and apparently infallible ability to reproduce nature—became a representative manifestation of a new mode of “seeing” in which the individual had been shaken from its central position in the universe:
The camera isolated momentary appearances and in so doing destroyed the idea that images were timeless. [. . .] What you saw depended upon where you were when. What you saw was relative to your position in time and space. It was no longer possible to imagine everything converging on the human eye as on the vanishing point of infinity. This is not to say that before the invention of the camera men believed that everyone could see everything. But perspective organized the visual field as though that were indeed the ideal. Every drawing or painting that used perspective proposed to the spectator that he was the unique centre of the world. The camera—and more particularly the movie camera—demonstrated that there was no centre. The invention of the camera changed the way men saw (J. Berger, Wavs of Seeing 18).i
1 In support of this point, Berger also quotes an article written in 1923 by Dziga Vertov, the revolutionary Soviet film director: "The inherent contradiction in perspective was that it structured all images of reality to address a single spectator who, unlike God, could only be in one place at a time. After the invention of the camera this contradiction gradually became apparent. Tm an eye. A mechanical eye. I, the machine, show you a world the way only I can see it. I free myself for today and forever from human immobility. I’m in constant movement. I approach and pull away from objects. I creep under them. I move alongside a running horse’s mouth. I fall and rise with the falling and rising bodies. This is I, the machine, manoeuvring in the chaotic movements, recording one movement after another in the most complex combinations. Freed from the boundaries of time and space, I co-ordinate any and all points of the universe, wherever I want them to be. My way leads towards the creation of a fresh perception of the world. Thus I explain in a new way the world unknown to you’” fWavs of Seeing 17). Like painting earlier, photography began to appear with some regularity in dramas and novels around the turn of the century.^
While this was sometimes merely a reflection of daily activities and concerns, it was often utilized for much more complex purposes, for exposing and criticizing societal mechanisms or for trying by a new means to come to terms with age-old topics such as human relationships, love, and death. In many ways, photography was entirely suited to such goals because it offered a revolutionary— indeed sometimes frightening— new look at both everyday objects and the common person.
2 In his book on photography and literature Erwin Koppen draws attention to the Realists’ eagerness to include descriptions of photographs in their works, this despite— or perhaps because of—the art’s relative youth: “Das Lichtbild wird zum prototypischen Abbild des Menschen, das gemalte Portrat zur exklusiven Besonderheit und zum Privileg der Begüterten. Und fur diese neuen Wirklichkeiten gilt das gleiche wie fur alle anderen neuen Wirklichkeiten des 19. Jahrhunderts, die durch technische Erfindungen geschaffen wurden: Sie warden, insbesondere von den Realisten, in Literatur überführt, sei es als bloBe Versatzstücke aktueller Realitât oder als seibstandige literarische Themen mit der Attraktion der Novitat. Wie seibstverstandlich tauchen also in zahlreichen literarischen Werken der zweiten Halfte des 19. Jahrhunderts Motive und Themen aus dem Bereich der Photographie auf, in der Regel vorerst nur als Attribute des zeitgenôssischen Alltags. Dort übernahm allmâhlich, den realen Zustànden folgend, die Photographie die Funktion, die früher das gemalte Bild innehatte. Gegen Ende des Jahrhunderts ist dieser Vorgang bereits so gut wie abgeschlossen” (60). Scholarly Research on Photography and Literature
Although a great deal has been written about photography in regard to Its history, technology, and development as an art form,3 relatively little work has been done on its relationship to literature.
The connection between these two art forms, their similarities and differences, has thus been left vastly unexplored as has the integration of “literary” photographs into specific works of prose and drama. Of the research that has been produced in this area, the majority is concerned with either French or American literature, something that is not surprising when one considers the revolutionary photographic developments that took place in these two countries. The most all-encompassing book on photography and literature to date, however, was written by a German writer for a
German-speaking audience, thus indicating that there is also a certain amount of interest in the topic there as well. Erwin
Koppen’s work. Photographie und Literatur: Ùber Geschichte und
Thematik einer Medienentdeckung is quite broad in scope and, in that sense, both very helpful to and very different from my own more
3 Much of this work comes not only in the form of essays and books by art critics but also from the photographers themselves. A great many photographers contemplated the nature of their art through words. And while their thoughts (along with those of the critics) often have no direct connection to literature, they are often valuable in opening up new possibilités for the interpretation of texts that involve photography as a theme. text-oriented goals.^ In discussing the connection between
photography and literature, Koppen draws on works from a wide
variety of national traditions and supplements this with a good deal
of background information on the development of photography itself.
He concentrates on an examination of how and why photography
gradually became a part of the literary medium and is able to touch
on a great many themes that authors have developed by integrating
photographs or photographers into their fiction.^ His work is therefore very useful in both the most basic step of finding primary texts as well as in the task of trying to identify trends and draw
connections between a wide variety of authors and works. Because of this very breadth, though, Koppen is not able to discuss or develop
readings of any literary works in great detail. He hopes instead that his discoveries may lead readers to employ their own powers of
4 In her article “Photography and Literature: The First Seventy Years”, Ann Wilsher takes an approach similar to Koppen’s— although limited greatly in terms of both time period and number of works covered. She does, however, briefly examine the appearance of photographs and photographers in a large number of minor works as well as in those more generally known. She also gives some attention to the role that photographic vocabulary began to play in literary works shortly after the appearance of the camera.
5 Also of interest on this subject is Jefferson Hunter’s book Image and Word: The Interaction of Twentieth-Century Photographs and Texts. Although Hunter’s primary focus is on the integration of actual photographs into texts and the way in which they interact with the words (often captions) around them, he does examine the relationship between writing and photography in some detail. interpretation in re-examining some of the texts that he touches on:
“Dementsprechend vertritt die Arbeit auch keine Thesen oder
Hypothesen und mochte allenfalls ihre Leser dazu provozieren, anhand der vorgelegten Befunde selbst solche zu formulieren" (11).
His work thus provides an excellent springboard for anyone wishing to explore more deeply the relationship between photography and literature as it appears in specific texts.
Koppen’s work is of further interest in that it gives equal treatment to both actual photographs integrated into texts and what
I have termed “literary” photographs. While he discusses the two with little distinction, my study focuses exclusively on the
“literary” variety. These are images that have been created out of words as opposed to real pictures that the author has placed next to or surrounded by text. Clearly, there is a strong connection between the two: both can be interpreted as having qualities unique to a photograph, and both give rise to questions about the complementary
(or possibly contradictory) relationship between photography and literature. There are, however, important distinctions that must also be drawn. As Koppen himself notes, works that use actual photographs are often considered to be of lesser literary value because the visible presence of the image tends to overwhelm the words:
Es kann nàmlich kein Zweifel daran bestehen, da3 den Gegenstand dieses Buches [The Pencil of Nature] die Photographie darstellt und das Wort nur dazu dient, diesen Gegenstand zusatzllch zu erhellen: Verbum ancllla photographias. Dieser Typus des Buches, das Text und Photographie In elnem Werk vereint, 1st aber zwelfellos der llterarlsch wenlger ergleblge (204).
In addition, actual photographs give the text an added dimension that could be undesirable In an analysis that Is primarily literary In nature. Questions about an author’s reasons for Including an unexplained photograph, for example, could lead the Interpretation
Into areas of pure speculation and away from more Important thematic Issues. An actual photograph would also lend a solid form, a “reality”, to literary characters and objects that would distract from their true power In the realm of Ideas. That there Is Indeed a possibility for confusion between “literary” and actual photographs becomes especially clear In dramas. Here, the additional dimension of staging potentially allows “literary” photographs to become real ones. And with each enactment, the photographs presented to the audience would certainly be different, thus allowing for continually
new Interpretations. While this may not be an Issue of vital
Importance with Die Kassette and Plonlere In Ingolstadt (since they 8
could easily be staged without allowing the audience to see the
photographs), it is certainly a topic worthy of further investigation.
Beyond Koppen’s Literatur und Photographie, there are several
other works that, although less directly related to literature, are of
importance on a theoretical level. Walter Benjamin’s two essays,
“Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit” and “Kleine Geschichte der Photographie” bring up issues that had always been the concern of authors and critics but which were now further complicated by the birth of industrialization. He questions the fate of art in the age of technology and asks how perceptions of what art is— or should be—have changed now that technological advances, such as the camera, are readily available to the masses.^
Two more recent theoretical attempts to come to terms with
6 Benjamin argues, among other things, that the capability to reproduce artworks mechanically destroys the "aura" surrounding the originals: “Man kann, was hier ausfàllt, im Begriff der Aura zusammenfassen und sagen: was im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzierbarkeit des Kunstwerks verkümmert, das ist seine Aura. Der Vorgang ist symptomatisch; seine Bedeutung weist Ciber den Bereich der Kunst hinaus. Die Reprodukiionstechnik, so lieBe sich aiigemein formulieren, lost das Reproduzierte aus dem Bereich der Tradition ab. Indem sie die Reproduktion vervielfàitigt, setzt sie an die Steiie seines einmaligen Vorkommens sein massenweises. Und indem sie der Reproduktion erlaubt, dem Aufnehmenden in seiner jeweiligen Situation entgegenzukommen, aktualisiert sie das Reproduzierte (Kunstwerk 13). With the concern for the original no longer an issue, Benjamin is then able to examine photography in a political context:“In dem Augenblick aber, da der MaBstab der Echtheit an der Kunstproduktion versagt, hat sich auch die gesamte soziale Funktion der Kunst umgewàlzt. An die Steiie ihrer Fundierung aufs Ritual tritt ihre Fundierung auf eine andere Praxis: nàmlich ihre Fundierung auf PolitiK' (Kunstwerk 18). photography and the effects it has had on our image of ourselves—as well as others—are Roland Barthes’ Camera Lucida and Susan
Sontag’s On Photography. Both of these are much more personally written than Benjamin’s essays/ but the questions they raise are of great importance in trying to unlock the meaning and mystery behind the photograph. They indicate that humanity’s seemingly inexplicable fascination v/ith photography is rooted in far deeper issues, such as modes of perception, the separation between public and private spheres, and even life and death. While point of view and general attitudes towards art may certainly have changed in the decades that separate Barthes’ and Sontag’s thoughts from those of the authors considered here, there is no doubt that their contemplations, along with the critical attention they have received, are of value in analyzing the interrelationship of photography and literature.
7 Barthes’ study is in fact an intensely personal one as it records his own painful attempts to come to terms with his mother’s death: “There I was, alone in the apartment where she had died, looking at these pictures of my mother, one by one, under the lamp, gradually moving back in time with her, looking for the truth of the face I had loved. And I found it’’ (67). 1 0
Choice of Time Frame
While no period of time can ever be viewed as a neatly packaged entity, and while all limitations are to a certain extent artificial, the years from approximately 1900-1930 do offer logical boundaries for an examination of photography’s relationship to literature. Photographs did not play a major role in any German literary texts until the turn of the century,® and political events in
Germany during the 1930’s, i.e., the end of the Weimar Republic and the rise of Hitler, had such drastic effects on society that it would never again be possible for Germans to view art in the same way.
But beyond the political issues, a number of other factors justify a distinction between photography— both technologically and in its representation in literature— in the first three decades of the century and in the post-war period.
8 Koppen points out that the photographic process had already been in existence for many years before it became a popular literary motif: “Wahrend die Massen bei der Vorstellung der Photographie jubelten, hielt man sich auf literarischer Ebene zurück. [. . .] Dies ist übrigens für das Verhàitnis der Literatur zu technischen und wissenschaftlichen Phanomenen durchaus typisch. [. . .] Es gibt praktisch keine groGe technische Erfindung oder wissenschaftliche Entwicklung, die von den Autoren sofort in ihrer Bedeutung erkannt oder gar literarisch thematisiert worden ware" (36-37). Wilsher concurs: “Such major writers [Charlotte Bronte, Thoreau] did not, however, do very much more than play for a moment with the new invention. Once the first fever of excitement had died down, photography was allowed little or no part in the shaping of their plots, let alone their themes and reflections" (223). 11
The early years of the twentieth century were the first
moment of what was to become, through technology, a time of
continual and radical changes in everyday life. For the first time,
people were constantly forced to re-evaluate their images of themselves and others because society— in its increasing
mechanization—was changing so much more quickly than ever before.
It was, ironically, a product of technology—the camera—that best
allowed people to perceive the increased rate of change brought
about by the very mechanization it represented.® Photography was
then both an agent of change as well as the most efficient means of
detecting the change that it had helped bring about. With the rise
of technology, art too cam«. under a new sort of scrutiny. As Walter
Benjamin pointed out, technological advancements, including
photography, undermined all traditional notions of art:
9 Also ironic is the fact that one perceives the pace of time through the moment of stillness represented in the photograph. Taken together, these “frozen moments” give the concept of aging— and therefore also the passage of time— graphic visual form.
10 As Alain Corbin points out, it was the camera that first enabled people physically to glimpse into the lives of long dead relatives, to see them as they dressed and lived and naturally to draw comparisons between those images and their own present state: “An aid to memory, photographs changed the nature of nostalgia. For the first time a majority of people were able to look at images of dead ancestors and unknown relatives. It became possible to see the youth of people with whom one rubbed elbows daily” (465). This possibility also extended, of course, to the purely individual confrontation with the past: aging and the inevitablity of death became visible on the most personal of planes. 12
Hatte man vordem vielen vergeblichen Scharfsinn an die Entscheldung der Frage gewandt, ob die Photographie eine Kunst sei—ohne die Vorfrage sich gestellt zu haben: ob nicht durch die Erfindung der Photographie der Gesamtcharakter der Kunst sich veràndert habe—so übernahmen die Filmtheoretiker bald die entsprechende voreilige Fragestellung (Kunstwerk 22).
Art could now be produced—or reproduced—within a matter of minutes, and the artist was no longer in immediate contact with the work being created;
Mit der Photographie war die Hand im ProzeB bildlicher Reproduktion zum ersten Mai von den wichtigsten künstlerischen Obliegenheiten entlastet, welche nunmehr dem ins Objektiv blickenden Auge allein zufielen. Da das Auge schneller erfaBt, als die Hand zeichnet, so wurde der ProzeB bildlicher Reproduktion so ungeheuer beschleunigt, daB er mit dem Sprechen Schritt halten konnte (Kunstwerk 10-11).
Reflecting these general concerns, literary depictions of photography and photographers from this era tend to concentrate on or at least emphasize the process of taking a picture. Sternheim’s
Die Kassette. for instance, dedicates a significant amount of space to a detailed description of Seidenschnur posing and photographing
Lydia. In Der Zauberberg Mann gives quite intricate explanations of the x-ray procedure. And even FleiBer's career photographer in
Pioniere in Ingolstadt. who is clearly interested only in the money he hopes to make, takes some time and care when posing his 1 3
subjects. Later works in which photography plays a significant role
seem to shift the emphasis from the process to the final product,
most often a snapshot.^ ^ In contrast to literature from the early
part of the century, post-war works very often use photographs for
their documentary nature, to prove that someone or something
existed or did something at a certain moment in time. They provide
a means of working through the past for people who might otherwise
be unwilling or unable to face an unpleasant personal and/or
national history.12 While the questions raised by the use of
photographs in these later works are certainly not unrelated to those that concerned earlier authors, there are differences that justify examining them independently of one another.
11 Prominent examples of this include Grass’ Die Blechtrommel (Oskar recreates his past by looking through a family photo album) and two of Boll’s works, Gruppenbild mit Dame and Die verlorene Eh re der Katharina Blum.
12 This documentary nature of photographs was particularly well-suited to the aims of many post-war German authors in their attempts to come to terms with their past—the rise of Hitler and the Holocaust—through literature. Photographs had the power to place people in situations and activities that they might otherwise prefer to forget. Kathleen Thorpe’s examination of the photographs in Thomas Bernhard’s novel Ausloschuna serves as a good example of this phenomenon: “Unmasking the myth of Austria as solely a victim of National Socialism during the years 1938-1945 is the task which Thomas Bernhard has set himself in his novel Ausloschuna. Photographs of Austrians cheering Adolf Hitler into Vienna are widely known. Bernhard accomplishes his self-imposed task by seeking out evidence of Austrian complicity which has been covered up; he too has photographs’ as ‘documentary’ evidence" (39). 14
Selection of Primary Texts
In order even to be feasible a study of this sort must operate within parameters. This is achieved not only by narrowing one’s focus to a specific time period but also by limiting the number of texts being examined. Because my primary interest here is interpretation through close readings— rather than a more all- encompassing history of where and by whom photographs are integrated into various works of literature— it was particularly important to focus on a small number of texts. Of the countless works including photographs on some level, I considered only those that employ photography as something more than a mere relic or prop. In addition, the texts had to be of such a quality that their messages extend beyond a small audience, i.e., they needed to have themes with universal appeal. The three works whose interpretations form the central chapters were chosen for the important (even if at first glance seemingly minor) role that photography plays in them and for the different possibilities that each suggests about the relationship between photography and literature. Carl Sternheim’s Die Kassette. Thomas Mann’s Der
Z a u b e rb e rq . and Marieluise FleiBer’s Pioniere in Ingolstadt all offer 15
interesting yet very diverse perspectives on this use of an art
within an art.
The Sternheim text is of particular interest for a number of
reasons. Its author counts among the most prominent playwrights of the twentieth century, yet his works have received surprisingly
little attention from literary critics up to this point. The
possibility for making original contributions to the reading of a play
such as Die Kassette is, therefore, still great. Also of special
significance is the fact that one of the drama's central characters
is a photographer by profession. His presence necessarily leads to
questions about the nature of photography as an art—questions that
are considered on a thematic level within the framework of the play.
Because of its prominent place in the canon of not only German but
also world literature, Der Zauberberq also seemed an obvious choice
for inclusion in a study of this nature. It is extremely rich in
themes and details, and it was a powerful influence on many later
works. While the Thomas Mann criticism has become even more
voluminous than the original texts themselves, the connection to
photography and its relation to a breadth of the work’s important
philosophical considerations have been left relatively untouched. As
evidenced by a number of essays he left behind, Mann himself was 16
clearly fascinated by the development of photography and the possibilities it offeredThese writings, together with the novel, present a unique perspective on the interplay between technology and literature. The FleiBer drama acts as a complement to the
Sternheim and Mann texts. A non-canonical work, it plays with tradition from a feminist viewpoint and thus demonstrates the versatility of photography in the hands of an author. In addition, the three versions of Pioniere in Ingolstadt span approximately forty years, allowing for a small-scale diachronic examination of photography in literature. Approaching these works from an angle that is different from those previously attempted allows me to ask some new questions of the texts as well as some old questions in a new way.
The Relationship Between Photography and Literature
The appearance of photographs (in descriptive form) in literary works gives rise to a complex set of interrelated questions, the heart of which revolves around the very nature of the two art forms.
What are their similarities and differences? How can one be used effectively within the other? What are the limitations of each and
13 See especially “Die Welt 1st schon”, “Ciber den Film", and “Unterhaltungsmacht Film." 17
how can a knowledge of these limitations be used productively?
And, finally, what exactly is it about photography that attracts its inclusion by so many authors? While these are perhaps questions without definitive answers, their exploration does open new avenues of interpretation to the reader; they demand that one look beyond the surface—whether it be of a snapshot or a narrative—to get at the larger issues buried below. This is clearly demonstrated in what is one of literature’s most well-known appeals to photography,
Christopher Isherwood’s “A Berlin Diary (Autumn 1930).” He introduces his story with an analogy that seems, on the surface of things, to be quite simple; he compares the writer with a camera:
From my window, the deep solemn massive street. Cellar- shops where the lamps burn all day, under the shadow of top- heavy balconied façades, dirty plaster frontages embossed with scrollwork and heraldic devices. The whole district is like this: street leading into street of houses like shabby monumental safes crammed with the tarnished valuables and second-hand furniture of a bankrupt middle class. I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully 1 8
printed, fixed (1)J4
The documentary nature of Isherwood’s work tends at first to allow the reader to pass over the comparison without questioning it. It is merely an expression of the writer’s consciously adopted role as objective narrator. He simply observes and records.
Closer examination reveals, however, that the relationship between writer and camera can hardly be that simple. Jefferson
Hunter comments: “As an observer, Isherwood may be recording, but as a writer, he is thinking all the time in words’’ (104). One of the great strengths of literature has always been its inherent subjectivity—the fact that the author arrives at a truth only after a long and sometimes painful journey into the mind or soul. Yet in other ways this same virtue has been considered by some a detriment—the writer’s “truths” appear to have no foundation in
14 This concept became a topic of more general interest with John Van Druten’s adaptation of isherwood's Berlin Stories in the form of a three-act play entitled i am a Carnera (1952). The story was subsequently made into a film under the same title in 1955. Both the play and the film integrate scenes in which the connection between writer and camera is discussed in some detail. In the play, Sally finds the beginning of Chris' novel and asks him about its meaning: “Sally{Reading): ‘I am a Camera, with its shutter open, quite passive.’ Do you mean this is a story written by a camera? Chris {Laughing): No, it’s written by me. I’m the camera. Sally: How do you mean? Chris: I’m the one who sees it all. I don’t take part. I don’t really even think. I just sort of photograph it. Ask questions, maybe” (34-35). In the film, it is Fraulein Schneider (Chris’ landlady) who struggles with the idea. She finally expresses her comprehension by directly equating the processes of writing and photographing, i.e., she removes the distinction between the two altogether: “Now I understand. You mean writing is photographs, ja? ” 1 9
reality and thus lack validity. The integration of photographs or a photographer into the literary work seem to solve this dilemma since the photograph is, after all, “the mirror with a memory"
(Holmes 74), the work of an unbiased mechanical eye:
Writers value photography and perhaps think of collaborating with a photographer in the first place precisely because they can invest a faith in it which they cannot invest in the complicated evasions and elaborations of literature. It is their vicarious authentication (Hunter 104).
While this is. certainly one of the important roles that the camera plays in literature, it also gives rise to new questions about the nature of photography itself, the primary concern being: is it always as reliable as it first appears? And is this the only reason an author might choose to include it in a particular text?
Clearly, there is a human force behind every photograph just as there is an author behind every novel, play, or poem.is And the
15 Increased automation in recent decades has obviously allowed for the possibility of photographs being created without the aid of the human hand. In his essay “In Our Image" Wright Morris argues that this “random glance" should be appreciated for its unique qualities: “If an automatic camera is mounted at a window, or the intersection of streets, idle or busy, or in a garden where plants are growing, or in the open where time passes, shadows shorten and lengthen, weather changes, it will occasionally take exceptional pictures. In these images the photographer is not merely concealed, he is eliminated. [. . .] The impression recorded by the lens is as random as life. The sensibility traditionally brought to 'pictures,' rooted in various concepts of 'appreciation,' is alien to the impartial, impersonal photo image. It differs from the crafted art object as a random glance out the window differs from a painted landscape " (543). 20
various elements of a photograph (the pose,^® background, framing, and exposure) can be and nearly always are manipulated in some way.
What is included within the boundaries of the photograph and, perhaps more importantly, what is left out, are all conscious decisions made by a photographer. It seems unlikely that someone standing behind the camera could always remain completely objective any more than an author could simply record facts. And even if this were possible (giving photographer and author alike the qualities of a mechanical eye), who bears the responsibility for
“developing, printing, and fixing” the images— real or literary—so carefully gathered by cameras like Isherwood’s? Indeed, Isherwood himself leaves no clear answer—although his careful descriptions of the city give the distinct impression that the author himself is involved in the process to some degree. Likewise, the very act of
16 Barthes argues that the nature of photography is founded in the pose and that each picture, no matter its subject, must involve a pose of some sort: “The physical duration of this pose is of little consequence; even in the interval of a millionth of a second (Edgerton's drop of milk) there has still been a pose, for the pose is not, here, the attitude of the target or even a technique of theOperator, but the term of an ‘intention’ of reading: looking at a photograph, I inevitably include in my scrutiny the thought of that instant, however brief, in which a real thing happened to be motionless in front of the eye” fCamera 78).
17 Hunter notes: “But even a photographic receptivity requires later artifice. Isherwood went on to say that the man, the woman, and their street ‘will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed"— metaphors corresponding to the judgmental adjectives, careful rhythms, and formal similes Isherwood devotes to Berlin” (104). 21
reading requires the engagement of critical faculties; the reader’s
role too Is an active rather than passive one and the Images are, In a
sense, reprocessed, redeveloped, with every reading. Like the
literary text Itself, a picture can be read or Interpreted on a number
of levels; It may have entirely different meanings to different
people and may be used for purposes that were originally never
Intended. In this way, then, the appearance of “photographs” within literary works can also serve the purpose of a text within a text, creating layers of meaning and expressing complex Ideas In a
manner not possible through more traditional modes of narration. As
Jefferson Hunter notes: “In a sense, poems about photographs are always poems about poems, occasions for the defining of one art’s potentialities vIs-à-vIs another art’s limitations” (163).
18 Interesting in this way is Brecht’s use of actual photographs both in the theater and in works such as Krieasfibel (a collection of photographs cut from newspapers and news magazines upon which Brecht wrote quatrains). “Krieasfibel is a less doctrinaire work than Berlau would allow. If it undeniably teaches ‘the art of reading pictures," as she claims, it teaches, first that reading them is tricky and, second, that one photograph may generate alternative readings. The view of photographs to be inferred from Brecht's actual treatment of pictures in the collection is that they are as interpretable as poems, not as translatable as hieroglyphics. [. . .] The Brechtian alienation effect governs Krieasfibel as it governs his theatrical work; it is the author’s constant needling of readers, his constant effort to alienate them from the world the camera portrays so that they will pay attention to the ‘world’— the political assumptions, the aesthetic factors—turning the camera in a certain direction” (Hunter 170-72). 22
Photography in Literature: Some Common Themes
Beyond suggesting these more all-encompassing questions behind the relationship between photography and literature as art forms, the Isherwood passage also hints at other, more specific, themes that seem to appear time and again in the examination of
“literary” photographs. In this opening paragraph, Isherwood, the camera/author, describes a seemingly natural progression as his attention is drawn from one object to the next. He moves from a description of building exteriors to one of their interior furnishings, and finally to one of the people who occupy them. The camera moves from outside to inside, from public streets to the private spaces belonging to individuals who have no idea that they are being observed. Through the eye of the camera the private sphere becomes a public one; the “reader” of the picture is given access to a world otherwise shut off by the facades and carefully constructed barriers that define much of existence: “From its inception the camera has
19 Corbin comments on the influence that photographs had on private life at the end of the nineteenth century: “The millions of photographic portraits shot and religiously preserved in albums established new norms that completely transformed the private scene. They taught people to look at the body, and in particular the hands, in a new way. The photographic portrait helped to establish the physical disciplines taught in the schools, while at the same time it gave rise to a new perceptual code. From now on grandfathers learned how to behave from photographs, and thinkers learned the poses that connoted reflective activity in the same way” (464). 23
been destined to eliminateprivacy, as we are accustomed to conceive It” (Morris 544). The camera, then, Is viewed as having the power to unmask characters—before both themselves and others.
Unlike portrait painting, photography seemed— at least In Its early stages— to be an eye that could lay bare the soul of Its subject; It produced exterior Images that nevertheless exposed a person’s Inner qualities.
Yet this mysterious power of the camera to seek out a truth hidden from the human eye can come at a price. In adopting the attributes of a machine, Ishen/vood may gain a certain heightened
Insight but he loses the Immediacy of experience so fundamental to human nature.20 The character who experiences life through the eye of a camera or through the photographs It produces Is removed to one extent or another from both reality and the realm of feeling. This theme of vicarious experience through photography appears
repeatedly In a number of forms, literally from love to death.
Koppen, for Instance, dedicates a chapter of his book to the camera’s seductive nature. In It he distinguishes among three basic uses of erotic photographs In literature:
20 This notion is expressed particularly well in a scene of the film version. Here, Chris is discouraged with his writing because it seems to have no real connection to life. He feels that even though he puts down everything people do and say, they have no faces; his view of the world— and consequently his writing— have become spiritless and dead. 24
Die Erotlsierung der photographlschen Thematik In der Literatur beschrankt sich nun keineswegs auf die literarische Behandlung oder Kommentierung von Aktphotographien bzw. der groberen Dessins der erotischen Photographie. [. . .] In dreierlei Form lâBt sich diese Erotlsierung beobachten: Das Photo wird zum Tràger erotischer Botschaften, der Photograph tritt in die Rolle des Galans und Verführers ein und schlieBlich: der Akt des Photographierens wird als erotische Kontaktaufnahme gedeutet (156).
In each case, “love” is achieved only through an intermediary
agent— the camera. As many critics argue, the photograph’s unique
relationship to time allows death to be experienced in a similarly
indirect fashion:
All photographs arememento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt (Sontag 15).
Since so much of literature is itself an attempt to come to terms
with the forces that give life—and ultimately death—meaning,21 the
photograph is often viewed by authors as a powerful partner in
grappling with topics too complex to be related effectively through
21 Because of its ties to death and dying, Barthes argues that photography, as an art form, is closer to drama than it is to painting: “Yet it is not (it seems to me) by Painting that Photography touches art, but by Theater. [. . .] but if Photography seems to me closer to the Theater, it is by way of a singular intermediary (and perhaps I am the only one who sees it): by way of Death. We know the original relation of the theater and the cult of the Dead: the first actors separated themselves from the community by playing the role of the Dead [. . .]" (Camera 31). Following this line of thought there is a clear connection to the tableau vivant and its use in both prose and drama. 25
a single medium.
The Sternheim, Mann, and FlelBer Texts: Common Bonds Through Photography
Because the Isherwood passage succinctly suggests many of the issues at the heart of the relationship between photography and literature, it has served as a convenient introduction to some of the central questions that can be raised productively with longer, more complex works. Examining a motif which is common to texts that otherwise seem widely divergent has the advantage of helping the reader focus on issues that are of general literary importance.
Indeed, a close examination of the function of photography in the
Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer pieces reveals that—despite their obvious diversity in style and message—they share some central themes. These are topics of widespread interest that find efficient and sometimes revolutionary expression through the eye of a camera. The works are thus linked not only by the mere fact that each of their authors chooses to include photography on one level or another but also through the common themes that such a union suggests. The texts that I have chosen all seem to explore five basic photography-related issues from one angle or another: time. 26
public vs. private spheres, mediated experience, the search for objectivity, and photographs as texts.
The attempt to give time’s essence some sort of form has long been a concern of literature, and the Sternheim, Mann, and FleiRer texts are certainly no exception. In Der Zauberberg. for instance,
Mann quite explicitly states that he is struggling to come to terms with the nature of time and the way in which we perceive its passage. While he deals with the issue in a variety of ways (direct contemplation, conscious use of verb tenses, and repetitive descriptions of daily and yearly events are commonly-cited examples), the phot .^r^ph becomes a strikingly compact and powerful representative of time itself. It functions, through the course of the novel, as a concrete image of the moment of simultaneity—the “magicalnunc stansf’— that Mann seeks in his writing. The photograph is, first and most obviously, a reminder of the inevitable linear nature of time: it reminds those in the present of the past through images of something now absent and simultaneously points to the future by suggesting that we too will one day be gone. But Mann’s photographs are also related theoretically and textually to Hans Castorp’s recurring visions, something that emphasizes their circular nature. The passage of 27
time is thus also seen in the recognition of change in the viewing subject. Because the notion of time is clearly a theme of major importance in Der Zauberberg. I have dedicated a significant portion of that chapter to its contemplation. Although the theme does not carry equal significance in the Sternheim and FleiBer texts, an
examination of the photographs in these works does indicate a
certain concern with time—one that, because of its subtlety, is
often overlooked. Seidenschnur’s portraits are essentially isolated
moments that together create the progession of an individual life.
It is telling that the drama’s only two instances of reflection on the
aging process are facilitated through photographs (those of Tante
Elsbeth) and camera-like observation of others (Fanny’s view of
Krull through a keyhole). In the FleiBer play, however, the
photographs serve a quite different purpose. Rather than expressing
some sort of change or progression through time, their stillness
emphasizes the hopeless, circular nature of experience as it is
depicted in the play’s action. The repetitive quality of the
photographer releasing and re-releasing the shutter reflects the
sameness of the relationships he captures on film. Time is frozen
both literally and figuratively. 28
Like Isherwood, Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer all take
advantage of the camera's unique ability to penetrate surfaces and
unveil the private sphere. While Mann’s x-rays are the most obvious
example of the camera’s power to see beyond the exterior, “public”
side of people, it is reflected in other, more traditional, photographs
as well. Sternheim’s characters, for instance, demonstrate a
prevailing fear of the camera, refusing to be photographed while
other family members are in town and then studying pictures of
themselves only in private. Consciously or unconsciously, they
realize the camera’s ability to dissolve the facades they have so
carefully created for public consumption. Each of the three works
also employs other camera-like means for exposing private moments to the reader or audience. FleiBer catches Berta and Karl together
by shining a bright spotlight on them. Sternheim allows characters to spy on one another through keyholes. And Mann explores Hans
Castorp’s thoughts through a number of vision sequences. The
results of such “photographic prying” are twofold. On the one hand, they are a valuable means of introducing moments of serious
reflection for characters and readers alike. But on the other hand, they have a close relationship to comedy. The fact that the reader
(or audience) has a certain amount of knowledge that remains hidden 29
from the characters themselves leads to comic moments— not only in
Die Kassette where they are expected but also in Der Zauberberg and
Pioniere in Ingolstadt. works that generally maintain a more serious mood.
The third theme common to the Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer texts, as revealed by a study of photography, is mediated or vicarious experience. Clearly, this theme is represented in the camera itself on two levels. In the very act of taking a picture, the machine separates the human eye from the object of study. Unlike the portrait or landscape painter, the photographer is no longer in direct contact with the artistic creation. In addition, the final product of this process, the photograph, is an image that is removed in both time and space from the original. As an observer of a photograph, I experience past events— which by definition can no longer be precisely duplicated—through the eye of not only a photographer but also a machine. Within texts, photographs come to represent the vicarious nature of interpersonal relationships, the inability of individuals truly to connect with one another. Thus,
Sternheim’s characters, unable or unwilling to face each other directly, use Seidenschnur’s portraits as one of their sole means of communication. Seidenschnur himself can only experience his 30
“love” for Lydia through the lens of his camera. So too Hans Castorp who, for months on end, “loves” Clawdia Chauchat by carrying her x- ray portrait in the coat pocket nearest his heart. In Pioniere in
Ingolstadt. love is also experienced vicariously, for it is only in the deceptive form of the photographs at the end of the play that Berta will ever see herself in a positive relationship with Karl.
The fourth theme developed through photography in these three central works revolves around each author’s search for objectivity or truth in an increasingly complex world. As the discussions surrounding the themes of time, public and private spheres, and mediated experience indicate, the photograph is by its very nature ambiguous. It has different meanings for different people and can be viewed from a wide variety of apparently contradictory angles depending on the circumstances surrounding its presentation. The photographs in Die Kassette. Der Zauberberg. and Pioniere in
Ingolstadt are all clearly manipulated or manipulative in one way or another. Seidenschnur, for instance, uses his camera to control women. The portraits he produces are in turn used by Krull and
Elsbeth to create false images of themselves and to exert power over each other. Mann’s sanatorium residents often choose to interpret their x-rays in a way that favors their particular state of 31
mind at the moment. And in the FleiBer text, the soldiers use the appearance of the photographer to leave a lasting impression of a loving and responsible relationship that never existed in actuality.
While the photographs in these works do. present the reader with a glimpse of the truth, it is a truth that is in each instance veiled.
Only in reflecting on the facades âS. facades is one able to find objectivity.
This notion that truth is not always apparent, and that it can take on a wide variety of forms, leads directly into the final common theme developed through photography in the Sternheim,
Mann, and FleiBer works, i.e., the idea that photographs are themselves texts that must be analyzed like the literary texts that contain them. To one extent or another—consciously or unconsciously— , the characters in each of these works are concerned with “reading” the photographs or photographic analogues that come their way.22 Often, their progress or development as a character can be measured by their changing reactions to these “texts.” This is particularly true of Hans Castorp who, despite the often ambiguous
22 In this sense, these characters are all precursors to a figure such as Oskar Matzerath in Grass’ Die Blechtrommel who literally “reads” his family photo album:“Das Fotoalbum hat also epische Qualitaten, es kann gelesen warden wie ein Stuck Literatur. Offensichtlich 1st es so etwas wie ein Bild oder ein Symbol der Literatur” (Koppen 121). 32
nature of both his responses and the novel itself, seems to react in an increasingly positive, active manner to the visions he experiences through the course of the work’s action. But a character’s inability or perhaps unwillingness to read the truth in photographs sends a powerful message as well. The apparent blindness of Sternheim’s characters (particularly Krull) to anything but the surface, manipulative nature of the images serves only to emphasize further one of the play’s major messages: individuals who lack insight, who are concerned only with facades, ultimately deceive themselves, and thereby fail to develop any meaningful relationships with others. In Die Pioniere in Ingolstadt Berta’s unwillingness to accept the truth behind her portrait with Karl adds to the already hopeless individual situation by essentially guaranteeing that it will be repeated with equal nonsuccess in the future— and not only by her, but also by the many other women who have had a similar picture made. As was already suggested by the analysis of the Isherwood passage, however, the photograph’s meaning necessarily extends beyond the role it plays within the realm of the text itself. Ultimately, it is the responsibility of the work’s reader to look beyond the surface of the image and to uncover the layers of meaning that are hidden beneath it. 33
Clearly, the Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer texts are all concerned not only with the advent of photography as a technological artistic medium but also with the larger issues it raises. Although each lays a different amount of emphasis on the five themes briefly discussed here, it is significant that they are all present in each work. This suggests something of the universal nature of both photography and literature and hints at the many possibilities that a study of these two complex art forms has to offer. CHAPTER II
Carl Sternheim’s Die Kassette: Photography as Mediation
Although Carl Sternheim undeniably belongs among the most prominent German playwrights of the 20th century,1 he has to this point received relatively little critical attention. This apparent lack of interest in his work stems from a variety of factors.
Because none of his plays was ever staged with a wide range of success, Sternheim never experienced public acclaim in the way that several of his contemporaries did. Many of his works were considered scandalous and, as Sternheim himself remarked in reference to Die Hose, too simplistic to be classified as “art”:
1 In his book on Sternheim, Dedner argues that although the playwright has received little attention outside his home country in the past, he deserves recognition as a “world author”: “Between 1911 and 1925, Sternheim was hailed as the German Molière, and from 1960 on, after an intervening period in which his plays were either banned or rarely staged, his comedies have experienced a veritable renaissance. There can be no doubt today that, next to Gerhart Hauptmann and Bertolt Brecht, Sternheim is the most successful German playwright of the twentieth century. He is, at the same time, the most controversial one" fCarl Sternheim Preface). David Myers offers a similar argument: “His [Sternheim’s] satirical surgery is aggressive, stylish, and sophisticated in technique; in fact there is every justification for considering him one of twentieth-century Germany’s most original and controversial comic playwrights” (39).
34 35
Als Ich 1908 ein bürgerllches Lustsplel veroffentllchte (Sternheim irrte: die Erstausgabe datiert von 1911), kannte die deutsche Bühne nach Gerhart Hauptmanns Naturalismus nur die Maskerade vom alten Fabelkonig, der jungen Konigin, dem famosen Pagen, die unter mannigfaltigen Verkleidungen neuromantisch auftraten; reich kostümiert von Wirklichkeit fort Glanz sprachen, Erhabenheit handelten. In meinem Stuck verlor ein Bürgerweib die Hose, von nichts als der banalen Sache sprach in kahlem Deutsch man auf der Szene. Ob solcher Einfait fallte Welt das Urteil: wie war das Dichtung? (Sternheim qtd. in Linke, 67-68)
But Sternheim’s ‘Telegrammstil,” a reduction of language to its bare minimum, along with his concentration on a small number of familiar themes (the loss of individuality in the age of technology, money, etc.) gives his dramas only the appearance of superficiality.
Actually, Sternheim’s seeming simplicity in content is just one aspect of his innovative attempt to force people to view their society and themselves in a new light. Given this interest in discovering—or perhaps unveiling—a new reality, it is not surprising that Sternheim turned to photography as a major motif in one of his plays. Die Kassette. part of a larger cycle of dramas which came to be known as Aus dem bürgerlichen Heldenleben. has as one of its major characters the photographer, Alfons Seidenschnur.
Seidenschnur takes pictures that are integrated into the plot in such a manner as to give the dialogues and relationships between characters heightened meaning, or—in another sense— lack of 36 meaning. Under close analysis the photographs seem to operate on two levels in the play: for the characters they are a means of upholding the facade of “normal” patriarchal relationships, but for the audience or reader they allow insight into the reality behind the play-acting: they create and undermine simultaneously. Together with the strongbox, the photographs reveal the characters’ alienation from themselves, each other, and experience.
Die Kassette In Sternheim Scholarship
The secondary literature that has appeared thus far on Die
Kassette is, like the attention given to most all of Sternheim’s works, limited both in quantity and scope. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of critics dealing with Die Kassette focus on the strongbox, the title prop, as the key to interpreting the play. This, along with a corresponding concentration on the related themes of money, greed, and the power of the individual, has led the secondary literature toward a debate over whether Sternheim’s characters are merely conformists seeking to satisfy personal ambitions or whether they do indeed achieve a certain degree of individuality:
One of the many controversies and scandals that have raged around Sternheim since his cycle of comediesAus dem bürgerlichen Heldenleben appeared in the second decade of this century is whether he created a new, ruthless, and egoistic 37
race of heroes, whom he worshiped for their snobbish triumphs over the bourgeoisie, or whether he meant to ridicule these “heroes” along with all his other characters and so consistently maintain an attitude of supercilious misanthropy (Myers 39).
While admitting ambiguities, most critics seem to view Sternheim’s
characters negatively, either as monstrous examples of humanity’s
true nature, or as figures parodying the mass-standardization of the time.2 Manfred Durzak, for instance, in his analysis of Die Kassette
remarks that:
Sternheims Verdienst in dieser Komodie besteht also darin, aufgezeigt zu haben, wie wirtschaftliche Fakten [. . .] aus sich heraus eine Idéologie erzeugen, gleichsam damonische Wirkung annehmen, die das BewuStsein des einzelnen vergiftet und ihn am Ende zur Karikatur seiner selbst macht (80).
He concludes his essay by commenting that while earlier Sternheim
plays at least offered a possibility for the realization of
individuality, this optimism had now completely disappeared: “Die
Hoffnung der Aufklàrungskomôdie 1st hier in der Tat an ein Ende
gelangt” (87). On the other end of the spectrum, Wiihelm Emrich
2 Some critics belonging in this camp include Myers (“Sternheim is thus not the creator of modern heroes who will form the basis of a new, more honest society, as Emrich and Wendler in particular have alleged. On the contrary. He is an ambivalent mixture of an arrogant cynic, who had an almost pathological need to mock and to satirize, and a sentimentalist with a decided weakness for the pathos of the romantic tragedy” 46), Bayerdorfer (“Alle Figuren erscheinen unangenehm bis widerlich, die Sieger erwecken keine Sympathie oder Anerkennung, die Verlierer kein spontanés Mitleid" 225), Durzak, and Freund. 38
argues that Sternheim’s characters should be viewed positively^ :
Er [Sternheim] verabscheut alle allgemein verbindliche Moral, die dem Menschen gerade sein Eigentümlichstes nimmt und daher im Grunde fur Sternheim unmoralisch, nàmlich widergôttlich 1st. Seine Dichtung 1st also weder durch “Satire” noch durch “herzlosen Zynismus” bestimmt, sondern durch den Willen, das Vorhandene wirklich zu “kennen" und “mit Inbrunst zu lieben.” Das heiBt seine Dichtung entspringt erkennender Liebe (12).
According to his argument, Krull and Elsbeth’s moments of open viciousness and cold-hearted plotting would be— in and of themselves—signs of great individuality; by disposing of the facades that society demands (here Kant’s categorical imperative), they assert their uniqueness and in that sense become extraordinary.
While Emrich certainly approaches Sternheim’s plays from a fresh angle, his thesis is difficult to accept.^ It is hard to imagine Krull and Elsbeth as models for a new, revolutionary individual of the future. In addition, characters such as these who seemingly “break
3 Wolfgang Wendler argues along these same lines: “Und jeden Menschen fordert er auf, keinem 'Anpassungstaumel' zu verfallen, sich nicht der Metaphernwelt zu unterwerfen, sondern sich auf seine eigene Wirklichkeit zu besinnen. [. . .] Wirklichkeit ist die bürgerliche Gegenwart des brutalen Machtkampfs hinter den verschleierenden Metaphern. ‘Schonste’ Wirklichkeit ist die eines Menschen, der auch aus dieser bürgerlichen Welt noch herausgetreten 1st und sich in seiner Besonderheit beweist” (83).
4 Emrich’s argument should not be denied completely, however. There are certainly some of Sternheim s comic characters who do evidence heroic qualities. Christian Maske's stand against his daughter Sofie in 1913.and Wilhelm Stander’s rejection of a high factory position in Tabula Rasa can be viewed— as Emrich argues in his essay (14- 16)— as heroic acts that affirm individuality. 39 the mold” by acting against societal expectations, become In their own evil or rebellious ways, just as predictable as their conformist counterparts. This occurs to such an extent. In fact, that characters begin to expect what would normally be considered socletally unacceptable responses from one another. Fanny, for Instance, warns Krull that Elsbeth Is surely acting to deceive him (“Solches
Welb zu durchschauen 1st schwerer, als du glaubst. VIellelcht tat sle nur so” 395) and both Krull and Elsbeth later agree that It would be best to hide the strongbox from his wife:
Elsbeth geht in Ihr Zimmer, kommt mit der Kassette wieder und gibt sie ihm. Doch den guten Rat: verbirg sle vor delner Frau. Die gute Seele mochte, da Ihr tiefere Clberlegungen fern sInd, AnstoB nehmen.
Krull: Natürlich vor jedermann, vor Ihr besonders. AuBerdem würde sle, da das Geld aus Ihrer Famille stammt, es als ein Gewlcht für Ihre Person In Anspruch nehmen, und Ihre Eltelkelt kennte kelne Grenzen. Mir, nIcht Ihr überantwortet sle das Vertrauen der Besltzerin (428).
Despite these suspicions, however, characters are nearly always greeted with some sort of facade or play-acting from the others.
I.e., their “Individuality” Is most often mediated. Indeed, one of the most basic forms of communication—language—has been stripped to
Its bare essentials making Individual expression virtually
Impossible. Other than brief bouts of anger, truly Individual 40
responses are rarely ever spoken on stage, and even then it Is difficult to consider them admirable in any way.
Although this debate over whether Sternheim’s characters should be considered good or evil, heroes or villains, certainly raises questions vital to any understanding of his dramas, it has also had the negative effect of overshadowing other, equally important, aspects of his work. Burghard Dedner, for instance, brings up a point that seems to hold great promise in terms of developing new
readings of Sternheim’s plays but which has received relatively little attention. He comments on the importance of the visual in
Sternheim’s works and remarks that Sternheim’s plays are
at their best as long as the playwright restricts his presentation to those facets of modern life which can be grasped in direct visual terms: the gestures, the masks, and the poses which men use in order to express themselves or to impress each other fCarl Sternheim 20).
Here he draws a comparison to Thomas Mann’s prose:
Hans Mayer once noted that some of the qualities of Thomas Mann’s novels originate from the author’s ability to turn himself into a camera and to store in his memory the peculiarities of his acquaintances for a possible use in one of his stories. The same observation [. . .] applies to Sternheim’s work as well. Among twentieth-century German playwrights, Sternheim excels through his ability to notice, and to represent on the stage, the most minute details of the poses and mannerisms with which his contemporaries enacted their social roles fCarl Sternheim 18). 41
While this may be true of a great number of Sternheim’s plays, it can be applied particularly well to Die Kassette. But in their concentration on one of the drama's visual representations, the strongbox, critics have left other, even more obvious ones— Seidenschnur’s photographs— , virtually untouched. A closer examination of these pictures reveals, however, that they are not only clearly related to the image of the strongbox but also vital to an understanding of the characters themselves, for they reflect the fact that these are people who can only feel and experience vicariously.
The Interrelationship Between the Strongbox and Photography
From the very start of the play, Sternheim establishes a close connection between Elsbeth’s strongbox and the photography motif.
On the plot level, both the strongbox and Seidenschnur’s photographs
(particularly those of Elsbeth) serve as important catalysts for dramatic action. While Elsbeth’s money occupies Krull’s thoughts and encourages him to try and maintain peace within his household, the photographs force the various characters onto a collision course.
They offer an excuse for the first conflict between Fanny and
Elsbeth and, more importantly, provide Elsbeth with a convenient 42
means of testing and controlling Krull. Because Krull is so obsessed
with the strongbox, Elsbeth is able to request that he force
Seidenschnur to return her money, and later the pictures themselves.
As the play progresses, the photographs and the way in which he
handles Seidenschnur become, in Krull’s mind, connected to the
strongbox and the money that it contains. In addition to this, there
is a striking physical resemblance between Elsbeth’s box and
Seidenschnur’s camera. Emma describes the strongbox to Lydia soon
after its arrival as being covered with a black cloth (366). And
when he is finally allowed to see the strongbox, Seidenschnur
himself draws a direct comparison: “Eine andere wuchtigere
Kassette als die schwarzen Pappschachtein, mit denen ich hantiere.
Sinnbild hergebrachten Bürgerwohistands” (461). This physical
resemblance is merely an indication of the fact that the camera and the strongbox are related in other ways as well, and indeed, both
seem to offer new possibilities for exposing sides of people that had
previously remained hidden. Krull’s enormous greed and lack of love for his family, for instance, come to light only after his introduction to the strongbox and the possibility of becoming rich:
Elsbeth: Lydia liebst du aufopfernd?
Krull: Aufopfernd einundfünfzig. Forstbestànde achtundfünfzig...neunundfünf-zig...aufopfernd. 43
Elsbeth: Fanny 1st blendend schôn! Es scheint nicht nur so?
Krull: Fûnfundsiebzig. Blendend. Verblûffend. SüBe Puppe.
Elsbeth: SInnIich?
Krull: Dreiundachtzig. Pardon? VIerundachtzIg... (392).
Similarly, Seidenschnur’s camera has the capacity to expose
individuals and to capture them in a new way. Each character
admits, at one point or another, that Seidenschnur’s photographs of the aunt are “Ausgezeichnet. Die ganze Elsbeth” (374), yet at the
same time there seems to be a prevailing fear of the camera,
especially among the female characters;® having one’s picture taken
becomes synonymous with promiscuity and social dishonor. Elsbeth, for example, has her portrait made only after a great deal of
hesitation, and only when the other family members are out of town.
Later she wants her order with Seidenschnur canceled but reacts
violently upon discovering that Krull actually removed the pictures
from her room and returned them to the photographer. Like her aunt,
Lydia too will only agree to a clandestine sitting in Seidenschnur’s
studio. She tells him: “Wohl wage ich. Die Aufnahme müBte geheim
® Such an attitude was apparently not uncommon in the early days of photography. Michelle Perrot and Anne Martin-Fugier recount a similar incident in their essay in A History of Private Life: “When Xavier-Edouard Lejeune, a draper’s assistant, tried to persuade his provincial grandmother to allow her picture to be taken during a brief visit to Paris during this same period [the Second Empire], the elderly woman became frightened on the way and fled home" (220). 44 geschehen. Man würde mich zurückhalten” (384). Fanny later refuses to have herself photographed, telling Seidenschnur “Mein
Gewissen rat ab” (415). She calls in vain on her preoccupied husband to defend her honor from Seidenschnur; “Ein Don Juan ist er. Kein
Weib sicher vor ihm” (415). Fanny recognizes the possibility of losing her self-determination and independence to Seidenschnur and his camera, something that has already happened to Krull through his exposure to the strongbox and its supposed riches.
Seidenschnur’s photographs and Elsbeth’s strongbox are also clearly related through one of the play’s major although often overlooked themes, namely that of vicarious experience. Even at the start of the drama, it is clear that Krull is, in a real as well as figurative sense, living on borrowed money. After the return from the honeymoon, Elsbeth interrupts Krull’s romantic tales with a not so subtle reminder of his financial situation:
Elsbeth: Mit diesen Màtzchen, Lurley, Walporzheimer muB die Reise Geld verschlungen haben.
Krull: Bei Gotti Sollte man sich diesen einmaligen GenuB durch sauertopfische Rechnerei vergàllen? Ich habe sogar bei unseren Freunden Susmichel in Andemach ein Darlehen von zweihundert Mark aufnehmen müssen.
Elsbeth: Peinlich. Wie willst du es zurückerstatten?
Fanny: Das wird sich finden. 45
Elsbeth: Dein Konto schloB Ultimo Màrz mit einem Saido von zweihundertsechsundsiebzig Mark zugunsten der Bank (3 7 1 -7 2 ).
Later, Krull takes immense pleasure from counting and recounting the bonds in Elsbeth’s strongbox, calculating how much interest he will be able to acquire in a year. As only the audience and Elsbeth know, however, the bonds (which are themselves a step removed from actual money) will never belong to either Krull or
Seidenschnur. And KruH’s belief that, through this new found wealth, he will become a better, more responsible provider for his family must be seen for what it really is, a facade:
Welch bedeutendes BewuBtsein muB der Besitzende haben, wirklich ins Blut Herr seiner Schàtze zu sein. Das gibt Beschaftigung fur lange Winterabende, und ich darf dich jetzt schon versichern. Tante: ich will ein rechter Besitzer fur meine Familie sein. Allen Werten werde ich bis ins Mark Ihrer Eigenschaften nachgehen; erkennen, vergleichen, beschlieBen (4 0 9 ).
Krull, whose only real joy in life comes not from actual experience but from an obsession with money that will never be his, must also justify himself as a “good” father through this same source.
Incompetent, weak, and greedy in reality, Krull holds onto the strongbox as a means of attaining imaginary power, control, and self-worth. In so doing he drifts farther and farther from immediate experience with his wife and daughter towards an 46
entirely vicarious existence based on the strongbox and its contents.
The strongbox quickly takes Fanny’s place in the couple’s bed and
with that Krull forsakes immediate for mediated, real for
imaginary.®
This point is further supported by a reference Krull makes to
Faust II during one of his monologues. Here he quickly reminds
himself to reread certain sections of the drama that deal with the
Emperor (“Faust zweiten Teil Szene mit dem Kaiser wieder ansehen”
409). Brief as this reference may be, it brings a number of
important issues to light. First, it calls to mind the fact that Krull,
like Faust, is named Heinrich, something that immediately invites a
comparison between the two characters. Any such analysis reveals,
however, that while both Faust and Krull can be viewed in terms of their continual striving, their inability or unwillingness to be satisfied with their present situations, Krull’s petty goals serve
only to make him appear foolish .7 His search for money amounts to
nothing more than greed. Instead of lifting Krull to a new, higher
6 The connection between money and eroticism is certainly not a theme unique to Sternheim. It found what is perhaps its most famous expression in Molière's L’avare (first staged in 1668). The miser, Harpigon, is so consumed with his riches that he can only define love and marriage in monetary terms. Most telling is a scene in which Valère speaks passionately of his love for Elise while Harpigon, who has been listening, mistakes it for a speech about the love of money.
7 Krull was not the only character to whom Sternheim gave a deceptive name. The aunt, Elsbeth “Treu”, is certainly loyal in appearance only. 47 plane, the comparison with Faust becomes an Inversion parody In which KruH’s continual striving for wealth is revealed as base and self-serving. Indeed, Krull is more directly reminiscent of Goethe’s
Emperor whose greed causes him to catch fire when he tries to look too closely at a glowing, seething treasure chest:
Der groBe Pan steht wohlgemut, Freut sich des wundersamen Dings, Und Perlenschaum sprüht rechts und links. Wie mag er solchem Wesen traun? Er bückt sich tief, hineinzuschaun.— [...]
Nun foigt ein groBes Ungeschick: Der Bart entflammt und fliegt zurück, Entzündet Kranz und Haupt und Brust, Zu Leiden wandelt sich die Lust (81).
It is also the Emperor’s obsession with wealth and material goods that leads him to approve an inadequately backed paper money system that soon collapses, leaving the empire in political and social disarray. His power, like KruH’s, is based on something imaginary and without a solid foundation. In his Economic and
Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844. Karl Marx also draws attention to this power of money as a mediator. He refers to a quote by Mephisto and then remarks: 48
Das Geld 1st der Kuppler zwischen dem Bedürfnis und dem Gegenstand, zwischen dem Leben und dem Lebensmlttel d[es] Menschen. Was mir abermein Leben vermlttelt, das vermittelt mir auch das Dasein d[es] andem Menschen fur mich. Das ist fur mich der andre Mensch. [. . .] Was durch dasGeld fur mich ist, was ich zahlen, d.h., was das Geld kaufen kann, bln das Ich, der Besitzer des Geldes selbst. So groB die Kraft des Geldes, so groB ist meine Kraft (435-36).
Both Krull and Goethe’s Emperor experience power not through any characteristics inherent to their personalities but rather through the money that they only think they possess.
Photographs, by their very nature, function in the same manner, i.e., they offer the viewer a means to feel, experience, and live vicariously. Susan Sontag points out this important phenomenon on several occasions in her book On Photography:
Indeed, the importance of photographic images as the medium through which more and more events enter our experience is, finally, only a by-product of their effectiveness in furnishing knowledge dissociated from and independent of experience (1 5 6 ).
She also notes:
A steadily more complex sense of the real creates its own compensatory fervors and simplifications, the most addictive of which is picture-taking. It is as if photographers, responding to an increasingly depleted sense of reality, were looking for a transfusion—traveling to new experiences, refreshing the old ones. Their ubiquitous activities amount to the most radical, and the safest, version of mobility. The urge to have new experiences is translated into the urge to take photographs: experience seeking a crisis-proof form (161-62). 49
In this sense, photographs have a clear connection to what many
critics have argued is one of the major recurring themes in
Sternheim’s works: that to some extent, all of Sternheim’s dramas
revolve around a world of facades, a world in which people are so
concerned with deceiving others that they fail to realize that they
themselves have lost all sense of reality.® These characters are
often not even conscious of their own play-acting and of the fact
that they too may be the object of deception.9 That the characters
in Die Kassette clearly fit into this pattern is obvious from the
play’s opening scenes. While on the one hand expressing their hatred
for KruN’s new wife, Lydia and Emma are at the same time
decorating the house for the newlyweds’ return, seemingly oblivious to the contradictions between their words and actions:
Emma: Schon recht. Himmel, die Girlande muB über die Tür! Sie steigt auf die Leiter.
Lydia: Seelengemeinschaft soli Ehe sein. Doch nicht darf einer
8 Burghard Dedner comments: “Unfortunately, reality in twentieth-century society has become peculiarly deficient; as far as the collector can see, it is almost void of any unique values. Life is probably still productive but its rare products are no longer visible to the eye. They are encaged in crusts and shells" (Carl Sternheim 14).
9 In Sternheim’s drama Tabula Rasa, for instance, the main character’s preoccupation with keeping his true income and lifestyle secret from his fellow workers drives the plot. While outwardly identifying himself with the proletariat and even encouraging them to rise up against the management, Wilhelm Stander is privately concerned only with keeping his life of relative luxury (he too exploits a servant) a secret. He becomes so consumed with upholding this facade that he gives no serious thought to his own hyprocisy. 50
den andem mit Haut und Haar fressen, wie Fanny es mit Vater tut. Ich hasse sie, und vor Tante soil sie sich in acht nehmen.
Emma: Sitzt es? Ein rotes Schild ist mit der Aufschrift: “Herzlich wilikommen der jungen Frau” sichtbar geworden.
Lydia: Herzlich muB tiefer. Auf ein PulverfaB kommt sie hier zu sitzen (366).
The importance of such a scene is twofold. First, the discrepancies between appearance and reality serve as constant reminders that, despite its darker messages, this is a comedy. And secondly these images set the tone for the remainder of the action to follow, for these individuals seem consistently to lack insight. They are all consumed, in one way or another, with empty dreams and the achievement of what can only be a deceptive control over others:
Ein Intérieur wilhelminischen Kleinbürgertums entfaltet sich in typischen ‘Lebenslàufen nach aufsteigender Unie': der mühsam— um den Preis zahlloser Demütigungen—zum Oberlehrer Aufgestiegene, der die Omnipotenzwûnsche seines Zeitalters in sich reproduziert; der standig um den errungenen Status bangende Fotograf, der einem ebenfalls zeitgenossisch- modischen Phantom von Künstlerberuf und moderner Denkweise nachjagt, um sich selbst über die Prosa seiner wirklichen Beschaftigung hinwegzutauschen; die Frauengestalten, die bei aller gewahrten Hàusiichkeit um die Herrschaft über den Mann und die Vorherrschaft im Haus kàmpfen oder die—backfischhaft und auf absehbar kurze Zeit—von der Gartenlaube der Liebe traumen (Bayerdorfer 220). 51
Indeed, a close examination of the character relations in Die
Kassette reveals that the ties holding these people together are empty and hollow; deception is so widespread that the characters themselves are often unable to identify it as such. In Die Kassette the photographs work together with the strongbox to portray a family whose only bonds are superficial, distant, and removed from
real experience with one another. These are characters who are
unable to communicate humanely, express emotions, or exert power
except by some indirect means. As Manfred Durzak points out in his
chapter on Die Kassette. there are no real or meaningful
relationships between the drama’s characters: “Keine der
zwischenmenschlichen Beziehungen, die hier angedeutet werden, ist
intakt” (78). It is on this level that the play’s photographs find their most important function.
Krull, Elsbeth, and Fanny: Relationships Mediated through Photographs
The relationship between Krull and Elsbeth could be
characterized as a power struggle, an attempt on both sides to gain
control of the other, often by means of deception. While the struggle
centers around the strongbox and Elsbeth’s money, Seidenschnur’s
photographic portraits of the aunt become an important instrument 52 of power. At the same time they are virtually the only avenue of communication between the two. Both Krull and Elsbeth employ the photographs as a means of instrumentalization. The aunt, as she herself admits, is cut off from all human contact, her family certainly being no exception: “Aus meines Lebens Verlauf bin ich ohne Zusammenhang mit Menschen gewesen. Beim Tod meiner Eltern riB das letzte Band, das mich in menschlicher Gemeinschaft hielt”
(431). Unable to attain the love and respect of family members through natural bonds and mutual understanding, she demands it by asking Krull to request her money back for the pictures Seidenschnur had taken earlier:
Elsbeth: Du wirst Herrn Seidenschnur schreiben, ich verzichte auf die Photographien [. . .]. Die Bilder geben mich in einer Auffassung, die für eine Theaterprinzessin, nicht für eine Dame bürgerlicher Gesellschaft sich ziemt [. . .]. Kurz: ich verlange von deinem mànniichen Beistand, du ordnest die Angelegenheit (378).
Elsbeth here equates her honor, her image as a respectable woman, with the photographs, making it impossible for Krull to ignore her requests and still provide her with the protection that he, as man of the house, should. Through the course of the play, Krull and Elsbeth build a relationship based on the action surrounding the photographs.
Elsbeth demands that Krull prove himself worthy of the inheritance 53 by standing up to Seidenschnur. Krull, for his part, then uses the photographs to create a new, exaggerated image of himself. In fact,
KruH’s supposedly “strong stands” are only achieved by means of the photographs. His version of the confrontation with Seidenschnur (in actuality only humble letters) takes on ever greater proportions as he tells his story to Elsbeth:
Elsbeth: Nicht übel das beiseite. Ehe vollstandige Klarheit herrscht. Vermutlich hast du ihm [Seidenschnur] honigsüB einen bescheidenen Vorschlag unterbreitet.
Krull: Mein Brief 1st Brevier donnernden Protestes. Im Ausdruck schneidig bis zur Grenze der Beleidigung. [. . .] Fünf Mensuren schlug ich, bin im Umgang mit SchuBwaffen fix (387-88).
Rather than speaking directly to one another, Krull and Elsbeth attempt to communicate about the money through their actions surrounding the photographs. Because there is never any direct discussion, deception is possible on both sides and each can instrumentalize the other. The extent to which the photographs act as such a mediating device is depicted in an early scene in which
Krull is physically unable to face the aunt who is requesting respect from all family members:
Elsbeth: Hochstes Zuvorkommen und mehr. Seid ihr bereit? Sieh mir ins Aug’. —Nie zucktest du mit der Wimper.
Krull krampfhaft lachend . Mein Herz liegt ein Spiegel vor dir. 54
Man hôrt belles Gelàchter der Frauen aus dem Nebenzimmer.
Krull: Hôre, wie herzlich sie lachen.
Elsbeth verlàEt wortios das Zimmer.
Krull nimmt die Photographie vom Tisch : Ausgezeichnet. Die ganze Elsbeth. Er seufzt. Ach ja . . . (374).
Only in the form of a photographic portrait is Krull able to confront
and control the aunt.
KruM’s power struggle with Elsbeth is clearly complicated
through his desire simultaneously to maintain an amicable and
socially acceptable relationship with his new wife, Fanny. Because
of his overwhelming obsession with the aunt’s money, Krull must
attempt to live a sort of double life, and in so doing becomes caught
in a web of his own creation. Not only must he concoct stories that will be plausible enough to convince Elsbeth of his worthiness to
inherit, he must also deceive Fanny in order to maintain his image as the all-powerful master of his home. Just as Elsbeth “tests” and
plays with Krull through continuous tasks, Fanny repeatedly calls on
her husband to prove his love and loyalty by choosing her over her
aunt and the strongbox:
Fanny: Ein haBverzerrtes Gesicht fauchte. Schlagender Beweis für meine Behauptung: hier hilft kein Parlamentieren. Sie Oder ich. Trau meiner Ciberzeugung, Heinrich: unser Gluck steht auf dem Spiel. Ich mache nicht durch, was Sidonie ertrug. 55
Krull: Papperlapapp. Ich werde meine Autoritàt von Anfang an aufrichten (385).
As with Elsbeth, however, there is no true bond between the two; they must instead find alternate, less direct, means of communication, and this is once again accomplished in great part through photographs. While Fanny, through her physical attractiveness, might seem on one level to represent the love and warmth necessary for a deeper and more meaningful relationship than could ever be found in the material possessions represented by
Elsbeth, it is clear from the beginning that the couple’s relationship is characterized by shallowness and mere momentary physical satisfaction. They unknowingly emphasize the trivial nature of their
relationship by announcing upon their return from the honeymoon that they had themselves photographed for a postcard:
Krull: Kinder, ist Gottes Welt schon an Frühlingsmorgen! Vor stolzen Burgen, die auf und niedergrüBen, auf deutschem Strom gleitet man zu Tal. Germania grüBt und Lurley, bis auf ehernem RoB in Koblenz—
Fanny: In Koblenz lieBen wir uns auf Postkarten photographieren.
[...]
Lydia: Herr Seidenschnur fand das Bild aus Koblenz nicht geschmackvoll. 56
Krull: Ein Kind der Laune will mit Laune angeschaut sein. Uns wird es stets ein himmlisches Erinnern vermittein (3 6 9 -7 0 ).
Later, after Krull has begun contemplating the possibility of an inheritance, even physical attraction must be stimulated by an intermediary agent, a golden medallion decorated with Krull’s photograph:
Fanny: Ich muB mein Médaillon verloren haben.
Krull: Das goldene mit meinem Bild?
Fanny: Heute morgen im Coupé fühite ich es auf den Brüsten. Sie nestelt sich auf.
Krull: Das ware!
Fanny: Kannst du hinlangen?
Krull fûhit : Ich habe es! Er bringt es herauf. SüBe Frau, sOBe Puppe!
Fanny: Heinrich!
Krull: 1st W elt schon! Versinken . . . Sie liegen sich in Armen.
Krull nach einem Augenblick : Was mag sie [Elsbeth] besitzen? (3 7 5 )
As the play proceeds, Krull loses interest in his wife entirely but still feels a need to keep up a facade for fear that Fanny might destroy their chances to become wealthy. He bases all of their plans 57 for future happiness on an Imaginary will and the riches It will supposedly bring them. Krull Is no more able to stand up to his wife’s demands than to Elsbeth’s and he eventually resorts to
Indirect displays of power. The most telling example of KruH’s weakness comes In the second act. Pressured by his wife to stand up to Elsbeth and at the same time trying to prove that he can confront Seidenschnur on the aunt’s behalf, Krull criticizes the photographs of Elsbeth In such a way that Fanny believes he Is
Insulting the aunt personally;
Krull sehr laut : Wie eine schamlose Person slehst du aus, ein Mensch von der StraBe. Schneppe!
[•••]
Fanny steckt den Kopf zum Zimmer herein : Nun?
Krull leise : Hast du gehôrt: schamlose Person, Mensch Im Neutrum usw.? Ein Kadaver 1st sie. Zerstückelt. Doch es geht welter.
Fanny: Llebling! Verschwindet schnell.
Sechster Auftritt
Elsbeth kommt zurück.
Krull reiBt ihr das Bild aus der Hand : Rafflnlerte MIschung von Walküre und Konkublne (388-89). 58
While on the one level the photographs present Krull with the means
to maintain a false identity and present himself convincingly to
Fanny and Elsbeth as the strong, dominating male they feel he should
be, they allow for precisely the opposite reaction in the reader. The
photographs, and the way he handles them, give the audience an
opportunity to see Krull differently than the other characters view
him at the moment; they are both a means of upholding empty
relationships as well as a mode for undermining the mere
appearances they create.
The Relationship Between Fanny and Elsbeth
The weak and ultimately futile attempts by Krull to maintain
some semblance of peace in his household stand in direct contrast to the open hatred displayed between Fanny and Elsbeth. Unlike Krull, they have no hidden personal goals that would require reconciliation on any level, and it is thus not surprising that they make very little
effort to keep up pretenses. In fact, some of the few words they
exchange directly come in the first act, immediately after Krull and
Fanny have returned from their honeymoon:
Krull: [. . .] Sieht Fanny nicht hinrelBend aus, junges Moosroschen? Auf Fanny zu : Meine Puppe! 59
Elsbeth steif : Guten Tag, Fanny.
Fanny steif : Guten Tag, Tante, Sie umarmen sich (369).
No matter how deep-seated their hatred for one another, however, theirs too remains largely a mediated relationship. Fanny and
Elsbeth rarely confront one another directly, instead preferring to trade insults through a third party:
Eisbeth, Fanny und Kruii treten auf.
Fanny: Und ich verlange von dir, du sagst dieser Person in meiner Gegenwart ein für allemal Bescheid.
Elsbeth: Das duldest du?
Fanny: Lydia soli durch diesen Drachen, diese Menschenfresserin nicht um ihre Jugend gebracht werden. Ich will nicht!
Elsbeth: Duldest du . . .?
Fanny: Mein mir von Gott gesetzter Schütz bist du, hast die Pfiicht, es ihr ins Gesicht zu schleudern.
Elsbeth kreischt : LàBt mich von dieser hysterischen Gans . . .7 (4 0 4 )
Both Fanny and Elsbeth want supreme power in their home, something that is possible only with Krull’s support. Fanny, who has
little, if any, interest in the inheritance that possesses Krull (“Am
liebsten verzichte ich auf die Erbschaft. Wieviel Jahre demOtigen 60
Wartens . . 416) tries to force her husband into limiting Elsbeth’s power:
Fanny: Mit dir vielleicht. Doch nicht viel Worte über sie [Elsbeth]. Ihre Rolle ist hier ein für allemal aus. Darüber sind wir einig.
Krull: Ganz.
Fanny: Es war die Bedingung, unter der ich Sidoniens Platz an deiner Seite einnahm.
Krull: GewiB. Die ihr zustehende Achtung empfangt sie—basta! (3 7 4 -7 5 )
While Fanny tempts Krull with physical pleasures, Elsbeth uses her money as a tool to draw him away from his new wife:
Elsbeth dicht bei ihm : Wieder einmal, Heinrich, trete ich eindringlich an dich heran. Die Welt halt andere Dinge als eine niedliche Frau. Du hast es grade gespürt.
Krull leise : Wahrhaftig! Sei unbesorgt. Schon habe ich angefangen, ihr Schranken zu weisen.
Elsbeth: Ein Organismus ist schnell geplündert (394).
Like Fanny’s supposed love, however, Elsbeth’s offer of an inheritance is only a facade, a means to achieve another end. This competition between the two women is represented at the very start of the drama in the form of two photographs: the picture postcard of
Krull and Fanny on their honeymoon, and the portraits of Elsbeth taken by Seidenschnur. After Fanny remarks proudly that she and her 61 new husband were photographed for postcards in Koblenz, Lydia counters with the observation that the aunt also had her picture taken—but in a much more stylish and professional setting. Fanny, anxious to hurt Elsbeth, asks to see the pictures:
Elsbeth kommt zurück und gibt das Bild an Kruii .
Krull: Ah!
Er gibt das Bild an Fanny waiter. Fanny bricht in schallendes Gelàchter aus.
Fanny: Lady Macbeth von Schiller!
Elsbeth rei3t ihr das Bild aus den Hànden : Das 1st . . .1
Fanny: Wie Blücher bei Caub das Bein auf die FuBbank.
Elsbeth: Geschmacklos!
[•••]
Fanny zu Elsbeth : Zudem gibt man dir auf dem Bild sechzig Jahre; fünf zu viel (371).
For these two characters, the photographs become a vehicle for expressing their true emotions. Besides Krull, they form their only link of communication. Each woman has the pictures taken in order to create a certain image of herself: Fanny is captured as the happy bride in sole possession of her man and Elsbeth takes on the pose of a younger, more sexually appealing woman. In a way, the pictures show each woman craving what the other has but which she herself 62
will never be able to attain. For although Fanny controls Krull in the
photograph she is unable to keep him in reality. And at the same
time Elsbeth will never have Fanny’s beauty, something that she
clearly envies. The women thus attempt to live out their dreams
vicariously in the form of photographs. As with Krull, they use the
pictures to create a facade, an image of how they would like to
appear to themselves and others. This facade is undermined not only
by the reality of the situation but also through their mutual critical
remarks. In their bitter battle for power, Fanny and Elsbeth often
seem more wary of deceptive moves from one another than Krull
ever was, i.e., they are not always so consumed with their vicarious
existences that they completely lose their grasp on reality.
Seidenschnur, Lydia, Emma, and Fanny: The Role of the Camera in Male-Female Relationships
Although less central to the play’s action, there is one final
relationship in Die Kassette—that between KruH’s daughter Lydia and the photographer Seidenschnur—which is, quite literally, mediated through the eye of the camera. While on the one hand claiming that his photographs are works of art, Seidenschnur more often uses his camera in attempts to seduce the women around him. He calls beautiful women his models and muses and says that It is only from 63 them that he can draw his inspiration. Lydia, overcome even at the play’s start with an unrealistically romantic image of the photographer (“War das nicht Seidenschnur? Himmlisch tràumte ich.
Als ich zu baden in einen See stieg, stand singend ein Mann im
Sonnenschein auf recht darin” 365), quickly gives in to his charm and agrees to have her picture taken. Once she sits before
Seidenschnur’s camera she quickly becomes the object of not only the camera but also the photographer’s desires:
Den Objektcharakter der Frau unterstreicht überdeutlich die Szene, in der Seidenschnur Lydia photographiert. Lydia, Objekt des Apparats wie der Triebbedürfnisse Seidenschnurs, ist wehrlos und benommen den “verschlingenden” Interessen des Mannes ausgeliefert (Freund, Bürqerkomôdien 47).
Lydia, flattered by Seidenschnur’s attention and compliments, fails to understand the photographer’s true purpose; she is oblivious to the violent nature of his vocabulary (“schlingen”, “hungrig”,
“lauert”) and is herself reduced to only a few meaningless words
and phrases embedded in Seidenschnur’s monologues:
Seidenschnur ist zurûckgesprungen : Sitzen bleiben, bitte! Meine Existenz steht auf dem Spiel. Wieder unter dem Tuch . Die Mattscheibe ist schuld. Konnten Sie sehen, wie himmlisch sie Sie abmalt. Ich halte mich von neuem kaum.
Lydia: Herr Seidenschnur! 64
Seidenschnur unter dem Tuch breitbeinig . In die Linse fiieSt Ihr Bild, Lydia, bis zu meinen Herzkammern. Durch das Tuch vom Weltall sonst geschieden, werde ich aus ihnen mit brünstigem Liebreiz bis zur Tollheit gespeist. Aug’ in meins. Lydia, ach. . .1 Er schiebt die Kassetten in den Apparat, zieht hoch, drûokt den B a il . Eins, zwei, drei, ich liebe Sie! Dankel Sich nicht abwenden, nicht gekrànkt sein, bitte [. . .] (400).
It is clear throughout the scene that Lydia and Seidenschnur have two entirely different concepts of what any (and their own particular) “relationship” should be; only the picture-taking process is able to create any semblance of communication between them.
While Lydia is blinded by dream-like illusions of a higher, romantic ideal, Seidenschnur seeks physical satisfaction. For him this relationship is obviously one of many; he even uses Lydia to obtain information about another woman of interest to him, Fanny:
Seidenschnur: Vor mir liebtest du keinen?
Lydia: W ie ich keinen nach dir lieben werde. Du bist das Licht, die Wahrheit und das Leben.
Seidenschnur: [. . .] Wie sehen wir uns heimlich wieder?
Lydia: WüBt’ ich’s. Tante làBt mich nicht aus den Augen, und ist Fanny auch auf meiner Seite, weiB man nicht, wie es morgen steht. Zwischen beiden der Teufel los.
Seidenschnur: Ein schickes Frauchen deine Stiefmutter!
Lydia: Eitel albern seibstsüchtig. Ich halte gegen sie zu Tante. 65
Seidenschnur; Amor hilft, wird uns Mittel an die Hand geben. Wie alt ist Fanny? (402)
Shallow and meaningless from the start, the relationship between
Lydia and Seidenschnur gradually loses even the appearance of love
as it turns to mutual discontent and open brutality in their spur-of-
the-moment marriage:
Fanny halblaut : Wie steht es sonst mit dir?
Lydia: Er ist brutal.
Fanny: Hintergeht dich?
Lydia: Immer. Und in Umstanden bin ich.
[...]
Fanny: Mit was für Frauen?
Lydia: Allerhand. Dazu meine Migràne (447-48).
It seems that the photographic scene represents the only possible
means for any “loving” or “successful” relationship between these
two characters. Once Seidenschnur gives up photography to pursue
painting, the source of mediation that had previously held them
together also disappears. Without the camera between them, they
are incapable of relating even on a surface level.
Seidenschnur’s relationship with Lydia is— although more
extensively depicted than any others— representative of his treatment of other women in the play as well. In fact, the drama 66 opens with a scene between the photographer and KruN’s servant
Emma. Here, the delivery of Elsbeth’s photographs serves as a convenient excuse for Seidenschnur to visit the maid:
Seidenschnur: Herr Seidenschnur Schnuck! Wie heiBt’s jetzt? Gieb dein Màulchen. War’s schon gestern abend? Scharmante Angelegenheit bist du. Die Photographien bringe ich, sie sind geworden. Was sagst du zu der? Er reicht ihr ein Bild .
Emma: Das Fràulein Tante wie es leibt und lebt!
Seidenschnur: Ware meine gesamte Klientèle so leicht wie du zufrieden, kleine reizende Person! Heut abend zur selben Stunde, wenn’s gefàllt (364).
The pictures once again act as a medium for conversation; they allow Seidenschnur to carry on two different discussions simultaneously, one about the photographs and another about a hoped-for rendezvous. And as with many other conversations in the play, this one also has a certain ambiguity to it, for it is not always possible to distinguish between the two topics. Like Lydia, Emma is also reduced to an object in the eyes of the photographer: “Von einer
Bewahrung ihrer [Emmas] individuellen Natur kann kaum die Rede sein, da sie in erster Linie von den Triebbedurfnissen des Mannes manipuliert wird” (Freund, Bûrgerkomôdien 47),
Later in the play, Fanny too becomes the object of
Seidenschnur’s desires. His treatment of Lydia and Fanny is similar 67 in both the striking violence of the vocabulary as well as his offer of a photographic sitting as a means of enticement:
Seidenschnur: Aber— Er lacht . Das mag begraben sein. Einen Herzenswunsch hàtte ich dafür: Gnàdigste lassen sich photographieren und wischen die mir angetane Schmach ab.
Fanny: Aus Dankbarkeit fur den widerspenstigen Schuhriemen. Seidenschnur aîné ist mir zu teuer.
Seidenschnur: Ein Vergnügen machte ich mir daraus—es gabe keine himmlischere Reklame für meine Schaukasten als die schone Frau Fanny Krull. Meine Linse brennt, Sie zu verschlingen, die bedeutende Linie Ihres Kopfs, des Halses hinreiBenden Schwung, Ihrer Figur festzuhalten Clair obscur und expressonanter. Wir armen Künstler, die wir in hohem MaB vom Modell abhàngig sind! Was ware Phidias. . . (413-14).
Fanny has little interest in Seidenschnur at this point and has enough insight to realize his true nature: a “Don Juan” who is a threat to all women. She instead tries to use Seidenschnur’s advances to draw Krull’s attention away from the strongbox and back to her, and only gives in to him after realizing that her husband has been lost to Elsbeth’s money.
In depicting the relationships established between
Seidenschnur and three of the play’s female characters, Lydia,
Emma, and Fanny, Sternheim employs photographs often, and in a 68 manner that is certainly conscious. Changing Seidenschnur’s profession would clearly alter the face of the play and would most likely eliminate many of the drama’s subtleties and complexities.
The photographs provide a unique means of mediating the violent erotic experiences that Seidenschnur seems to represent. This is a characteristic of photography that has fascinated not only everyday observers of the medium, but theorists as well. As Susan Sontag
points out in her study of photography, having one’s picture taken alwavs seems to involve an element of violence in one form or
another:
Still, there is something predatory in the act of taking a picture. To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as the camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a sublimated murder—a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time (1 4 -1 5 ).
Seidenschnur’s sense of power, as well as the vicarious experience
of erotic pleasure, comes through his camera. Only by photographing
people can he silence them by reducing them to a piece of paper.
While on the one hand using his camera to stamp out individuality
and any means of personal expression on the part of the
subject/object, Seidenschnur also claims to have the power of 69 creation, the ability to produce an image of a person in a way that nobody else can:
Lydia: Eigentlich war es meine Stiefmutter, die das Bild verwarf. Tante sàhe wie Lady Macbeth aus.
Seidenschnur: Im Leben besseres Marktweib. Ward sie zur Lady, spricht das für meine Fâhigkeit, zu arrangieren, Effekt aus dem Nichts zu holen [. . .] (397-98).
In the central scene with Lydia, and again later when trying to entice Fanny, Seidenschnur raves that his inspiration and strength as an artist stem from his models:
Seidenschnur: [. . .] Ach, Fràulein Lydia! Der Künstler, der wie unsereins vom Modell abhàngt.
Lydia: Ach ja...!
Seidenschnur: Was ware Phidias, hàtten ihm die schonsten Helleninnen nicht den herrlichen Leib ohne Scham geboten; was Michelangelo—[. . .] (398-99).
He would apparently like to see in his models a means to achieve some higher artistic goal; he draws energy from them and in this sense instrumentalizes them as one would any object.
Seidenschnur’s creation is then at the same time a form of destruction, a silencing of the human subject into an object that can be used to another end. Although here complicated through the integration of photographic scenes into the play, this was, as
10 See also p. 414 for a similar discussion with Fanny. 70
Burghard Dedner points out in an article on Sternheim’s short prose works from 1912-1918, clearly a topic of general interest to him:
Zumindest für die Zeit vor 1918 dOrfte gelten, daB Sternheim die Prozesse der künstlerischen Wahrheitsfindung und— in seiner Terminologie— der asthetischen Begriffsbildung meist instrumental, als Mittel zum Zwerke energetischer Bereicherung faBt und ihnen Autonomie nur insofern zubilligt, als die ungeschminkte Darstellung des Wirklichen ein notwendiges, durch nichts zu ersetzendes Mittel ist fErzahlungen 58).
And, in his analysis of Sternheim’s Van Gogh essay of 1909, Dedner comments on the violent erotic overtones characterizing the artist’s relationship with his subject, in this case a nature scene: “Der
Umgang des Malers Van Gogh mit der provenzalischen Natur wild zur
Liebesbegegnung, zur Vergewaltigung und zum Lustmord (Erzahlunqen
59). This is certainly reminiscent of Seidenschnur’s treatment of the female characters, particularly Lydia, in Die Kassette. The fact that the “artist” is here a photographer rather than a painter underscores the violence of the process in that it now separates artist and subject through the cold eye of a machine.
Seidenschnur as a Photographer/Artist
Seidenschnur’s profession is of interest not only in the way it affects other characters and their actions but also in the way it 71
shapes him as an Individual. Like those around him, Seidenschnur
employs photographs and the act of picture-taking to create a facade. When behind the camera, Seidenschnur is in complete
control of others; he directs and poses them, claiming to bring out their individuality:
Seidenschnur: Lydia, ein heiBes Herz sind Sie. Ein Flammenkomplex. Auch Ihnen werden Fetzen bourgeoiser Gewohnheiten bald nicht mehr passen, sich freimachen werden Sie, reiche Individualitat machtig ausschnaufen müssen.
Lydia: Glauben Sie, ich bin eine Individualitat?
Seidenschnur: Kann das Frage sein? [. . .] (401)
More than any of the other characters, Seidenschnur tries to impress those around him by creating an image of himself as a great individual, one who stands out from the crowd in both thoughts and actions. In reality, however, Seidenschnur is as much a conformist to bourgeois ideals as anybody else in the play. He presents himself as a true artist, a creator of unique and highly valuable photographic portraits, and in so doing demands respect—or at least the appearance of it— from those around him. Yet even he regards his profession as more of a business than an art, and is willing to compromise his artistic principles when money comes into question:
Krull: [. . .] Fràulein Treu sagen die Bilder nicht zu, es kurz zu machen. 72
Seidenschnur: Welt entfernt, mich dem Urtell der Dame in Dingen der Kunst zu unterwerfen...
Krull: Selbstverstandlich liegt es ihr fern, künstlerische Qualitàten anzufechten.
Seidenschnur: Mein Atelier ist fünfmal mit goldenen und silbernen Medaillen pramiert. Ich war Reutlingers Paris Meisterschüler. Das kann genügen.
[...]
Krull: Ich will often mit Ihnen reden. Familienverhaltnisse zwingen uns, auf oft barocke Wünsche Fràulein Treus Rücksicht zu nehmen. Meine Frau ist Erbin.
Seidenschnur: Nach ihr Ihr Fràulein Tochter? (410)
In addition, Seidenschnur’s constant use of clichés and his habit of quoting sentimental love poems to any woman within earshot, make him less an individual than a figure of parody. His great “talent” at photographic portraiture— at creating what are often illusory images— becomes just one more sign of his inability to recognize and confront reality in his own life. This self-deception becomes increasingly more apparent and ultimately climaxes with
Seidenschnur’s Italian honeymoon and subsequent decision to give up photography in favor of a “true” art, namely painting:
Krull: Mit solchen Sachen, Chianti Kalomel muB die Reise gehoriges Geld verschlungen haben. 73
Seidenschnur: In der Tat. Doch davon spàter. Ich habe, das muB Ich sagen, entscheldende künstlerische Anregungen empfangen.
Krull: Aha!
Elsbeth: Sind die durchrelsten Gegenden erschopfend von Ihnen photographlert worden?
Seidenschnur: Nur wenig Aufnahmen wurden gemacht. In freler künstlerischer Atmosphère war mir der Berufzum Ekel, stand meine Sehnsucht nach Hoherem (446-47).
With this conversation, the play returns to Its beginning—a clear employment of Iteration to underscore the comic nature of the play:
Seldenschnurs mangelhafter Realltatssinn, der sich wahrend der Itallenrelse noch welter verflüchtigt, pradestlnlert Ihn dazu, Im 5. Aufzug den Platz des Opfers elnzunehmen, wahrend Krull Ihn—stellvertretend für die Tante— mit den Fragen und Feststellungen zum “realen Ertrag” der Relse demütigt, mit denen die Tante gegenüber Ihm selbst Im 1. Aufzug Ihren Herrschaftsanspruch erhob (Schônert 74).
Seidenschnur’s fascination with “art” lasts about as long as Krull's
Infatuation with his new wife did upon returning from their honeymoon. His brief attempt at painting falls and, overcome with a heightened obsession for money, he now openly boasts about his ability to earn by photographing:
Krull: Sie mit Ihren Künstlerinstinkten!
Seidenschnur: Horen Sie, auch Künstler konnen tüchtig verdlenen. 74
Krull; Ihr Atelier bring! rund fünftausend Mark jàhriich?
Seidenschnur: Über sechstausend.
Krull: H ut ab! (462)
Photography, once a means of attracting beautiful women into his studio, is now seen solely in terms of achieving another end: making money and gaining the stability of a bourgeois existence.
Seidenschnur and Krull become parallel characters.
The existence of Seidenschnur, a professional photographer, as a character and the discussion surrounding the “artistic” nature of his work make questions about the relationship between photography and art inevitable. The discussion that takes place among the characters themselves as to whether or not Seidenschnur in particular is an artist or simply a businessman is perhaps less important than the attention that Sternheim seems to be drawing—through the photographs—to another, much larger issue: what are the possibilities of art and to what extent are these possibilities realized in photographs? The ability of a camera to capture reality, a supposedly “objective” view of the images within the frame, underscores the fact that each picture must contain a moment of truth—whether it is recognized as such by the individual viewer or not. In addition, photographs offer a unique means of self 75
reflection: they allow people to study themselves from the outside,
i.e., from a distance as others might view them. In Die Kassette this
aspect of photography comes through particularly well in the
character of Elsbeth who is caught studying her picture privately
and who, once having been insulted, guards her portrait from others
with extreme sensitivity. To this extent, the play's photographs
give evidence of what art can do. But they are equally valuable in
showing where art can fail. It is ironic that since photography can
capture reality, the characters themselves (those who so often
employ photographs to control others) are for the most part unable
to identify deception. Yet at the same time, these are photographs that are deceptive by their very nature, for they have been staged.
Seidenschnur’s portraits of Elsbeth and Lydia, as well as the
postcard picture of Fanny and Krull, were carefully created to
present an image that on the surface had little to do with truth or
reality. In this sense, art—in the form of the photographs—is
reduced by the characters; it is manipulated by them in an attempt to achieve their own ends. Photography as depicted in Die Kassette
clearly evidences both the greatness and the weakness of art. There
is a moment of truth in the pictures (even if it can only be
discovered by the reader or audience) as well as a means of self 76 reflection, but the possibility for reduction and manipulation also exists.
Photographs and the Private Sphere
As was already indicated by its connection to the erotic, photography has a special capacity for unveiling, or at least giving insight into, a person's private sphere of existence. While the pictures in Die Kassette are on one level a means for the characters to create—consciously—false images of themselves, they are on another level an avenue for the reader or audience to discover what lies behind the facades. In other words, the photographs often open the characters to a scrutiny of those very inner qualities that they believe to have hidden. The pictures provide a truly visible representation of a technique that is typical of many of Sternheim’s works:
Doch diese Welt, die in der Offentlichkeit keine Rolle spielen mochte, anderen der Verantwortung Ehre und Bürde überlieB, blieb, als sie eines neugierigen Auges Scheinwerfer auf sich gerichtet sah, verwirrt und wie ertappt: schrie aus vollem Hals den Friedensstorer an, und die ergebene Presse des luste milieu zog blank (Sternheim, Preface to Die Hose 23).
The play’s photographs do act in a way like a spotlight that stuns. 77 confuses and frightens the charactersJ ^ The fact that Elsbeth,
Lydia, and Fanny all hesitate when asked to be photographed, for instance, seems to be an indication of some fear, an anxiety at having to see themselves from a different point of view. Elsbeth, even more than Fanny and Lydia, seems to be aware of this power of photographs. After having her portrait insulted by Fanny, Elsbeth vows to have Seidenschnur cancel her order and return her money.
While the power she gains over Krull by assigning him the task of restoring her good name is certainly of great importance to her, it is clear that she sees in the photographs more than just any means of control. The decision to ask Krull to return the pictures to
Seidenschnur is preceded most directly not with a scene of vicious plotting but with one of quiet, supposedly private, contemplation of the photographs:
Krull springt an die Tûr der Tante : Das hieSe: An die Gewehre! Er sieht durchs Schlûsselloch . Das hieBe— Herrgott, was mag in meiner Abwesenheit hier vorgegangen sein? Wir waren trotz Hochzeit und lirum larum ein Herz und eine Seele. Was für Einflüsse, Schwingungen, welche Revolte denn? Was hat sie—zu welchen Entschlüssen sich verstiegen—was gibt es jetzt zu schreiben? Wem? Ich muB das ÀuBerste versuchen. Sie sieht—halt ans Licht—was? Die Bilder! Geht vom
11 In staging this play one might consider employing an older lighting system that could be used not only to spotlight certain characters but also to stun briefly the people in the audience by directing a bright light onto them at certain points in the action. 78
Tisch weg, kommt— Er tritt von der Tûr in die Zimmermitte (377).
Elsbeth is for some reason fascinated by the photographs. It is possible that she sees something in the pictures that is disturbing or perhaps even frightening and would like to restore her pride in the face of Fanny’s insults by having her money returned. It could also be, however, that these images reveal a side of her that she would—while on one level rejecting it as promiscuous and socially unacceptable for a woman of her stature— really like to believe exists. In either case, such an intimate relationship with the pictures would help explain Elsbeth’s overly violent reaction upon hearing that Krull gave the photographs back to Seidenschnur as a routine part of the cancellation of her order:
Elsbeth: Du? Du wagst dich an meine privatesten Angelegenheiten, stoberst in meinen Geheimfachern herum? Ah, nun bin ich berichtet, habe ich ein Bild. Vor den nàchsten Verwandten kann man den Schlüssel nicht stecken lassen. Seit langem kam es mir vor, du spürst meinen Handlungen nach, siehst dich in meiner schmutzigen Wasche um; endlich habe ich den Beweis in Hànden.
[••■]
Elsbeth: Wer gab Befehl, die Bilder auszuliefern?
[••■]
Krull: Was kann dir an Bildern liegen, die dich als Schlampen, 79
Kokotte darstellen?
Elsbeth: Die Worte stammen von dir und sind in Verbindung mit mir gebraucht Rüpeleien (423).
In removing the photographs, Krull has clearly crossed the boundary
and tread upon forbidden territory, for he not only entered her room
without permission, he also took the only photographs Elsbeth has of
herself. They expose something intensely private and have a
meaning to her that no one else could ever understand. This intimate
quality of photographs is something that has been of great
theoretical as well as literary interest. Indeed, Barthes’ comments
on the privacy of photographs in his book Cam era Lucida are
reminiscent of Elsbeth’s quiet studying of her own portraits:
Further, photographs, except for an embarrassed ceremonial of a few boring evenings are looked at when one is alone. I am uncomfortable during the private projection of a film (not enough of a public, not enough anonymity), but I need to be alone with the photographs I am looking at. [. . .] Each photograph is read as the private appearance of its referent: the age of Photography corresponds precisely to the explosion of the private into the public, or rather into the creation of a new social value, which is the publicity of the private: the private is consumed as such publicly [. . .] (97-98).
Only when seen in this light can Elsbeth’s seeming overreaction to the loss of her pictures be fully comprehended. 80
The ultimately private nature of the photographs in Die
Kassette draws special attention to a number of scenes in which characters are being watched secretly, most often through a keyhole.
During the course of the play, the keyhole becomes an important means of espionage; it takes on all of the characteristics of the eye of a camera, allowing family members to look behind closed doors, behind the facades that are otherwise so well maintained. In addition, this camera-like view provides the audience with occasional glimpses of characters by themselves, acting not to please the demands of others but rather according to their own individual natures. Although limited in its field of vision, this point of view is often able to capture some act, mood, or gesture that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. In this sense, the theater itself becomes a “keyhole”, a unique means of gaining insight.
Significantly, all three of the play’s central characters, Krull, Fanny, and Elsbeth, make a practice of spying on one another. Even before
Krull watches Elsbeth as she examines her photographs (377),
Elsbeth has herself been jealously hovering outside Krull and Fanny’s
bedroom:
Fanny: Aug und Ohr an dein Schlafzimmer gepreBt! Wie weit soli es kommen? Hinein! Brich Gelegenheit vom Zaun.
Krull: Du meinst? 81
Fanny: Sei Held, wie du in unseren Nàchten erschelnst. Ich lelde. Befreie mich—Starker, Koniglicher!
Krull: Ich frikassiere sie— suQe Puppe.
Fanny: Sei versichert, niemand hort und sieht dich. Auf! (386)
Krull, like Elsbeth, spends a great deal of his time secretly following the other characters’ various moves. In his obsession with the strongbox and its money, however, he goes a step further.
For he not only watches the others but also becomes possessed with attempts never to let down his guard, always to act as if he is being watched:
Krull tritt auf, eine Laterne in Hànden. Er tritt an Fannys T û. r Sie ist wach. Drinnen keine Sicherheit, keine Ruh. Sie kàme mir ans Schlûsselloch, belauschte mich. Besser sitze ich hier und habe, kommt sie, an meinem Schreibtisch bequeme Ausrede (440).
Despite his efforts, though, Krull too falls victim to the view through the keyhole. His wife peers through the hole only to see
Krull in bed with the strongbox. His public act of diplomacy is broken and his private thoughts and intentions unveiled. Of all three characters participating in this game of hide-and-seek, Fanny seems the closest to seeing what she should, to recognizing the moment of truth in these private scenes:
Fanny im Nachtkleid tritt auf, geht an Krulls ZimmertOr und sieht durchs Schlûsselloch. Licht! Wieder sitzt er, stiert auf das Ungeheuer, das 82
seitdem meinen Platz In seinem Bett einnlmmt. Ich bin von einem Weib erwûrgt, das starker war. Mit jeder anderen hàtte ich mich messen konnen, nicht mit der, die ihn fester als die Schonste packte. [...] Sie sieht wieder ins Schlûsseiioch. Grau ist er geworden. Warst du nicht jünger, als du mit Ungestüm vor wenigen Wochen mich begehrtest, rasend mich hattest? War das ein anderer Mann? War ich, war er verzaubert? Was soil ich tun? Ich bin dir nicht gram...nur hungrig (438-39).
From this vantage point, Fanny is able to see her husband in a
new—seemingly more distanced and objective—manner. She is able
to study him as he really is, to recognize the drastic changes he has
undergone and, finally, to realize that she has lost the battle with
Elsbeth. No longer blinded by the games Krull normally plays to
maintain good standing with both women, Fanny sees, by means of
the keyhole, an image of Krull that exposes his true nature.
Seidenschnur’s Photographs and Technology
Sternheim’s use of the photography motif in Die Kassette also
draws attention to another, broader issue within the text, namely that of the relationship between people and machines. Like many
other authors of the time, Sternheim clearly felt the impact of an
increasingly industrialized society and had an interest in exploring 83
the effect that technology was having on human beings. In his book
on Sternheim’s comedies Winfried Freund comments on this fact
noting that many of his characters are reduced to automatons
through their use of language:
Also Stilmontage mit heterogensten Versatzstücken mit dem Ziel der Selbststilisierung und der Fiktion familiârer Harmonie. Der Sprecher selbst verschwindet hinter einem wüsten SprachpotpourrI und erstarrt zum Sprachautomaten fBûrqerkomôdien 87).
In other words, characters speak without compassion or
understanding and without taking responsibility for the
ramifications that their words might have—they have become
machines much like Seidenschnur’s camera (“Er ist für seine Camera
nicht verantwortlich” 388). Nowhere is this theme made clearer
than in the characters of Fanny and Elsbeth, two women who are
described as monstrous machines set out to destroy whatever
happens into their path. From the beginning of the play, Krull
addresses Fanny as his little “Puppe.” While on the one hand simply
a term of endearment, it also conjures up the image of a human-like figure acting upon command and controlled by some outside force. In
addition, Fanny and Elsbeth are often described using vocabulary
more appropriate to monsters than to the ladies of bourgeois society that they supposedly are: 84
Fanny: [. . .] Làngst hàtte sie [Elsbeth] dich verschlungen, fürchtete sie meine Krallen nicht.
[■••] Ahnte sie, Ich wàre nicht zu Kampf auf Leben und Tod entschlossen an delner Selte, sie zermalmte dich.
Krull: Was helBen soil, Ich stünde nicht selbst meinen Mann, sel zwischen euch als zuckender Fetzen Fleisch geworfen, um den Ihr baigt? Habt Ihr den Verstand verloren? [. . .] (418)
There Is a clear element of violence here, but a violence that could only be carried out by something free of any human conscience. In his only true—however brief—confrontation with Elsbeth, Krull goes even farther In drawing a parallel between the aunt and a monster:
Krull: Doch an meine Frelhelt heran, doch? Da relBt du mir die Zunge aus dem Maul, die Galle hoch aus Elngewelden. Delne Boshelt 1st g run.
Elsbeth: Das soil . . .
Krull mit erhobenen Armen : Ein Konglomerat von GIften preBt du In deIn Opfer und sperrst Nüstern und Augen auf, spelt der verreckende Kadaver Jauche über dich (424).
In all of his characters to a certain extent, but particularly In Fanny and Elsbeth, Sternheim presents the audience with beings that are human only In their outward appearance. They act and react like the machines that were having such a powerful effect on life In the early twentieth century, without any truly humane feeling and therefore without the possibility of experiencing emotion and life 85
d ire ctly.
Conclusion
Although they have long been overlooked, Seidenschnur’s
photographs clearly play an important role in Die Kassette. They
serve not only as a means of plot motivation but also as a valuable
interpretative tool. Through these photographs Sternheim makes one
of his most powerful statements: human beings, in their constant
attempts to present or maintain certain images of themselves, build
walls that make meaningful conversation and relationships
impossible. As with the characters in Die Kassette. people become
caught in the facades they have created for themselves; they are
unable to recognize or appreciate reality and are thrust into a world
in which experience is vicarious and relationships sustainable only through mediation. For the play’s characters the photographs are a
convenient means of presenting themselves to others as they would
like to be seen, of gaining a power and control that would never be
possible in an honest relationship. But for the play’s audience these same photographs are a way of seeing the truth, of evaluating the characters from a more objective point of view—through a keyhole.
In addition, the pictures serve as an important comic element in the 86
drama. They are physical evidence of the characters’ continual lies
and of the discrepancy between appearance and reality, and they are
often the source of miscommunications and misunderstandings on
stage. While Die Kassette is clearly a comedy, there is evidence
that Sternheim drew from other sources as well. The inclusion of
Seidenschnur, a photographer/“artist” who has a certain power over
his subjects, allows the play to be classified as a “Künstlerdrama”
of sorts. The photographer is reminiscent of—among others— E. T. A.
Hoffmann’s artists who always seemed to control others by means
of an unexplained supernatural force. Sternheim’s ultimately
pessimistic statement about a human being’s selfishness and
materialism and about the resulting lack of true feelings for others
also places him in the tradition of negative authors such as Kafka
and Musil. Sternheim’s social criticism, his call for people to step
out from behind their facades and look at reality and themselves in a
new way could hardly have been achieved through a better means than the “objective” art of the day, photography. CHAPTER III
Photographs in Der Zauberberg: Time, Death, and Hans Castorp’s Search for Identity
Great authors are often defined by the fact that they seek to do much more than simply entertain the reader; their desire is more often to lay bare some “kernel of truth" about the world and people surrounding them, to observe critically and perhaps offer some hope or resolution for the future. The avenue an author chooses to achieve this goal becomes, in many cases, an artistic or stylistic trademark, something that—along with the treatment of recurring themes— differentiates one artist’s works from another’s. Such is certainly the case with Thomas Mann, whose stylistic ability gives his thematic elements an importance they might otherwise never have found. Mann’s irony, his distanced, objective and— as some critics feel— excessively cold, narrative style lies at the heart of his work. This, for him, was a necessary part of art. As he states in
“Bilse und ich":
Der Blick den man als Künstler auf die àuBeren und inneren Dinge richtet, ist anders als der, womit man sich als Mensch betrachtet: er ist zugleich kàlter und leidenschaftlicher. Du
87 88
magst als Mensch gut, duldsam, liebevoii, posltiv sein, magst eine ganz und gar unkritische Neigung haben, alle Erscheinungen gutzuheilBen,—als Künstler zwingt dich der Damon, zu ‘beobachten’, blitzschnell und mit einer schmerzlichen Bosheit jede Einzelheit zu perzipieren, die im literarischen Sinne charakteristisch ist, typisch bedeutsam ist, Perspektiven eroffnet, die Passe, das Soziale, das Psychologische bezeichnet, sie rücksichtsios zu vermerken, als hattest du gar kein menschliches Verhàitnis zu dem Geschauten,— und im ‘Werk’ kommt allés zutage (19-20).
Carefully considered, such statements lead one to draw comparisons between Thomas Mann’s stylistic approach to art and that of a photographer. In many ways, he seeks to attain the same distance from his characters and themes as can be achieved with seeming effortlessness through technology and the mechanical lens of the camera. Indeed, Mann’s fiction is well recognized for this characteristic and has at times been both praised and criticized because of the similarity.^
1 C. E. Williams notes that Mann's careful depiction of the Davos sanatorium “reproduces the image of an age that has lost its bearings as a photographic negative matches a print” (44). A much less positive evaluation of this same quality is found in Heinz SauereBig’s work, Die Entstehuna des Romans Der Zauberberg. He cites “einer haBerfüllten Tirade in der Berliner Borsenzeitung, die Fritz Rostowsky unter dem Titel ‘Der gestiirzte Olymp’ am 25. Juni gebracht hatte: ‘Thomas Manns Kunst ist eine literarische Photographie, deren Handfertigkeit er mit allen Tricks geschickter Kameramànner übte. Seine Gestalten haben immer wieder so peinliche Ahnlichkeiten mit dem spôttelnd Abgebildeten, daB er sogar einige Opfer seiner Romanfeder zu verzeichnen hat, z.B. den ‘Hofrat Behrens’, dessen Urbild aus Davos verschwinden m uBte’” (3 0 ). 89
Given Mann’s fascination with “camera-like” observation, it is no surprise that, like many of his intellectual contemporaries, he had a strong interest in photography as both a technological advancement and a new art form. In his 1928 review of Alfred
Renger-Patzsch’s photo volume entitled Die Welt ist schon. Mann remarks that photography is technology that has had life breathed into it: “Technifizierung des Künstlerischen—gewiB, es klingt schlimm, es klingt nach Verfall und Untergang der Seele. Aber wenn nun, indem das Seelische der Technik anheimfallt, die Technik sich beseelt?” (902) For him, photography can achieve the goals that art and artists have always sought to realize; it isolates people or objects from the world of appearances and shows them in a new and meaningful manner: “Das Einzelne, Objektive, aus dem Gewoge der
Erscheinungswelt erschaut, isoliert, erhoben, verscharft, bedeutsam gemacht, beseelt,—was hat, mochte ich wissen, die Kunst, der
Künstler je anderes getan?” (904) Mann thus evaluates photography positively—something that seems in a way to contradict his own negative view of another technological “miracle” of the time. 90
namely film.2 In his discussions of film, Mann gives higher praise to silent movies than the later, more technologically advanced
“ta lk ie s ”:
Darf ich sagen, daB ich es schade fand um den stummen Film, als er vom Tonfilm verdràngt wurde? Er hatte den Vorzug der Musik— und auch des Werkes der bildenden Kunst— , überall verstandlich, in der ganzen Welt zu Hause zu sein (“Unterhaltungsmacht” 933).
The qualities he finds so praiseworthy in the silent film are precisely those that underline its close relationship to photography.
The fact that Mann saw such artistic potential in photography gives new weight to his inclusion of photographs and photographers in his works. His use of countless “visual aids” in the actual creation of his fiction has been well documented:
DaB sich Thomas Mann bei der Beschreibung von Personen, Intérieurs und Landschaften gerne an Bildvorlagen gehalten hat, ist schon des ôftern festgestellt worden. [. . .] In den nachgelassenen Materialien liegen Hunderte von Bildern, die sich Thomas Mann in der Phase der Werkvorbereitung, aber auch
2 In his essay "Über den Film”, Mann states: “Ich sprach von einer ‘Lebensersoheinung’— denn mit Kunst hat, glaube ich, verzeihen Sie mir, der Film nicht viel zu schaffen, und ich halte es für verfehit, mit der Sphàre der Kunst entnommenen Kriterien an ihn heranzutreten” (899). This opinion is also voiced in the “Totentanz” chapter of Der Zauberberg in which Hans and Joachim accompany the ailing Karen Karstedt to the movies: "Dann verschwand das Phantom. Leere, Helligkeit überzog die Tafel, das Wort ‘Ende’ ward daraufgeworfen, der Zyklus der Darbietungen hatte sich geschlossen, und stumm raumte man das Theater, wahrend von auBen neues Publikum hereindràngte, das eine Wiederholung des Ablaufs zu genieBen begehrte” (336). For a detailed discussion of the role of film in Der Zauberberg see Christof Schmidt, “‘Gejagte Vorgange voll Pracht und Nacktheit’. Eine unbekannte kinematographische Quelle zu Thomas Mann’s Roman Der Zauberberg.” 91
noch wâhrend der Niederschrift eines Werkes aus Zeitungen, Zeitschrlften, Kunstkalendern herausgeschnitten hat. Dazu kommen Bildbande aus seiner BIbliothek, Relsebücher und - magazine, Kunstführer und dergleichen [. . .] (Wysling, Vortrage 64).3
The meaning and importance of photographs as a motif used to develop and strengthen overriding themes in works such as Gladius
Dei. Der Tod in Venedig. and Der Zauberberg. have, however, been largely ignored. The photograph of a painting is the central concern of the short prose piece, Gladius Dei, and one of the final images of the 1913 novella, Der Tod in Venedig. is that of a camera standing alone on the beach. In each of these instances, the photographic motif underlies important thematic issues: seduction, the world of appearance versus that of reality, the “objective” narrator, and in
Der Tod in Venedig especially, the depiction of mortality and a glimpse into an inner world fraught with darkness and danger. But it is clearly in Der Zauberberg that Mann uses photographs to their fullest potential. A close reading of the work reveals that the camera and its unique means of observation are suitable to Mann’s purpose not only stylistically but also thematically; the eye of the camera inextricably intertwines the means of presentation with the
3 See also, Hans Wysling and Yvonne Schmldlin eds., Biid und Text be! Thomas Mann: Eine Dokumentation and Heinz SauereBig, Die Entstehung des Romans Der Zauberberg. 92
ideas being set forth. In Der Zauberberg. Mann presents the reader with photography in a number of different forms: as x-rays, as an art compared to portrait painting, as stereographs, and as a hobby taken up by sanatorium residents. Although these instances may appear at first glance to be unconnected, they can all be read as contributing to greater questions that continually arise in regard to the novel as a whole. In particular, they underlie the themes of time— a concept that continually occupies both Hans Castorp and the narrator—and death, a necessary part of Hans' search for identity.
Photography and Time
It is obvious as early as the foreword to Der Zauberberg that the issue of time, its nature and our perception of it under different circumstances, will play a prominent role in the discussions and events to follow. Indeed, as Helmut Koopmann argues, Der
Zauberberg can be classified asZeitroman a for more reasons than one:
Im Zauberberg aber wird die Zeit gleichsam unter doppelter Optik gesehen. Sie ist nicht nur Medium der Erzahlung, sondern, in gewisser Hinsicht jedenfalls, auch ihr Thema; Thema aber nicht nur in dem Sinne, daB der Roman ‘das innere Bild einer Epoche, der europaischen Vorkriegszeit zu entwerfen versucht’, sondern auch in dem Sinne, daB er, resp. der Erzahler, die Zeit ‘an sich’ erzahlen will [. . .] (137-38). 93
The narrator insists that this is a story which, because of its age, must necessarily be told in the past tense. Yet it is not old in terms of days or years, those units normally associated with an objective measurement of time;
[. . .] sie [die Geschichte] ist viel alter als ihre Jahre, ihre Betagtheit 1st nicht nach Tagen, das Alter, das auf ihr liegt, nicht nach Sonnenumlaufen zu berechnen; mit einem Worte: sie verdankt den Grad ihres Vergangenseins nicht eigentlich der Zeit,— eine Aussage, womit auf die Fragwürdigkeit und eigentümliche Zwienatur dieses geheimnisvollen Elementes im Vorbeigehen angespielt und hingewiesen sei (5).
Rather, it must be experienced as a story of the very distant past because of the cataclysmic change, the Great War, which separates the present from the events of the narrative. This phenomenon is to a certain extent mirrored in the novel through Hans' original train journey to the mountaintop where he is to spend the next seven years. In the course of only days, he feels that he is separated by years from his former existence;
Zwei Reisetage entfernen den Menschen— und gar den jungen, im Leben noch wenig test wurzelnden Menschen— seiner Alltagswelt, all dem, was er seine Pfiichten, Interessen, Sorgen, Aussichten nannte, viel mehr als er sich auf der Droschkenfahrt zum Bahnhof wohl tràumen lieB. Der Raum, der sich drehend und fliehend zwischen ihn und seine Pfianzstatte wàlzt, bewàhrt Kràfte, die man gewôhniich der Zeit vorbehalten glaubt [. . .] (7-8). 94
The central role played by time in Der Zauberberg Is stressed once
again but from a different perspective in Mann's speech, ‘The Making
of The Magic Mountain.” Here he discusses the writer’s need to, in a
sense, “freeze” time in order to capture a moment of completeness,
an image of totality in what is otherwise the unstoppable continuum
of life:
But there are others [authors]—and I must count myself among them— whose single works do not possess this complete significance, being only parts of the whole which makes up the author’s lifework. And not only his lifework, but actually his life itself, his personality. He strives, that is, to overcome the laws of time and continuity. He tries to produce himself completely in each thing he writes, but only actually does so in the way The Magic Mountain does it; I mean by the use of the leitmotiv, the magic formula that works both ways, and links the past with the future, the future with the past. The leitmotiv is the technique employed to preserve the inward unity and abiding presentness of the whole at each moment (717-18).
The key, then, lies in discovering a means of always expressing the
present while never losing hold of the past or sight of the future.
This requires a motif that is itself very complex, for it must, like time, be both linear and circular in nature.
A photograph, it seems, would be an ideal mode for exploring the essence of time. Its unique relationship to time has often been the topic of debate and contemplation by photographers, critics, and 95
laymen alike. Early daguerreotypists took advantage of people’s desire to hold onto the present—in the face of aging and eventual death—by advertising with the couplet: “Secure the shadow ’ere the substance fade/Let Nature imitate what Nature made" (Newhall 32).
It did not take long for the general public to realize that “neither words nor the most detailed painting can evoke a moment of vanished time as powerfully and as completely as a good photograph” (Newhall 94). More recently, critics such as Susan
Sontag, Roland Barthes, and John Berger have also reflected on the relationship between photography and time. Barthes calls cameras
“clocks for seeing” (15). And Sontag notes that photographs cannot be regarded simply as “frozen moments” since the very act of stopping time also emphasizes its passage:
All photographs arememento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt (15).
By the same token, ‘Ihe force of a photograph is that it keeps open to scrutiny instants which the normal flow of time immediately replaces” (Sontag111). Each time a photograph is studied, the past is given new life and, for that moment of observation at least, new 96
“presence.” The fact that a camera freezes a single moment into an image that can be viewed and reviewed does not mean that this moment is necessarily isolated from the context of its creation. As
Berger writes, a photograph may tell the viewer as much about what is üûl depicted as what is;
The true content of a photograph is invisible, for it derives from a play, not with form, but with time. One might argue that photography is as close to music as to painting. [. . .] The choice is not between photographing x andy. but between photographing at x moment or aty moment. The objects recorded in any photograph (from the most effective to the most commonplace) carry approximately the same weight, the same conviction. What varies is the intensity with which we are made aware of the poles of absence and presence. Between these two poles photography finds its proper meaning. (The most popular use of the photograph is as a memento of the absent) (293).
It is, then, the very essence of photography to encapsulate past, present, and future in a single moment and, in the very act of so doing, to underscore the inevitable linear nature of time.
Photographs express the past through the actual moment they have captured (which, in the instant of being recorded has already disappeared), the present in the “frozen moment” which can always be given new immediacy, and the future in their préfiguration of death. 97
This unique relationship of photographs to time is an ideal
means for achieving Mann’s goals in Der Zauberberg as outlined in
‘The Making of The Magic Mountain”:
It [the novel] depicts the hermetic enchantment of its young hero within the timeless, and thus seeks to abrogate time itself by means of the technical device that attempts to give complete presentness at any given moment to the entire world of ideas that it comprises. It tries, in other words, to establish a magicalnunc stans, to use a formula of the scholastics (723).
In his essay, “Ekphrasis and the Still Movement of Poetry; orLaokoôn
Revisited,” Murray Krieger makes some valuable points regarding the application of the qualities of the plastic arts to literature. While he does not mention photography specifically, its application to a work such as Der Zauberberg would have equal validity. Krieger argues that a poem, in order to be successful, must create a “sense of roundedness”:
That is, through all sorts of repetitions, echoes, complexes of internal relations, it converts its chronological progression into simultaneity, its temporally unrepeatable flow into eternal recurrence; through a metaphorical bending under the pressure of aesthetic tension, it converts its linear movement into a circle (4).
He then demonstrates how T. S. Eliot achieves this in “Burnt Norton” by using an object from the spatial arts to become a metaphor for 98
the literary work. Eliot’s “Chinese jar” stops time as words alone cannot:
Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into silence. Only by the form, the pattern. Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness (qtd. in Krieger 5)
The Chinese jar is introduced “[. . .] as a symbol of the frozen, stilled world of plastic relationships which must be superimposed upon literature’s turning world to ‘still’ it” (Krieger 5). Yet, like the photograph, the Chinese jar—or the urn, as employed by other writers—has not frozen time to the exclusion of all movement. Its function is much more complex than that:
So ‘still’ movement as quiet, unmoving movement; ‘still’ moving as a forever-now movement, always in process, unending; and the union of these meanings at once twin and opposed in the ‘stilling’ of movement, an action that is at once the quieting of movement and the perpetuation of it, the making of it, like Eliot’s wheel and Chinese jar, a movement that is still and that is still with us, that is— in his words—‘forever still’ (Krieger 7-8).
If great literature has, as Krieger argues and Mann demonstrates,
“[. . .] the unique power to celebrate time’s movement as well as to arrest it, to arrest it in the very act of celebrating it” (Krieger 24) 99
there must indeed be a productive link between literature and photography, one that deserves exploration in the realms of Dgr
Zauberberg.
Krieger’s essay, dealing as it does with primarily solid symbols from the world of the plastic arts, immediately brings to mind several images from Der Zauberberg that function in a similar manner. Very early in the novel, as Hans recalls childhood days spent with his grandfather, there is a detailed account of a christening basin. Like Eliot’s Chinese jar, this silver dish is inextricably intertwined with time on a thematic level. Even as a young boy, the sight of the bowl stirs feelings deep inside:
[. . .] ein schon erprobtes Gefühl kam ihn an, die sonderbare, halb traumerische, halb beangstigende Empfindung eines zugleich Ziehenden und Stehenden, eines wechselnden Bleibens, das Wiederkehr und schwindelige Einerleiheit war,—eine Empfindung, die ihm von fruheren Gelegenheiten her bekannt war, und von der wieder berührt zu werden er erwartet und gewünscht hatte: sie war es zum Teil, um derentwillen ihm die Vorzeigung des stehend wandernden Erbstücks angelegen gewesen war (27).
Past and present are drawn together and time is experienced as both flowing and persisting. Later, in a discussion with Naphta about
Freemasonry and alchemy, Hans Castorp recalls rows of preserve jars from his childhood: 100
‘Hermetik’ ist gut gesagt, Herr Naphta. ‘Hermetisch’—das Wort hat mir immer gefallen. Es 1st ein richtiges Zauberwort mit unbestimmt weitlaufigen Assoziationen. Entschuldigen Sie, aber ich muB immer dabei an unsere Weckglàser denken, die unsere Hamburger Hausdame— Schalleen heiBt sie, ohne Frau und Fraulein, einfach Schalleen—in ihrer Speisekammer reihenweise auf den Bortern stehen hat,—hermetisch verschlossene Glaser mit Früchten und Fleisch und allem moglichen darin. Sie stehen Jahr und Tag, und wenn man eines aufmacht, nach Bedarf, so ist der Inhalt ganz frisch und unberührt, weder Jahr noch Tag hat ihm was anhaben konnen, man kann ihn genieBen, wie er da ist (538).
The fruits and meats preserved in the jars are seemingly removed from the effects of time, just as Hans and the other patients in the
Davos sanatorium are separated from the flatland and its objective measurement of hours, days, and years.^ On the mountain, there are no identifiably distinct seasons (“Sie waren in einem Grade entschuldigt durch die Eigenart des Klimas hier oben, das Verwirrung begünstigte, indem es die Jahreszeiten meteorologisch durcheinanderwarf [. . .]” 382-83)5 and one day passes much as
4 Helmut Koopmann remarks: “Die Zeit ‘hier oben’ auf dem Zauberberg wurde—zumindest im BewuBtsein Castorps—zur Dauer, zur hermetischen Zeit, zur in sich kreisenden Zeit. [. . .] Der hermetischen Abgeschlossenheit im zeitlichen Sinne entspricht die strenge und auch im landlaufigen Sinne hermetische Abgeschlossenheit der Zauberwelt im raumlichen Sinne" (156-57).
5 See also Borge Kristiansen: “Die Jahreszeiten fallen zusammen, und es wird immer deutlicher, daB sie in Wirklichkeit identisch sind. In der Darstellung der Jahreszeit ist der trügerische Charakter der Zeit, die Transzendentalitat der Zeitform, thematisiert. Das Sinnbild der zeittranszendenten Sphare der Ewigkeit sind der Schnee und seine überall identische weiBe Landschaft” (241). 101
another with few apparent changes In the characters’ lives. While time is—for the reader and those in the flatland at least— no doubt moving forward, there is also a sense that, for those on the mountain, it has stopped. There is no discussion among the inhabitants of aging and few seem to have any noticeable change in appearance. They, like the silver basin and the contents of the jars, are—at least outwardly—preserved from the effects of time, and here there is a clear connection to photography. It is not surprising to discover, for instance, that the christening basin is stored inside a glass case with an album of daguerreotypes which presumably give presence in visual form to those whose names are engraved on the dish. The “hermetic” nature of the glass jars is also reminiscent of photographs in that the airtight seal—often considered magical— prevents or at least slows considerably the otherwise unavoidable process of aging and decay. Like the fruits that can be removed and enjoyed seemingly untouched years later, photographs are an image of a now-past moment that can be taken out and enjoyed again and again. Indeed, this is where they derive much of their appeal; only in a photograph do the young remain young and the old remain alive. 102
This stilling of time passively represented in the form of the christening basin and conserve jars, is mirrored in the characters’ active desire to take and possess photographs. There are many avid photographers among the sanatorium residents. They take pictures of each other, develop them in their own make-shift darkrooms, and pass them around at meal times for comment. It is certainly telling that an extensive description of photographic activities on the mountain immediately follows a paragraph describing “das Leben ohne Zeit” (664):
So hatte die Liebhaberphotographie von jeher in der Berghofwelt eine bedeutende Rolle gespielt; schon zweimal aber—denn wer lange genug hier oben verweilte, konnte die periodische Wiederkehr solcher Epidemien erleben—war die Leidenschaft dafür auf Wochen und Monate zur allgemeinen Narretei geworden, so daS niemand war, der nicht, mit besorgter Miene den Kopf über eine in die Magengrube gestützte Kamera gebeugt, die Blende hatte blinzein lassen, und das Herumreichen von Abzügen bei Tische kein Ende nahm. Plotzlich war es Ehrensache, selbst zu entwickeln. Die zur Verfügung stehende Dunkelkammer genugte der Nachfrage bei weitem nicht. Man versah Fenster und Baikontüren der Zimmer mit schwarzen Vorhàngen [. . .] (664-65).
Erwin Koppen feels that Mann treats these amateur photographers in the sanatorium with irony and disdain, that their hobby is no more than a means of whiling away the long hours:
Bei Thomas Mann ist es zunâchst der kollektive, ausnahmslos jeden in seinen Bann zwingende Enthusiasmus fur ein 103
Nebending, das den Gegenstand seines Hohnes blldet. Dleser richtet sich aber generell gegen die Erscheinung dessen, was im weiteren Veriauf des Jahrhunderts unter dem Terminus ‘Hobby’ bekannt werden wird, die Hinwendung des modernen Menschen zu Gegenstanden, die, obwohl sie auBerhalb eines natürlichen Lebenskreises liegen, ihn zu bannen und geradezu zu beherrschen scheinen, wie nebensachlich sie auch sonst immer sein môgen (193).
While some parody is certainly intended, there is also a more significant meaning to the inclusion of photography in the novel. It represents in a physical form the notion of time that Mann is seeking to achieve on a stylistic level. Certainly, there is a linear progression of time that is involved in the actual making of the pictures, just as there is in the creation or “telling” of a story such as Der Zauberberg. But in their photographs, characters also have a means of both freezing time and recalling the past to the present.
Like the hunchbacked Mexican who “[. . .] nahm unaufhorlich photographische Aufnahmen vor, indem er sein Stativ mit schnurriger Behendigkeit von einem Punkt der Terrasse zum anderen schleppte” (246), the sanatorium inhabitants essentially deaden time with each picture they take. These same images, however, are constant reminders in the present of the past, they give what may now be absent presence: “[. . .] Mrs. Macdonald, da hustet sie auf ihre klanglose Art und hat natürlich wieder die Photographie ihres 104
kleinen Sohnes neben sich auf dem Tischchen oder auch In der Hand”
(527). Even Hofrat Behrens, the Rhadamanthus who “sentences” others with no apparent concern for, or understanding of, an objective perception of time, has tried to stop its passage in his own life:
[. . .] heraufgeführt durch seine Frau, deren Reste schon làngst der Friedhof von ‘Dorf’ umfing,— der malerische Friedhof von Dorf Davos dort oben am rechtsseitigen Mange, welter zurück gegen den Eingang des Tales. Sie war eine sehr liebliche, wenn auch überâugige und asthenische Erscheinung gewesen, den Photographien nach zu urteilen, die überall in des Hof rats Dienstwohnung standen [. . .] (140).
All of these photographs are, in their own way, an attempt to manufacture a new sort of hermetic jar—one that offers human lives freedom from the laws of time.
One of the apparent contradictions of photographs is that they can both unite and isolate. Their relationship to the hermetic jars suggests, as has been discussed, that they are able to preserve an image from the past for the present and future. But in so doing, photographs can, and perhaps must, also isolate by creating a world distinct and separate from ‘Ihe real world.” Early in his stay, Hans notices the resort atmosphere (“das sorglose Badeleben” 118) at the
Berghof: “Man trank perlende Kunstlimonade an den Tischchen, und 105
auf der Freitreppe wurde photographier^ (118). The photographs become symbolic of the “Tourlstenvolkchen” (499) on the mountain, for the tourist world—especially as presented in photos— is quite separate from those places where people actually live and work.
While a new relationship to time is won through this isolation (‘“Ja
Zeit’, sagte Joachim [. . .]. ‘Die springen hier um mit der menschlichen Zeit, das glaubst du gar nicht’” 11), characters are also necessarily removed from the world of immediacy:
‘Aber die Zeit mu3 euch eigentlich schnell hier vergehen’, meinte Hans Castorp. ‘Schnell und langsam, wie du nun willst’, antwortete Joachim. ‘Sie vergeht überhaupt nicht, will ich dir sagen, es ist gar keine Zeit, und es ist auch kein Leben,—nein, das ist es nicht’, sagte er kopfschüttelnd und griff wieder zum Glase” (18).6
The Berghof residents often complain that they are tired of the food and landscape. Photographs in various forms seem to be one of the few opportunities they have for experiencing the world outside.
® A scene very reminiscent of this one appears in Christopher Isherwood’s Goodbye to Berlin. Chris, while visiting a friend’s mother in a sanatorium, notes how removed he feels. It is certainly significant that photographs are here too a prominent presence in the patients’ rooms: “Old Muttchen had a cold, they said. She wore a bandage round her throat, tight under the high collar of her old-fashioned black dress. [. . .] She sat on the edge of her bed with the photographs of her children and grandchildren on the table beside her, like prizes she had won. [. . .] Everything which happened to me to-day was curiously without impact: my senses were muffled, insulated, functioning as if in a vivid dream. In this calm, white room, with its great windows looking out over the silent snowy pine-woods— the Christmas-tree on the table, the paper festoons above the beds, the nailed-up photographs, the plate of heart-shaped chocolate biscuits— these four women lived and moved” (133-35). 106
They are forbidden to take part in sporting activities so they instead photograph them:
Man sah rote, angestrengte Gesichter, in die es hineinschneite. Stürze, Schlitten, die aneckten, sich überschlugen und ihre Mannschaft in den Schnee entleerten, wurden vom Pubiikum photographiert (334).
They are strongly discouraged from travel, so they become armchair tourists by viewing pictures in a stereoscope each evening during the social hour:
Ferner gab es ein paar unterhaltende optische Gegenstande im ersten Salon: einen stereoskopischen Guckkasten, durch dessen Linsen man die in seinem Innern aufgestellten Photographien, zum Beispiel einen venezianischen Gondolier, in starrer und blutloser Korperlichkeit erblickte [. . .] (90).
Such stereoscopes were very popular around the turn of the century and drew the interest of, among others, Oliver Wendell Holmes:
A stereoscope is an instrument which makes surfaces look solid. All pictures in which perspective and light and shade are properly managed, have more or less of the effect of solidity: but by this instrument that effect is so heightened as to produce an appearance of reality which cheats the senses with its seeming truth (74).
The purpose of the stereoscope can thus be evaluated on two levels.
It is, first of all, a means of underscoring the isolation of those on the mountain by showing their experiences to be vicarious. But it is also a companion to the christening basin and hermetic jars, for it 107
too has a solidity— real or apparent—that stills time’s foreward march.
The photographs in Der Zauberberg must be taken one step further, however, in order to view them as instrumental in helping achieve that “magicalnunc stansT of which Mann spoke. They must, within the confines of the novel, bring together past, present, and future into a moment of simultaneity. Krieger argues that this moment is accomplished in literature through pattern:
Its involvement with progression, with empirical movement, always accompanies its archetypal principle of repetition, of eternal return. The poem can uniquely order spatial stasis within its temporal dynamics because through its echoes and its texture it can produce—together with the illusion of progressive movement—the illusion of an organized simultaneity (24).
In Der Zauberberg Mann employs repetition to this end very successfully. On the most obvious level, there are the extensive and detailed descriptions of the daily schedule Imposed on the sanatorium residents. Each day is so tightly structured that there is little opportunity for diversion, thus allowing one day to fade into the next. Time passes as these days turn to months and eventually years, but there is also the strong sense that every day is the same 108
day, that, in fact, there Is no movement at all7 At the same time, there are countless recurring characters and events within the novel that serve to draw past, present, and future together. There are, for instance, the Mexican woman (Tous-les-deux) who, clad in black, circles in and out of the story, and James Tienappel whose appearance midway through the narrative recalls in both presence and behavior Hans Castorp’s first days on the mountain. Kristiansen, in a discussion of the novel’s structure, notes:
Die Leitmotivstruktur bewirkt, daB es im Roman keinen rein gegenwartigen, in Zeit und Raum unverwechselbaren Moment gibt; denn was in einem gegebenen Moment des Leseaktes da ist, war schon da und wird wieder da sein. Der gegenwartige Moment des Zauberbergs ist auch immer leitmotivische Prasentation von Vergangenem und Zukünftigem (246).
Clearly, the patterns that appear in an analysis of the work’s exhaustive details are testament to the tightly woven structure of the novel, but it is in the visions, or dreams, that the concept of eternal recurrence is most extensively developed, for it is only by such “intimate” means that one can explore the innermost reaches of a character’s mind. Simple repetition of images is not enough;
7 To this point Kristiansen recalls one of Hans’ early experiences at the Berghof. As he sits down to eat for the third time, he has the impression that none of the guests has ever left their tables: "Die Zeit, die die Situationen durch Einordnen in ein chronologisches Nacheinander trennt, erfâhrt Castorp als illusorisch. Fur ihn sind die drei verschiedenen Besuche im Speisesaal ein langer ‘ewiger’ Aufenthalt” (231). 109
there must be some window available for viewing and measuring a subject’s changed attitude or intellectual progress in regard to these events which repeat themselves again and again in the course of a human lifetime. Without this there is only stagnation:
This duality has the experiential basis we find in many of Wordsworth’s poems: the moment celebrated is a conjunction of two occasions, one far past with one present. The recurrence of experience, of identical stimulus, modified by the severe changes time has wrought in the experiencing subject, permits the simultaneous perception of motion and stasis that has been my concern (Krieger 18).
The visions, then, act as a sort of camera; they invite readers to peer beneath the surface at given moments and capture these same moments for later study in the context of a continuum.
Using photography as an interpretive tool allows the reader to unite the concepts ot eternal recurrence and visions on a more theoretical level. Obviously, the very act of photographing implies repetition, not only in clicking the shutter but also in producing an image which can be copied endlessly and which can be viewed time and again. Yet each time a photograph is studied it is seen in a slightly different light. Time has wrought changes in the viewing subject which must necessarily alter his or her relationship to the object depicted. While the actual picture remains the same, our 110
interpretation of it cannot—this may be particularly true when the
subject is also the depicted object. In this way, Walt Whitman tried
to track his own development by analyzing hundreds of pictures of
himself from relative youth to old age;8
He carefully read and inspected his photos, looking for clues to their individual and momentary significance, looking for ways the single images added up to a totality, ways the elements formed a compound. [. . .] He wondered whether the photos finally demonstrated that life was ‘evolutional or episodical,’ a unified sweep of a single identity or a jarring series of new identities (Folsom 3).
There is the belief, held by Whitman among others, that photographs
somehow get under the skin and therefore find their way to the
truth: ‘“[. . .] they [photographs] are perhaps mechanical, but they are
honest’” (Folsom 2). And it is in this way that most critics view
Hans Castorp’s visions, as continuing, recurring attempts to
evaluate life’s true meaning based on the analysis of these frozen
moments. Koopmann calls the dreams a form of memory recall:
Im Laufe seines Aufenthaltes auf dem Zauberberg erkennt er selbst immer starker im Augenblick der Anamnesis urtumliche Zusammenhànge: er erinnert sich, so paradox das klingen mag, bald nach vorwàrts, bald nach rückwàrts in die Zeiten hinein.
8 Robert K. Martin explores the influence Whitman’s work had on Thomas Mann in his article “Walt Whitman and Thomas Mann." Here he states: “Thomas Mann’s encounter with Walt Whitman came at a crucial time in the novelist’s career. Mann's 1922 reading of Whitman in the Reisiger translation establishes the missing link between Betrachtunaen eines Unoolitischen of 1918 and Von deutscher Reoublik of 1922 and contributes to the final form of Der Zauberberg (1924)” (1). 111
[. , .] Die Anamnesis vollzieht sich dabei stets in ausgezeichneten Momenten: namiich im Traum und in der Vision, und im Veriauf des Geschehens ist Castorp immer mehr geneigt, den Traum und die Vision als das Wahre und Wirkliche, die Wirklichkeit dagegen als das Unwirklich-Unwahre zu erkennen (164-65).
Vogt gives Hans shamanistic qualities and stresses the power of his inner eye: “Hans possesses an eye for the internal significance of objects, an eye that we are asked to develop, [sic] Art is a medium to reveal truth, and the novel tells us that we should read it below the surface of the action” (60). Either way, the visions are obviously an analogue of a photograph: a reminder of the past and the absent and a means of scaling away surfaces to win a glimpse of the truth.
The fact that Hans’ visions are theoretically related to photography is confirmed by the relationship each has to an actual photograph on the story level. Hans’ first major dream is about his childhood attraction to a schoolmate of mysterious Germanic-Slavic origins, Pribislav Hippe. In an attempt to win his attention and gain some personal connection to him, Hans borrows his pencil and for years saves the shavings as a memento. Later, this same Hippe returns to Hans’ life but now in the form of Clawdia Chauchat.
Clawdia’s appearance, or reappearance as the case may be, is part of 112
a larger pattern of repetition, the present echoing the past. It is significant, however, that this time Hans chooses to save not pencil shavings but a small glass plate showing an x-ray image of
Clawdia’s chest:
[. . .] doch unbedingt verhieB die Umwalzung des Jahres entscheidende Neuerungen binnen kurzem, denn seit jener Fastnacht, in der Hans Castorp sich von Frau Chauchat einen Bleistift geliehen, ihr spater denselben auch wieder zurückgegeben und auf Wunsch etwas anderes dafür empfangen hatte, eine Erinnerungsgabe, die er in der Tasche trug, waren nun schon sechs Wochen verflossen [. . .] (368).
The simultaneous existence of motion and stillness is thus achieved in two ways at once. First, there is the recurring event that is experienced differently now than before because of changes time has made on the subject. Hans is no longer the schoolboy whose curiosity for the exotic is satisfied by borrowing a pencil. As a man he has different desires on both physical and intellectual levels. He
now has the need to explore more deeply the dark, dangerous, and forbidden sides of life and this is represented in the form of the x-
ray. Second, there is the x-ray itself: a piece of life stuck in time that nevertheless carries with it the memories of the past (the
Fastnacht when Hans attained it) and a reminder of the future (the
skeleton as an image of mortality). It is surely no coincidence that 113
shortly before falling into his “Schnee” vision, Hans visualizes yet
another photograph—that of his own heart as he viewed it through the Berghof’s x-ray machine:
Wahrend sein Blick sich in der weiBen Leere brach, die ihn blendete, fühite er sein Herz sich regen, das vom Aufstieg pochte,—dies Herzmuskelorgan, dessen tierische Gestalt und dessen Art zu schlagen er unter den knatternden Blitzen der Durchleuchtungskammer, frevelhafterweise vielleicht, belauscht hatte. Und eine Art von Rührung wandelte ihn an, eine einfache und andachtige Sympathie mit seinem Herzen, dem schlagenden Menschenherzen, so ganz allein hier oben im Eisig-Leeren mit seiner Frage und seinem Ràtsel (504).
Here, the inner eye is represented in graphic form; Hans’ imminent
vision into the nature of life is prefigured in the x-ray laying bare
his own heart. He later compares his heart to a ticking clock (514) that measures the passage of time, but in his vision—as in the x-
ray—time is temporarily stopped as he gazes behind the facades of life. Hans’ final vision—that of his dead cousin Joachim during a seance—is also connected to a photograph. The entire scene is set in
a sort of darkroom, for as Dr. Krokowski explains: “Die Natur der
hier in Frage stehenden und zu studierenden Kràfte bringe es nun einmal mit sich, daB sie bei WeiBlicht sich nicht zu entwickeln.
nicht wirksam zu werden vermochten” (713; emphasis added). And
Hans justifies his participation in such an activity by reminding 114
himself that Joachim previously gave permission to view him through an x-ray machine:
‘MüBig und sündig oder nicht, es ware doch herzlich seltsam und ein sehr liebes Abenteuer. Er, wenn er damit zu tun hat, wird es nicht übelnehmen, wie ich ihn kenne.’ Und er erinnerte sich des gleichmutig-liberalen ‘Bitte, bitte!’, das er einst, im Durchleuchtungslaboratorium, aus der Nacht zur Ant wort erhalten, als er um Erlaubnis zu gewissen optischen Indiskretionen einkommen zu sollen geglaubt hatte (709).
Hans thus consciously connects the x-ray photo of his cousin’s chest with an attempt to revive a vision of his spirit. The group is in the process of developing a “photograph” of Joachim that is a counterpart to one that Hans earlier received in the mail: “Neujahr wurde er [Joachim] zum Unteroffizier befordert und schickte eine
Photographie, die ihn mit den Tressen zeigte” (525). The result is the recurrence of that image of Joachim in uniform but this time he is clearly prepared for war. Hans, too, has changed since he received that first photograph which he quickly admired then set aside;
Joachim is no longer with him in his daily activities and Hans himself has seen the vision in “Schnee.” The changes which have occurred in the viewing subject betray the stillness of the moment caught in the image, and past, present, and future are experienced simultaneously. 115
As recurrences that have the power to both reveal the flow of time and freeze an Instant, the photographs In Der Zauberberg have a unique relationship to music. On one level, they Imitate music’s ability to “[. . .] bring together apparently unrelated, widely separated occurrences, persons, settings, and experiences”
(Campbell 325). Like music, they have a memory that can be drawn upon to look back to the past and to reevaluate present and future.
In this sense, both music and photographs can be employed to explore the mind.9 Mann draws specific attention to the relationship between music and psychology In his essay “Leiden und GroBe
Richard Wagners”:
Liber den Psychologen Wagner ware ein Buch zu schrelben, und zwar über die psychologlsche Kunst des Muslkers wie des DIchters, sofern diese Elgenschaften bel Ihm zu trennen sind. Die Technik des Erlnnerungsmotivs, In der alten Oper
9 On the role of music In Der Zauberberg. Campbell remarks: “Musically developed and manipulated motifs of explicit mythological association, echoing and re-echoing, serve in both novels [Der Zauberberg and Ulysses!— in the way of the anamorphoses suggested by Schopenhauer in his essay on the cosmic dream in which all the dream characters dream too—to reveal within all, within each, the image whole that on the waking plane is apparently in pieces: Hans Castorp s Homo Dei; Stephen Dedalus's 'Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ’” (659-60).
’0 In The Closing of the American Mind. Allan Bloom makes a modern analysis of the role of music in society and draws special attention to its relationship to psychology and, with that, education: “Hence, for those who are interested in psychological health, music is at the center of education, both for giving the passions their due and for preparing the soul for the unhampered use of reason. The centrality of such education was recognized by all the ancient educators” (72). 116
gelegentlich schon verwandt, wird allmahlich zu einem tiefsinnig-virtuosen System ausgebaut, das die Musik in einem MaBe wie nie zuvor zum Werkzeug psychologischer Anspielungen, Vertiefungen, Bezugnahmen macht (368-69).
In this way, listening to music, like looking at a photograph, provides one with the means for reflection and introspection that might otherwise never take place. All experience, including that which has not yet been encountered—namely death, can take on a new form in a moment of insight. That which was previously recognized as disjunct, comes together. Thus, it is not surprising that Hans
Castorp takes on the same appearance when viewing his x-ray as he does when listening to music: “Dazu machte er ein Gesicht, wie er es zu machen pfiegte, wenn er Musik horte,—ziemlich dumm, schlafrig und fromm, den Kopf halb offenen Mundes gegen die
Schulter geneigt” (233). It is precisely this same expression he adopts on the mountaintop shortly before his “Snow” vision (501).
And later, at the final seance, music is employed as the most
efficacious means of reviving an image from the past. But it is not
Irvin Stock also notes the recurrence of this facial expression throughout the novel and ties it to Hans’ encounters with death: “The realization dramatized by that explosion of leitmotifs is precisely that he is now (amid snow flakes whose crystalline symmetry, we are reminded, is alien to life) in the very heart of the realm to which desire has lured him, the realm of death. This is why he listens to the “primeval silence" of the mountain with “his head on one side, his mouth open” (476), which is how he listened to his grandfather's solemn references to the dead over the christening bowl and how, later, glad to be sick for Clavdia’s sake, he looked at a preview of his own death in his skeletal hand under the x-ray machine” (71). 117
just in its ability to draw together past, present, and future, that photography resembles music—it is also in the way that it achieves this moment that the two are similar. Early in the novel, in a discussion with Settembrini, Joachim comments on one of music’s seemingly contradictory yet pleasing aspects:
Es füllt ein paar Stunden so anstandig aus, ich meine: es teilt sie ein und füllt sie im einzelnen aus, so da3 doch etwas daran 1st, wahrend man sich hier sonst die Stunden und Tage und Wochen so schauderhaft um die Ohren schlagt . . . Sehen Sie, so eine anspruchslose Konzertnummer dauert vielleicht sieben Minuten, nicht wahr, und die sind etwas fur sich, sie haben Anfang und Ende, sie heben sich ab und sind gewissermaSen bewahrt davor, so unversehens im allgemeinen Schlendrian unterzugehen. AuBerdem sind sie Ja wieder noch vielfach eingeteilt, durch die Figuren des StOckes, und die wieder in Takte, so daB immer was los ist und jeder Augenblick einen gewissen Sinn bekommt, an den man sich halten kann, wahrend sonst . . . (121).
The music then both passes time and halts it. Each note has, as he says, a clearly defined beginning and end, and when put together they mark the progression of time. But the notes are defined, i.e., given their beginning and end, through the moment of silence between them, silence being the absence of time. Here one is reminded once again of the quote by John Berger in which he argues that photography and music are closely related because in each the true content is derived from what is missing. It is, ironically, in silence 118
that both photography and music achieve their strongest voice. In
The Language of Silence. Kane notes: “Essentially, many felt that the fluid structure of music, with its natural caesura, was the efficacious medium for the communication of ineffable experience”
(22). Barthes argues similariy on the side of photography: “The photograph must be silent (there are blustering photographs, and I don’t like them): this is not a question of discretion, but of music.
Absolute subjectivity is achieved only in a state, an effort, of silence [. . .]” (55). Music, dream, vision, and photograph are thus all drawn together in Per Zauberberg to create an otherwise inexpressible moment.
In a sense, all of photography’s complex relationship to time can be summarized in its inherent quality of silence. It is its silence that allows it to create not only a physical, but also a temporal, world apart. And it is its silence that is fundamental to the insights won in those moments when past, present, and future come together, i.e., in dreams and visions. In her book about silence in modern drama, Leslie Kane makes the point that speech defines tim e:
Thus language, fixed by syntactical and grammatical relationships, largely composes and segments time. Every speech act, observes Steiner, takes time and occursin time. In addition, speech shares with time the characteristic of 119
irreversibility: the spoken word cannot be retracted. The time-factor of language is crucial. As Stuart Chase explains, Western languages, in particular, using the verbto be establish linear temporal equations and space/time relationships{he was, he is, he will be) which foster a two-valued linguistic system. The only way to neutralize a spoken word is by denial or contradiction {this is white; this is not black), but denials and contradictions also constitute forward movement in time (18).
The subject of a photograph, stripped of his or her ability to speak in
the usual sense of the word, is by definition set apart or isolated
from the normal course of human interaction. The subject is thereby
set outside the flow of time; “[. . .] their nonparticipation in the
speech act symbolizes withdrawal from temporal, spatial, or social
reality" (Kane 19). Late in the novel, Settembrini makes a comment to this effect, warning Hans that “die Wortlosigkeit vereinsamt"
(545). While he may be right, it is also true that precisely this
moment of silence most often provides access to the deepest
knowledge.12 Kane refers specifically to the traditions of Zen,
Taoism, mysticism, and Hasidism in which silence provides the only
12 There is an excellent illustration of this in the picnic scene involving Mynheer Peeperkorn. While a waterfall in the background drowns out both Settembrini and Naphta thereby rendering their skill with words useless, the inarticulate Peeperkorn is able to make the most of the “silence”. It is precisely through his lack of words that he is able to relate a powerful message about the life force. Joseph Campbell gives a detailed analysis of this scene and its relationship to silence in Creative Mytholoav (674-76). 120
means of true insight:
Because the mystic believes that ultimate Truth lies beyond the fragmentation of time and the frontier of language, meditative silence, intimations, and intuitions are the primary conduits for the transmission of knowledge to the initiate— knowledge which would be distorted or completely destroyed if not shrouded in wordlessness. Ineffability is the quintessence of the mystical experience and its sole expression
But, more importantly for Mann, this is also a Christian topos. The
way to God, and therefore also to truth, is found through stillness
and silence: “Gott 1st still: Vorbild fur den Menschen 1st die Stille
Gottes selbst. Er 1st ‘still’ und lebt in der ‘Stille’; so 1st Stille die
erste Forderung an den Menschen, der sich ihm nàhern will” (Langen
174). For Hans Castorp these moments of insight come in the form
of visions, visions closely related to photographs. And in each case, the silence of these “photographs” first draws him and then
13 Joseph Campbell in his Creative Mvtholoav. discusses silence as being the fourth element of the mystic syllable AUM; “‘What is known as the fourth portion,’ we read in the Upanishad, ‘is neither inward- nor outward-turned consciousness, nor the two together; not an undifferentiated mass of dormant omniscience; neither knowing nor unknowing—because invisible, ineffable, intangible, devoid of characteristics, inconceivable, undefinable, its sole essence being the assurance of its own Self: the coming to peaceful rest of all differentiated, relative existence: utterly quiet: peaceful- blissful: without a second: the Self, to be known " (666).
14 With this comes another connection to music. As Schopenhauer viewed it, music was the highest of all art forms because it exhibited the Will itself, a direct revelation— not just a conceptual objectification: “Jedoch redet sie [die Musik] nicht von Dingen, sondern von lauter Wohl und Wehe, als welche die alleinigen Realitaten fur den Willen sind: darum spricht sie so sehr zum Herzen, wahrend sie dem Kopfe unmittelbar nichts zu sagen hat [. . .]” (507). 121
envelops him in a world of timelessness. He seeks out, for example, the isolation of a small opening in the woods before lying down to his “Hippe” dream. Later, in the “Schnee” chapter, the presence of silence is even more pronounced:
Die Stille, wenn er regungslos stehenblieb, um sich selbst nicht zu horen, war unbedingt und vollkommen, eine wattierte Lautlosigkeit, unbekannt, nie vernommen, sonst nirgends vorkommend. Da war kein Windhauch, der die Baume auch nur aufs leiseste gerührt hâtte, kein Rauschen, nicht eine Vogelstimme. Es war das Urschweigen, das Hans Castorp belauschte, wenn er so stand, auf seinen Stock gestützt, den Kopf zur Schulter geneigt, mit offenem Munde; und still und unablassig schneite es welter darin, ruhig hinsinkend, ohne einen Laut (501).
His final vision, that of Joachim at the seance, is also defined by silence. The image appears only after the music has ended, with the scratching of the needle serving merely to make awareness of the quiet more pronounced: “Leer kratzend in der Stille lief die Nadel inmitten der Scheibe welter” (720). And when Krokowski demands that Hans speak to the ghost, Hans refuses, thereby maintaining both his and Joachim’s silence. It is only in the atmosphere of speechlessness and timelessness that he truly sees and understands, for “according to Harold Pinter, one of our most accomplished practitioners of the silent mode, it is in the quiet places that characters are hidden and simultaneously exposed” (Kane 19). 122
X-rays, Death, and Disease: a Photographic Giimpse behind the Facade
The unique relationship between photography and time obviously allows for a connection to another of the Zauberbera's major themes: death and illness and, with that, Hans’ search for identity. In its ability to stop time, the photograph necessarily points ahead to that Inevitable moment when time will truly cease, i.e., in death:
This punctum, more or less blurred beneath the abundance and the disparity of contemporary photographs, is vividly legible in historical photographs: there is always a defeat of Time in them: that is dead andthat is going to die. These two little girls looking at a primitive airplane above their village [. . .]—how alive they are! They have their whole lives before them; but also they are dead (today), they are thenalready dead (yesterday) (Barthes 96).
This quality is doubly emphasized when the photograph in question is, as with so many in Der Zauberberg. an x-ray picture. The x-ray becomes, quite literally, an “inner portrait” that pries beneath the flesh to reveal the body as it must one day appear in the grave. For the patients it is also a diagnostic tool carried proudly as proof to the extent of one’s involvement with tuberculosis and, by 123
implication, with the dark worldb e y o n d j s As W. Robert Nitske points out in his biography of Rontgen, frightened reactions to x- rays were, unlike today, very common in the early years of medical technology:
Reactions to the strange sight of one’s own bones varied, but generally it created great shock to the subject. The editor of the Grazer Taqeblatt had an X ray photograph taken of his head by a Graz physician, but after seeing the grisly picture himself, ‘absolutely refused to show it to anybody but a scientist." He had not closed an eye since he saw his own Totenkopf. his death’s-head, a colleague reported in the paper! (1 6 8 )
Hans Castorp’s own experience with the x-ray machine is quite similar. He approaches it “fiebrig erwartungsvoll, da man bisher noch niemals Einblick in sein organisches Innenleben genommen”
(224) and is clearly shaken by what he sees:
Und Hans Castorp sah, was zu sehen er hatte erwarten müssen, was aber eigentlich dem Menschen zu sehen nicht bestimmt ist und woven auch er niemals gedacht hatte, daB ihm bestimmt sein kônne, es zu sehen: er sah in sein eigenes Grab. Das spàtere Geschaft der Verwesung sah er vorweggenommen durch die Kraft des Lichtes, das Fleisch, worin er wandelte, zersetzt, vertiigt, zu nichtigem Nebel gelost, und darin das kleinlich gedrechselte Skelett seiner rechten Hand, um deren obérés Ringfingerglied sein Siegelring, vom GroBvater her ihm
15 Erwin Koppen also stresses the “questionable” side of the novel’s x-rays: “Die Rontgenaufnahmen im Zauberberg haben es überhaupt in sich: Sie spielen nicht nur, wie Madame Chauchats Innenportrat fur Hans Castorp, die Rolle des magischen Liebesfetischs, sondern werden auch als Resultate eines Prozesses gedeutet, der selbst dem Bereich der Finsternis angehort, eines wahren Hexensabbats” (132). 124
vermacht, schwarz und lose schwebte: ein hartes Ding dieser Erde, womit der Mensch seinen Leib schmückt, der bestimmt ist, darunter wegzuschmelzen, so daB es frei wird und weiter geht an ein Fleisch, das es eine Weile wieder tragen kann (2 3 2 ).
For the first time in his life, Hans is confronted with his own death; technology, the camera, has allowed him to see into the future more clearly than even the most vivid of imaginations. As Vogt states:
“The X-ray machine is associated with prophetic vision, of being able to see beyond appearances into the internal structure, to see what illnesses lie in wait. The X-ray machine thus is given a strong symbolic significance” (69). Settembrini’s condemnation of those on the mountain as “Schatten” takes on expanded meaning when considered in the light of the x-ray scene, for in the course of the
“cure” each patient has had his skeleton projected as a shadow on a screen. 16 They have each—whether they choose to accept and learn from it as Hans does or not—been presented with a picture of their
own fate, and they wander around the sanatorium like so many
16 During the first years of x-ray technology, x-ray images were projected as shadows on screens for viewing: “Ein anderes Beispiel fur die Photographie ohne Objektiv ist der Schattenwurf, der z.B. bei Rontgenaufnahmen angewandt wird. Anfangs war der Schattenwurf die einzige Môglichkeit, Bilder mit Rôntgenstrahlen zu erzeugen, da eine optische Abbildung mit diesen Strahlen lange Zeit nicht moglich war” (Binder 146). Mann obviously depicts both “Schattenwurf and the more permanent reproduction and preservation of these x-ray images on glass plates. These are what Dr. Behrens exhibits in his “Privatgalerie" (228) and what the characters carry around with them. 125
corpses. Indeed, many of them are not unlike the “Schattenbllder” that Hans and Joachim see at the movie theater, figures “[. . .] die nur
scheinbar für den Augenblick der ‘Vision’ Lebenskraft und Gegenwart
gewinnen, sich dann aber als ‘Phantom’ verflüchtigen” (Schmidt 5).
Even Hans’ visions of Clawdia Chauchat take on the form of x-rays as
he imagines being able to see the “Betonung ihres Korpers durch
Krankheit” (219), a foreshadowing of the gift she makes him of her
glass diapositive. The x-ray as a symbol of death is closely tied to
Clawdia throughout the novel. As her name suggests, she has certain
feline qualities. Hatfield points out her walk and promiscuous
nature (91) but forgets to mention that the cat is also a symbol of
darkness and death. Not surprisingly, it is Clawdia’s x-ray that
mysteriously appears in Hans’ lap during a seance later in the book,
once again emphasizing the ability of the x-ray to “see beyond” and
explore previously uncharted realms.
The clear and close connection drawn between x-ray
photography and the various seance scenes serves several purposes.
First, it again establishes a link between photography and death, the
primary goal of the seance being to communicate with those already
gone. But it also draws attention in a new way to the x-rays’
propensity for seeing through things and getting at their true nature. 126
This, In turn, provides a common bond with Hans’ visions. Mann’s
detailed descriptions of both x-ray and seance scenes make It
apparent that the one Is a translation of the other—from the
scientific laboratory to the world of the occult. As H. J. W. Dam
pointed out In his 1896 article “The New Marvel In Photography”,
such a connection was apparently not uncommon:
The relation of the new rays to thought rays Is being eagerly discussed In what may be called the non-exact circles and journals; and all that numerous group of Inquirers Into the occult, the believers In clairvoyance, spiritualism, telepathy, and kindred orders of alleged phenomena, are confident of finding In the new force long-sought facts In proof of their claims (qtd. In Nitske 129).^^
In the novel, all of the seances take place In Dr. Krokowskl’s office which has been prepared like a darkroom so as to be more Inviting to the spirits: “Das Fenster, dem der davor stehende Schrelbtlsch die
Schmalselte zukehrte, war mit einem dunklen Vorhang verhüllt [. . .]”
(711). The participants are nervous as they proceed realizing “[. . .] da(3 sie sich zu einem unrelnllchen Spiel mit Ihrer Natur, einem furchtsam-neuglerlgen Erproben unbekannter Telle Ihres Selbst In
17 In this same vein, Koppen draws a connection between the x-rays in Der Zauberberg and the "Phantom-Photographie” of Schrenck-Notzing: “Ganz abgesehen davon, daB das Rôntgenverfahren eine legitime Tochter der Photographie ist, und ganz abgesehen davon, daB sich über die okkultistische Sitzung mit ihrem Apport' des Rôntgenbildes eine direkte Unie zu den Geisterbildern Schrenck-Notzings zurückverfolgen lâBt, scheint auch Thomas Manns Beschreibung dessen, was sich auf dem Rontgenbilde abzeichnet, in mancherlei Hinsicht dem Geist der Photographien des Münchner Okkultisten nachempfunden" (133). 127
Stiller Nacht zusammengetan hatten [. . .]” (699). The unknown, inner, subjective are being expressed externally and objectively in these games like they were in the x-ray cabinet:
Die Verlegenheit wuchs,—eine sonderbare Verlegenheit, die den Kundgebungen unkontrollierter Gegenden des eigenen Inneren gait, aber durch die gleisnerisch-halbdingbare Gegebenheit dieser Kundgebungen doch auch wieder die Richtung ins AuBen- Wirkliche erhielt (701).
Just as the action of x-rays produces an image on a prepared plate, so too do the spirits have the ability either to leave a physical impression in wax and plaster or to appear as phantoms (707).
Hans Castorp himself draws parallels between the spiritual games and his experiences behind the x-ray camera when he tries to justify his unnatural comfort with the darkness in Dr. Krokowski’s office by recalling his first medical examination:
Hans Castorp war es zufrieden. Das Dunkel tat wohl; es milderte die Eigentümlichkeiten der Gesamtlage. Ciberdies erinnerte er sich zur Rechtfertigung des Dunkels an dasjenige, worin man sich im Durchleuchtungsraum fromm gesammelt und mit dem man sich die Tagaugen gewaschen hatte, bevor man 'sah' (713).
18 In “Okkulte Erlebnisse” Mann describes his own seance experience with Schrenck-Notzing in a strikingly similar manner: “Es 1st wiederholt versichert worden, daB die ideoplastischen Gebilde, solange sie eben vorhanden sind, alle Eigenschaften des wirklichen Lebens besitzen. Sie haben sich, wenn sie bei Laune waren, nicht nur sehen und abtasten lessen; man hat ihre objektive Realitât nicht nur durch die Photographie und Apparate sichergestellt, die ihre telekinetischen Leistungen registrierten: man hat sie sogar in Gips abgegossen [. . .]” (170). 128
Shortly thereafter, a “picture” of Joachim appears before his eyes.
While he previously saw death through the x-ray machine in the form of the living Joachim's skeleton, he now views it in an opposite, but even more horrifying manner: death appears as an apparently living man. The x-ray and seance vision work as complementary forces.
While the x-rays are the most prevalent and obvious photographs in Der Zauberberg. there are others which are equally valuable in drawing the reader’s attention to the dark world behind the seeming resort-like liveliness of the Davos sanatorium. On one level, Mann emphasizes repeatedly how healthy, energetic, and youthful the patients appear:
Er [Hans Castorp] hatte ein wenig Furcht vor schreckhaften Eindrücken gehabt, aber er fand sich enttauscht: es ging ganz aufgeraumt zu hier im Saale, man hatte nicht das Gefühl, sich an einer Statte des Jammers zu befinden. Gebraunte junge Leute beiderlei Geschlechts kamen tràllernd herein, sprachen mit den Saaltochtern und hieben mit robustem Appétit in das Frühstück ein (49).
Their hours outdoors and—when the weather does not permit—under sunlamps gives them “ein pràchtig sportliches und erobererhaftes
Ansehen” (494). But for all their robustness, these are people affected by disease. Clearly, the x-rays “prove” this scientifically by looking beneath the flesh to reveal infected areas on the lungs. 129
That these “Flecken” represent something more than a physical ailment Is, however, also obvious. There Is a general malaise hanging over the Berghof, an unwillingness to return to an active lifestyle and make decisions for oneself, and the x-rays are employed as a medically sanctioned, socially acceptable excuse for remaining there. Thus, Hans Castorp can argue against Settembrlnl’s advice to return home Immediately: “Aber konnen Sie es denn verantworten, mir auf diese Photographie hin und nach dem Ergebnis der Durchleuchtung und nach der Diagnose des Hofrats die Helmrelse anzuraten?” (263) Disease has gone beyond the physical to the mental and has come to be acquainted with death not only of body but also of spirit. Nowhere Is this more graphically depicted than In the photographs the patients take of each other:
Bald fand man das elnfache LIchtblld abgeschmackt; Blltzllchtaufnahmen und farblge Photographien nach Lumière kamen In Schwung. Man weldete sich an Blldern, auf denen Personen, vom Magneslumblltz jàh betroffen, mit stieren Augen aus fahl verkrampften Geslchtern bllckten, wie Lelchen Ermordeter, die man mit offenen Augen aufrecht hingesetzt (6 6 5 ).
The camera sees through the apparent health to the death and 130
disease that are behind it/^ Even without the penetrating power of x-rays, the camera unveils what the eye cannot. The few glimpses the reader (and, for that matter, the patients) get of actual deaths within the sanatorium function in the same manner; they are figurative “snapshots” that take advantage of a briefly opened door to record the reality behind:
Seine [Behrens] Worte verloren sich hinter der Tiir, die er zuzog. Aber einen Augenblick hatte Hans Castorp im Hintergrunde des Zimmers auf dem Kissen das wàchserne Profil eines jungen Mannes mit dünnem Kinnbart gesehen, der langsam seine sehr groBen Augapfel zur Tür gerollt hatte. Es war der erste Moribundus, den Hans Castorp in seinem Leben zu sehen bekam [. . .] (113).2o
Despite all of the death the young Hans had supposedly already experienced (his parents and grandfather), he is truly able to see it only through the eye of a camera and the photographs— real and figurative—that it produces.
19 This is reminiscent of a quote from Nietzsche’s Die Geburt der Tragodie aus dem Geiste der Musik: “Es gibt Menschen, die, aus Mangel an Erfahrung oder aus Stumpfsinn, sich von solchen Erscheinungen wie von ‘Volkskrankheiten’ spottisch oder bedauernd im Gefühl der eigenen Gesundheit abwenden: die Armen ahnen freilich nicht, wie leichenfarbig und gespenstisch ebendiese ihre Gesundheit' sich ausnimmt, wenn an ihnen das glühende Leben dionysischer Schwàrmer vorüberbraust" (23).
20 Koopmann makes a similar point when he comments: “Was sich im Saal abspielt, ist nur Kulisse, so wie auch die Gesellschaft als Ganzes zur vordergründigen Kulisse dieses Ortes gehort. Nur selten ist ein Blick hinter diese kulissenhafte Welt moglich; aber wo er gewagt und vergonnt wird, entlarvt er das Sanatorium als ein Reich des Todes, über das auch die geschickteste Regie auf die Dauer nicht hinwegtauschen kann” (67). 131
As has already been pointed out by countless critics, the fascination with death that plays such a prominent role in Der
Zauberberg is evidence of Mann’s interest in the tradition of
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. What has not been explored, however, is the relationship of these theories to Mann’s use of photography throughout the novel. In Die Geburt der Tragodie aus dem Geiste der
Musik. Nietzsche argues that the purpose of art is to cover the horror of existence; it allows one to look where it otherwise wouldn’t be possible: “Hier, in dieser hochsten Gefahr des Willens, naht sich, als rettende, heilkundige Zauberin, dieKunst, sie allein vermag jene Ekelgedanken über das Entsetzliche oder Absurde des
Daseins in Vorstellungen umzubiegen, mit denen sich leben laBt
[. . .]” (51). Thus, the flesh covers the skeleton and the healthy appearance and ravenous appetites of the patients serve as a shield from the unbearable world of death and disease that lies behind them. But although art masks, it is also capable of revealing the truth:
Apollo, als der Gott aller bildnerischen Kràfte, ist zugleich der wahrsagende Gott. [. . .] sodann das tiefe BewuBtsein von der in Schlaf und Traum heilenden und helfenden Natur ist zugleich das symbolische Analogon der wahrsagenden Fâhigkeit und überhaupt der Künste, durch die das Leben moglich und lebenswert gemacht wird (Nietzsche 21). 132
The camera, then, would seem to be an ideal mode for employing central aspects of Nietzsche’s theories on art. First, it provides the text with a convincing actuality, details that make the illusion seem all the more real and, therefore, believable:
‘Realisation’—das bedeutet für den an Schopenhauer und Nietzsche geschulten Schriftsteller, daS dem illusionaren Kunstwerk der Anschein von Wirklichkeit verliehen werden soli. Um diesen tauschenden ‘Kunstschein’ zu erzeugen und aufrechtzuerhalten, muB das Werk Elemente der Wirklichkeit aufnehmen und einschmelzen (Schmidt ).21 3
Second, and more importantly, the photograph provides the actual aesthetic framework for the hidden moment of truth; what appears to be one thing may, on examination from a different angle, prove to be another.22 In other words, it accomplishes what Koopmann calls
21 Other critics make much the same point. Wysling, in his book, remarks: “‘Realisation’— das bedeutet zunachst, daB dem illusionaren Kunstwerk Wahr- Scheinlichkeit verliehen werden soil. Nietzsche hat das Kunstwerk als 'Olymp des Scheins’ gedeutet. [. . .] Um sich aber nicht in bloBen Schein zu verflüchtigen, muB es ‘wahre’ Wirklichkeit aufnehmen, es muB den Charakter der Authentizitat durch Dingreichtum erzwingen” (67). And Vogt notes: “Mann’s realism makes the hidden visible, gives the hidden aspects of life a claim to existence. We must look behind the scenes to see the truth” (58-59).
22 In an essay on photography, Siegfried Kracauer notes this dual ability of the camera: “Fox Talbot called it one of the "charms’ of photographs that they include things unknown to their maker, things which he himself must discover in them. Similarly, Louis Delluc, one of the key figures of the French cinema after World War I, took delight— aesthetic delight— in the surprising revelations of Kodak pictures: ‘This is what enchants me: you will admit that it is unusual suddenly to notice, on a film or a plate, that some passer-by, inadvertently picked up by the camera lens, has a singular expression [...].’ The aesthetic value of photographs would in a measure seem to be a function of their explorative powers” (267). 133
“doppelte Optik”:
Thomas Mann, so sagten wir, lost den Beg riff der doppelten Optik also aus seiner geschichtlichen Bezogenheit und macht ihn sich selbst zu eigen, und unter doppelter Optik erschlieBen sich ihm Phanomene, die eindeutig nicht mehr richtig zu bestimmen waren. [. . .] Doppelte Optik: das bedeutet, daB kein Phanomen mehr einseitig betrachtet werden darf, sondern vielmehr, daB auch die jeweilige Gegenposition in Betracht gezogen werden muB, wo eine echte Erkenntnis geistiger oder geschichtlicher Kràfte und Wirkungen geleistet werden soil (2 9 -3 0 ).
It has long been a recognized characteristic of straight photography that there is truth contained within or beneath the artistic beauty:
“Photography is basically too honest a medium for recording superficial aspects of a subject. It searches out the actor behind the make-up and exposes the contrived, the trivial, the artificial for what they really are” (Weston 174).23
But the photograph is more than a simple documentary proclamation of “Truth” or “Fact”. It is first an artwork, a
23Schopenhauer recognized the power of photography's realism very early and spoke to it in “Zur Physiognomik”: “DaB das AuBere das Innere darstellend wiedergebe und das Antlitz das ganze Wesen des Menschen ausspreche und offenbare, ist eine Voraussetzung, deren Aprioritat und mithin Sicherheit sich kundgibt in der bei jeder Gelegenheit hervortretenden allgemeinen Begier, einen Menschen, der sich durch irgend etwas im guten oder schlimmen hervorgetan oder auch ein auBerordentliches Werk geliefert hat, zu sehn oder, falls dieses versagt bleibt, wenigstens von andern zu erfahren, wie er aussleht, daher dann [. . .] die Bemühungen der Tageblatter [. . .] ihn minutios und treffend zu beschreiben, bis bald darauf Maler und Kupferstecher ihn uns anschaulich darstellen und endlichDaguerres Erfindung, eben deswegen so hoch geschatzt, diesem Bedürfnis auf das vollkommenste entspricht” (744). 134
scientific tool, or a souvenir—the fact that it also contains some insight may be entirely unintentional and at first glance invisible.
Its power lies in the fact that it can at once disguise and reveal, depending on who is examining it and under what conditions it is being studied. Such is the case with the photographs in Der
Zauberberg. There is no indication, for example, that anybody but the narrator or reader observes the corpse-like appearance the characters take on in their snapshots of one another. They pass them about for pleasure and take interest in them but apparently see there nothing more than a normal face. The picture postcards that
Hans occasionally sends home also have a double message: “Es waren meistens Ansichtskarten, der groBeren Gefalligkeit halber, mit hübschen Bildern des Tales im Schnee wie in sommerlicher
Verfassung [. . .]” (410). To the distanced relative below, they present an image of comfort, beauty, and serenity. To the reader, they are only a facade covering the true nature of the place. The x- rays, by speaking on several planes, function in a similar manner. On the most obvious level, they are merely interesting diagnostic tools used to determine the extent of one’s illness. But they are also granted some unexpected artistic qualities. They are referred to as
“portraits” by both Dr. Behrens and the patients, and are displayed 135
on small easels. Yet these x-rays do not have the same significance for each character. While Hans is deeply moved by the sight of his own skeleton and impending death, Joachim seems barely interested.
As a man concerned with strict form and complete adherence to societal regulation, these images have little to say to him. He does not look at them in search of any deeper meaning and therefore does not find any. Dr. Behrens, too, fails to see as much as he might.^^
Although he admits that the entire procedure can be somewhat disconcerting ('“Spukhaft, was? Ja, ein Einschlag von
Spukhaftigkeit ist nicht zu verkennen’” 233), his interests are primarily scientific.25 Of the characters, only Hans experiences momentary recognition of the fact that there exists another
“reality” behind the one he is accustomed to seeing. The x-rays
24 There are, however, indications elsewhere in the text that Dr. Behrens occasionally sees a little “more than he might.” A conversation between Frau Stohr and the cousins reveals that the doctor takes a special interest in some of his female patients: "Aber freilich, dort habe ja die dicke Frau Salomon aus Amsterdam ihren Platz, die jeden Wochentag dekolletiert zum Essen komme, und daran finde der Alte’ offenbar Gefallen, obgleich sie, Frau Stohr, es nicht begreifen kônne, denn bei jeder Untersuchung sahe er ja beliebig viel von Frau Salomon” (80). Considering Behrens’ use of the x-ray machine as camera, this is reminiscent of one of Sternheim’s themes in Die Kassette: the photographer as seducer.
25 Vogt notes this same characteristic of Behrens when discussing the portraits he paints in his free time: “He [Behrens] tries to capture Clavdia’s essence by painting a microscopically correct image of her skin, making her, however, unrecognizable. [. . .] His portrait of Clavdia and his paintings of mountains resemble photographs that capture only the surface. His art, like his practice of medicine, is an inadequate and unfaithful reflection because it neglects or ignores totally the inner dimension of the subject” (59). 136
provide a means of looking beneath the apparent substance to the shadow beyond: they have a truth-telling power that normal daylight does not. Just as Nietzsche contrasts “die hohere Wahrheit, die
Vollkommenheit dieser Zustànde [. . .]” with “[. . .] der luckenhaft verstàndiichen Tageswirklichkeit [. . .]” (21), so does Behrens caution Hans before he is x-rayed:
‘Erst müssen die Augen sich gewohnen', horte man den Hofrat im Dunkel sagen. ‘Ganz groBe Pupillen müssen wir erst kriegen, wie die Katzen, um zu sehen, was wir sehen wollen. Das verstehen Sie ja wohl, daB wir es so ohne weiteres mit unseren gewohnlichen Tagaugen nicht ordentlich sehen konnten. Den hellen Tag mit seinen fidelen Bildern müssen wir uns erst mal aus dem Sinn schlagen zu dem Behuf (230).
Shortly thereafter Hans himself realizes that such insights are merely momentary glimpses and that they can occur only under special circumstances:
Dann lag er und hob seine Hand gegen den Himmel, das Innere nach auBen, so, wie er sie hinter den Leuchtschirm gehalten. Aber das Himmelslicht lieB ihre Lebensform unberührt, sogar noch dunkler und undurchsichtiger wurde ihr Stoff vor seiner Helle, und nur ihre auBersten Umrisse zeigten sich rotlich durchleuchtet. Es war die Lebenshand, die er zu sehen, zu saubern, zu benutzen gewohnt war—nicht jenes fremde Gerüst, das er im Schirme erblickt— , die analytische G rube, die er damais offen gesehen, hatte sich wieder geschlossen (239).
Hans sees and experiences death through the photograph but then returns—apparently none the worse for the wear—to his comfortable 137
life at the Berghof.
Other of Hans’ Insights Into the nature of life’s facades come
In the form of what has already been viewed as a photographic analogue—the dream or vision. Like the x-rays, these afford him the opportunity to see life under a different light. As with photographs, the dream can function on two levels: It contains a moment of truth but It Is also. In a sense, a work of art and, as such, allows the viewer to withstand Its message:
Wie nun der Phllosoph zur Wirklichkeit des Daseins, so verhalt sich der künstlerisch erregbare Mensch zur Wirklichkeit des Traumes; er sleht genau und gern zu: denn aus diesen Bildern deutet er sich das Leben, an diesen Vorgàngen übt er sich für das Leben. Nicht etwa nur die angenehmen und freundllchen Bilder sind es, die er mit jener Allverstandllchkelt an sich erfàhrt: auch das Ernste, TrObe, Traurlge, FInstere, die plotzllchen Hemmungen, die Neckerelen des Zufalls, die bangllchen Erwartungen, kurz die ganze ‘gottllche Komodle’ des Lebens, mit dem Inferno, zieht an Ihm vorbel, nicht nur wie ein Schattensplel—denn er lebt und leldet mit In diesen Szenen— und doch auch nicht ohne jene flOchtlge Empflndung des Scheins [. . .] (Nietzsche 20-21).
From his very first night at the sanatorium, Hans Is troubled by dreams that he In the beginning disregards as nonsensical and confusing. Since Hans’ first dream Is of the dead Joachim being pushed down the hill on a bobsled, Vogt argues that his visions “have predictive value”, allowing him to see Into the future (68). While 138
this may be true, there Is also something deeper there—particularly in the “Snow” vision. Here, Hans sees two images. One is immediately obvious and the other is found only after a certain amount of scrutiny. The scene of idyllic beauty and tranquility masks the violence lying within the temple, and while the sights of horror make Hans sick, he admits afterwards that he knew it was a dream all along: “‘Dacht’ ich’s doch, daB das getràumt war", faselte er in sich hinein. ‘Ganz reizend und fürchterlich getràumt. Ich wuBte es im Grunde die ganze Zeit [. . .]”’ (521). The sense that it was a dream, an aesthetic construction, allows him to look where he normally couldn’t and therefore to see what would normally remain hidden. Similarly, in the final seance scene, the calling to life of a dead person is recognized as “[. . .] keine ernste und praktische
Rückkehr ins Leben, sondern [. . .] eine rein sentimentale und theatralische Veranstaltung [. . .]” (715). It , like the x-ray photographs and the visions, is an artistic construct that both masks and reveals the truth. Thus, it allows Hans to see the pain of
Joachim’s existence in his eyes while at the same time recognizing that it is this suffering which has made him beautiful. Aesthetic form is once again imposed as a veil over reality. 139
Photography and Hans Castorp’s Search for Identity
In discussing the various moments of insight that Hans Castorp experiences during his seven years on the mountain, the question of development and search for identity must necessarily be raised. The debate over whether or not Der Zauberberg is Blldungsromana dominates secondary literature. Many critics argue that the novel clearly follows in the tradition of Goethe, Stifter, and Keller with the hero gaining knowledge from a variety of outside influences, maturing, and eventually finding his proper place in society. Bruford states:
It would be equally true to say that in this novel, more obviously than in any other work of Thomas Mann’s, though many of them show the same tendency, his principal theme is a typical modern man’s search for ‘Bildung’, for the insight, the development of his innate faculties as well as the knowledge, which will make life seem meaningful even to-day. The Macic Mountain, more obviously than any other novel of this author, is in the tradition of the 'Blldungsroman' 6 ( 7).2s
26 Supporting this same view are, among others, Reed (“In appearance it is a parody of the German Bildungsroman, the novel of education in which everything— characters, action, and material environment—acts primarily to form the hero’s character. In reality it is aBildungsroman in good earnest" 53), Altenberg (“Er [Hans Castorp] wird nicht umgeformt, sondern er verwandelt sich, indem er AuBeres zu seinen Inneren macht, indem er sich durch Erleiden und Ertragen von Weltphanomenen heranbildet, indem er nicht gepragt wird, sondern sich pragf 62), Stock (“The fact is, the novel will at last say its own "yes." But this will not be to one or another of its 'counterpositions,' but to man, who is 'the lord of all counterpositions.’ [. . .] And his story is not a drama of tragic conflict butBildungsroman, a an account of how we can learn and grow’’ 52), Lukacs, and Hatfield. 140
Others say the novel shares certain qualities with the
Bildungsroman but that It also deviates from the model In some way.
Heller, for example, writes:
[. . .] and as aBlldungsroman It stands In the same Ironical relationship to the rules of the genre. Wilhelm Melster, the model hero of such a novel, begins as anOriglnalgenie and ends as a useful member of society. Hans Castorp begins as a useful member of society and ends approaching the state of being an Origlnalgenie (30).
And Williams states:
The Magic Mountain, as I have already noted. Is deliberately written In the Bildungsroman tradition, the kind of novel that follows Its hero’s career from childhood to maturity, usually moving from a stage of youthful egoism and Irresponsibility to a harmonious Integration with society. Yet with Mann the tradition Is turned on Its head (38).
Yet another group argues that Der Zauberberg Is notBlldungsroman a at all. Hans Castorp does not develop but simply “unfolds” (H. Bloom
4) or. In another analysis, actually undergoes a process of
“Entblldung” that falls to lead him to an appropriate role In society
(Kristiansen 55). Kowallk maintains that Hans cannot experience growth because he neither accepts responsibility for his visions nor appreciates the seriousness of suffering (39-40). The difficulty of definitively classifying the novel Is certainly testament to Its complexity. Part of the problem lies In the fact that ambiguity 141
surrounds many of Hans’ “breakthroughs”: he claims to forget the lesson learned In the “Snow” vision and he marches off in the end to what is, at best, an uncertain future. Yet Hans is clearly on some type of journey. He may remain physically stationary but his mind ventures into what are for him as yet unexplored realms. Mann repeatedly calls him the “Bildungsreisende” and he occasionally shows signs of seasickness (705) when he experiences something that does not altogether agree with his preconceived notions. As might any traveler, Hans even sends picture postcards home from the
“tourist world” that is the sanatorium. But there are indications that he is more than a simple sightseer on this journey. He joins in willingly with the sanatorium’s lifestyle but at the same time believes he is not truly a part of it: “Durchaus fühite er sich einer anderen, gebundeneren Gemeinschaft zugehorig als dem
Touristenvolkchen, und unter einem weiteren und neueren
Gesichtspunkt noch [. . .]” (499). By virtue of this position, Hans experiences moments of insight that lead him into the world of
death and disease and then back out again. Even if he does not reach full maturity and obtain a distinct notion of his rightful place in society, he does evidence some intellectual development. And just
as the photographic image provided a means for Hans’ insights 142
through its inherent relationship to death and its ability to speak on
a variety of levels, so too can it shed light on the nature of his
trav e ls .
Hans Castorp’s search for knowledge and identity leads him
through a sphere of illness and death before pointing him back in the
direction of a higher health. As can be imagined, this theme has
already been well documented by numerous critics who point out not
only Mann’s ties to the tradition of Novalis and Romanticism but also the influences of Nietzsche and Dostoyevsky.27 And in his ‘The
Making of The Magic Mountain”. Mann himself touches on this concept:
[. . .] for even Hans Castorp, in the course of his experiences, overcomes his inborn attraction to death and arrives at an understanding of a humanity that does not, indeed, rationalistically ignore death, nor scorn the dark, mysterious side of life, but takes account of it, without letting it get control over his mind. What he comes to understand is that one must go through the deep experience of sickness and death to arrive at a higher sanity and health; in just the same way that one must have a knowledge of sin in order to find redemption (7 2 4 -2 5 ).
27 Fernand Hoffmann deals with this topic in some detail in his book, Thomas Mann und seine Welt. He remarks: “Die Krankheit des Zauberberq weist Qber sich hinaus. Sie ist eine ‘hohere Krankheit’, eine ‘Krankheit zum Leben’. An die Seite Schopenhauers und Nietzsches ist Goethe als Lebensführer getreten. Allerdings wirkt sich die Krankheit im ‘Zauberberg’ noch vor allem im ethisch-padagogischen Sinn aus, als Stachel und Antrieb zur ‘ethischen Bewaltigung des Lebens’, als eine in der ideellen Clberwindung der Krankheit sich bewahrende Geisteshaltung” (32). 143
While the idea is certainly not new, Mann gives it a different, modern twist by allowing Hans’ venture into darkness to be represented—or rather achieved—through photographic images. Each of his three major insights (x-ray, “Snow” vision, and seance scene) is related to the power of the camera to see through surfaces and get at the truth, to look beyond life to death. But Hans must first enter the darkroom and “bathe his eyes in darkness” before he can expect to “see the light". The knowledge that can be won by encountering the forces of darkness and death is not without its price. In his essay about Dostoyevsky, Mann argues that the great
Russian novelist’s insights were inseparable from his disease.2s He argues that some knowledge is not possible without disease and that only sickness allows great people to bring a higher health to humanity. At the same time, the possession of such knowledge, prying as it does into the deepest reaches of the soul, has something criminal about it:
Es scheint unmoglich, von Dostojewski’s Genius zu sprechen, ohne dal3 das Wort ‘verbrecherisch’ sich aufdràngte. Der
28|n Crime and Punishment. Svidrigailov makes a similar point in one of his many discussions with Raskolnikov: “You might say that ghosts are the scraps and fragments of other worlds, their beginning. Of course, a healthy man has no way of seeing them, because a healthy man is above all an earthbound man; so for order and fullness he must live his life in the here and now exclusively. The moment he’s sick, though, the moment the normal earthbound order of his organism is violated, the possibility of another world begins to make itself felt, and the sicker he gets the closer in touch he is with the other world, so when a man dies completely he goes straight over into the other world" (258). 144
bedeutende russische Kritiker Mereschkowski gebraucht es in seinen verschledenen Studlen über den Dichter der ‘Karamosows’ ein über das andere Mai, und zwar In doppeltem Sinn: indem er es einmal auf Dostojewski selbst und die ‘verbrecherische Neugier seiner Erkenntnis’ bezieht, das andere Mai auf das Objekt dieser Erkenntnis, das menschliche Herz, dessen verborgenste und verbrecherischste Regungen jener bloBlege. ‘Wenn man ihn liest’, sagt er, ‘erschrickt man manchmal vor seinem Allwissen, vor diesem Eindringen in ein fremdes Gewissen. Wir begegnen bei ihm unseren eigenen geheimen Gedanken [. . Dabei aber handelt es sich nur scheinbar um ein objektives und gleichsam àrztliches Forschen und Erraten,— in Wirklichkeit vielmehr um psychologischeLyrik im weitesten Sinn dieses Wortes, um Bekenntnis und ein schauerliches Gestehen, um die schonungslose Enthüllung der eigenen verbrecherischen Gewissenstiefen [. . .] (658-59),
The result of this vision into darkness leads, therefore, not only to knowledge of self but also to a “schwere[s] Schuldgefühl” (660).
In this light, it is certainly significant that several of the
Zauberberg characters—and Hans in particular—are overcome by feelings of guilt upon looking into death's face, for the guilt is representative of a momentary knowledge obtained in a forbidden realm. When Hans at first refuses to look at Joachim through the x- ray machine he fears that he might somehow be invading his cousin’s privacy. And when he finally does look, it is on nothing other than the heart that his guilty attention focuses: “GroBer Gott, es war das
Herz, Joachims ehrliebendes Herz, was Hans Castorp sahl ‘Ich sehe 145
dein Herz!’ sagte er mit gepreBter Stimme. [. . .] Andacht und
Schrecken erfüllten ihn. ‘Jawohl, jawohl, ich sehe’, sagte er mehrmals. ‘Mein Gott, ich sehe!’” (231-32) Later, this same feeling of guilt is repeated when Hans is encouraged to lead the seance that eventually calls forth Joachim’s ghost. After staring for a time at the image of his dead cousin, Hans can only utter one word:
‘“Verzeih!”’ (721). Most significant, however, is the fact that Hans
experiences these same feelings of guilt in the midst of his “Snow”
vision. The power and significance of what he is about to see are foretold in the image he visualizes as he climbs the mountain through the storm. His mind focuses once again on the heart—not as
it may be represented in anatomy texts but as he once saw it through the x-ray machine (504). And it is this time not Joachim’s heart that he sees into so clearly, but his own. As he later looks upon the
beautiful scene of his vision, his curiosity is nearly overcome by the
sense that he really has no right to view it at all:
Er wurde des Schauens nicht satt und fragte sich dennoch beklommen, ob ihm das Schauen denn auch erlaubt sei, ob das Belauschen dieses sonnig-gesitteten Glückes ihn, den Unzugehorigen, der sich unedel und haBlich und plump gestiefelt vorkam, nicht hochlichst strafbar mache (519).
There is on the one hand the sense that Hans’ guilt in all three 146
instances (x-ray machine, seance, and vision) arises from his
position as an outsider looking in on and deriving pleasure from a
moment intended to be private—a sort of voyeur. But on the other
hand, there are indications that something much deeper is at work
here. These are all times of intense insight for Hans. Each
represents a brief window of opportunity for looking behind life's
facades, for experiencing the darkness of death and yet being
allowed to return to life enriched with these insights. This is the
realm where the puzzles of existence may lie, but it is a realm
usually kept out of human sight.
Several of the novel’s minor characters also express the belief
that another world of deeper knowledge exists hidden somewhere.
However, their intuition, telling them it could be dangerous, steers them from rather than towards it. Although this allows them to
remain in a zone safe from the guilt that Hans feels, it also prevents
them from seeing beyond life’s surface. Ferge, for example,
describes an operation he once had in which the doctor laid bare his
intemal organs and saw them much as they would appear in an x-ray;
‘“Das Rippenfell, meine Herren, das soil nicht berührt werden, das
ist tabu, das ist mit Fleisch zugedeckt, isoliert und unnahbar, ein fur
allemal. Und nun hatte er es bloBgelegt und tastete es ab. Meine 147
Herren, da wurde mir übel’” (328). Seen on another level, this operation can represent an unveiling of the heart in a spiritual rather than physical sense. His complete disgust at the memory of it indicates little if any desire to undertake such an exploration.
Similarly, James Tienappel, Hans' uncle and short-time guest at the
Berghof, reacts with shock when he learns that the glass plate on his nephew’s chest of drawers is nothing other than an x-ray portrait of Clawdia Chauchat: ‘“Das? Ein Souvenir", antwortete
Hans Castorp. Worauf der Onkel ‘Pardon!’ sagte, das Bildnis auf die
Staffelei zurückstellte und sich rasch davon entfernte” (460). His unwillingness to become involved with such forces causes him to make a hasty and unannounced departure.
In refusing to investigate these darker realms that they at least occasionally acknowledge to exist, characters such as Ferge and James Tienappel sacrifice the possibility of a deeper knowledge.
But they also avoid the very real threat of losing themselves in this dangerous underworld, something that nearly overtakes Hans
Castorp. Hermann Weigand draws attention to this danger in his essay on disease in Der Zauberberg: “Long before he has reached the end of his career Hans Castorp has come to realize (as has Thomas
Mann with him) that except for an infinitesimal number of favored 148
individuals, the lure of disease as an avenue to life leads to utter destruction” (14). While this realization on Hans Castorp’s part may not occur as early as he suggests, Weigand’s point is well taken
(There is, after all, the suicide of Naphta toward the close of the novel.). Death is surprisingly well hidden at the Berghof and could remain virtually unnoticed to anybody who wanted occasionally to look the other way. But Hans, particularly after his powerful introduction to it in the x-ray scene, becomes fascinated by death and the dying. He actually seeks out contact with the ‘moribundi’ by offering to bring them flowers and keep them company in their last lonely hours. While his belief in the humanitarian aspects of these self-imposed tasks may be real enough, there is also the sense that he takes a rather selfish pleasure in it: “Christian caritas stands side-by-side with voyeurism” (Kowalik 41). His visits to the dying involve none of the horror or discomfort that the sight of his skeleton through the x-ray machine did. Quite the contrary, they put him in a state of near tranquilized comfort. He seems to have lost control of his own destiny in that all of his actions are determined by a magnetic force— embodied in the figure of Clawdia
Chauchat—pulling him toward the realm of death. Even the exceptionally simple-minded Frau Stohr recognizes what is going on: 149
Denn sie verstand und gab dem stichelndenveise Ausdruck, daB hier der wahre und eigentliche Ritter Hans Castorp sei, wàhrend der junge ZiemlBen blo(3 assistiere, und dal3 Hans Castorp, dessen innere Richtung gegen Frau Chauchat ihr bekannt war, die kümmerliche Karstedt nur ersatzweise chaperonierte, da er sich jener anderen offenbar nicht zu nàhern wuBte [. . .].
[. . .] Denn allerdings bedeutete ihm der Verkehr mit der armen Karen eine Art von Ersatz- und unbestimmt forderlichem Hilfsmittel, wie alle seine charitativen Unternehmungen ihm dergleichen bedeuteten (337).
Hans begins to identify himself with the world of death and disease and, thus, with its most obvious symbol—a copy of his x-ray photograph. Through the Fastnacht conversation between Hans and
Clawdia Chauchat, the reader learns that Hans has become so attached to his x-ray that he always carries it with him:
Tu as parlé à mon cousin à l'atelier de photographie intime, dans l’antichambre, tu te souviens.’ ‘Je me souviens un peu.’ ‘Donc ce jour-là Behrens a fait ton portrait transparent!’ ‘Mais oui.’ ‘Mon dieu. Et l’as-tu sur toi?’ ‘Non, je l’ai dans ma chambre.’ ‘Ah, dans ta chambre. Quant au mien, je l’ai toujours dans mon portefeuille. Veux-tu que je te le fasse voir?’ (359)
Clawdia, for her part, further connects x-ray to identity when she labels her own descriptions of Hans, his background, and her impression of his personality, “‘ta photographie intime, faite sans 150
appareil’” (360). Having left his moment of insight behind, however,
Hans appears to have forgotten the more startling—and therefore more valuable—level of the photograph: as a clue to the secrets of the soul and to the puzzling nature of identity and also as a warning of the dangers inherent in such regions. After his insight in the
“Snow” vision, Hans has similar problems. According to the narration, he immediately forgets everything he saw there. And it is certainly true that he returns without question to the Berghof to resume his old life. It will not be until after the final seance scene that he can take a definitive action against the forces of darkness.
Having once entered the underworld and been overtaken by a fascination with its inhabitants and ideals, Hans Castorp must work his way back to “health” in stages. While the path he takes is certainly no linear staircase, progression from dark to light can be traced through an examination of each “photographic” moment of insight, thus lending truth to Hatfield’s statement that “despite all delays and relapses, Hans is moving from passivity to action, from shapelessness to form” (101). There is evidence in the x-ray scene, the “Snow” vision, and the final seance that Hans each time experiences an increasing horror at the view behind the curtain, that he does not entirely forget what he has seen from one instance to 151
the next, and that he eventually moves in the direction of confirmation rather than denial of life. In the x-ray laboratory, Hans is for the first time presented with the opportunity and means for
“looking into his own grave.” The sight both entices and repels him:
Heftig bewegt von dem, was er sah, oder eigentlich davon, daB er es sah, fühite er sein Gemüt von geheimen Zweifein gestachelt, ob es rechte Dinge seien, mit denen dies zugehe, Zweifein an der Erlaubtheit seines Schauens im schütternden, knisternden Dunkel; und die zerrende Lust der Indiskretion mischte sich in seiner Brust mit Gefühlen der Rührung und Frommigkeit (232).
The entire episode reminds him of an aunt who carried the burden of a strange gift—being able to envision the skeletons of people who were soon to die. At this point, uneasiness and curiosity stand side- by-side; he is not yet able to realize the full significance of what he sees and therefore must subconsciously store the image for future reference. Indeed, the sight of the x-ray at this stage acts not as an impetus for positive change but as an excuse for non-action, for remaining at the sanatorium. The spots on his lungs as pictured on the photographic plate represent— as the following chapter is entitled— “Freiheit,” freedom from all the responsibilities that participation in a career and society entail. As soon as he leaves the laboratory, Hans appears to forget the fear he felt when looking into 152
the heart. The sight of Frau Chauchat entering as he and Joachim exit, immediately diverts his attention to the more pleasurable aspects of disease.
But in reality Hans has nol forgotten his brief moment of insight at the x-ray machine. This is emphasized by the fact that he recollects it at other critical junctures in the novel. When, for instance, briefly before the “Snow” vision, he sees his heart as it appeared many years previous through x-rays, it is an indication that this next moment of insight will build on the last, allowing him to see both old and new in a different light. Hans’ increased understanding at the time of the “Snow” vision is implicated on two levels, one emotional and the other intellectual. While the same curiosity that drove him to peer through his flesh now pushes him to look behind the temple’s facade, there is clearly more hesitation here: “In der Betrachtung des Standbildes wurde Hans Castorps Herz aus dunklen Griinden noch schwerer, angst- und ahnungsvoller. Er getraute sich kaum [. . .]” (520). In addition, his reaction to the sacrifice of the child—to the skeleton under the skin— is this time much more pronounced:
Es wurde ihm so übel, so übel wie noch nie. Verzweifelt wollte er sich von der Stelle reiBen—und so, wie er dabei an der Saule in seinem Rücken seitlich hingestürzt, so fand er sich, das scheuBliche Flüsterkeifen noch im Ohr, von kaltem 153
Grausen noch ganz umklammert, an seinem Schuppen im Schnee [. . .] (521).
To a much greater extent than ever before, Hans Castorp has entered
a state similar to what Mann describes in his Dostoyevsky essay as
Nietzsche’s rise from talented normality through “[. . .] eisige und
groteske Spharen todlicher Erkenntnis [. . .]” (663).
Also significant in this scene is the fact that Hans afterwards
analyzes his own vision, drawing conclusions from it that are much
more positive than the continued— indeed heightened—fascination
with death and disease that follow his examination of the x-ray. He
is here altogether on a different plane;
‘Ich bin mit Naphta und Settembrini im hochgefàhriichen Gebirge umgekommen. Ich weiB allés vom Menschen. Ich habe sein Fleisch und Blut erkannt, ich habe der kranken Clawdia Pribislav Hippe’s Bleistift zurückgegeben. Wer aber den Korper, das Leben erkennt, erkennt den Tod. Nur ist das nicht das Ganze,— ein Anfang vielmehr lediglich, wenn man es pàdagogisch nimmt" (521-22).
And in his thoughts he sets a new direction for himself based on
what he has seen:
‘Waren sie so hoflich und reizend zueinander, die Sonnenleute, im stillen Hinblick auf eben dies GraBliche? Das ware eine feine und recht galante Folgerung, die sie da zogen! Ich will es mit ihnen halten in meiner Seele und nicht mit Naphta—übrigens auch nicht mit Settembrini, sie sind beide Schwàtzer’ (522). 1 54
But as with his experiences in the x-ray laboratory, Hans appears
here once again to leave his Insights quickly behind. Yet, as before,
it would be impossible to truly forget such a startling vision. Not
now prepared or able to follow his thoughts with action, he returns
to the Berghof. With him, however, remain the images from the x-
ray machine and the “Snow” vision. Jens Rieckmann makes a similar
point in his book on Der Zauberberg:
So richtig es ist, daB Hans Castorps Traumgedicht vom Menschen nicht in einem EntschluB zum Lebensdienst resultiert, so falsch scheint es mir dennoch zu sein, in dem Schneetraum und dem sich anschlieBenden Gedankentraum eine Episode ohne Konsequenzen zu sehen. Solche Deutungen lassen auBer acht, daB Hans Castorp in dem unmittelbar folgenden Abschnitt zumindest wiederholt auf die Gedanken anspielt, die ihm aus seinem Schneeabenteuer erwachsen waren, und seine Erkenntnis von des ‘Homo Dei Stand’ inmitten der Gegensatze praktisch bewàhrt, was besonders in den Peeperkorn- Abschnitten deutlich wird (82).
It is almost as if each of these glimpses behind life’s facade then
requires a sort of incubation period in which it is further considered
and hardened through contact with various personalities and events
at the sanatorium. Only then can Hans proceed to the next
discernible stage of development.
The seance scenes near the close of the novel represent Hans’ final opportunity for using his “x-ray vision.” Like the dream in 155
“Schnee”, it Is clear that the seances are linked to those early photographs, for x-rays appear both literally (In Hans' lap) and In thought during the course of the meetings. They, along with everything he learned In the “Snow” vision, will provide the basis for this experience. While Hans participates rather eagerly In the first seance, he is merely an onlooker and decides afterwards—with
Settembrlnl’s urging—to attend no more. He found the session somewhat unsettling but felt he got little else out of his brief contact with the spirit, Holger. The thought of seeing a dead person recalled to life, however, proves too much for his curiosity and he returns once more, this time as the medium. In this capacity, Hans must act as an Intermediary between the worlds of the living and the dead. It Is then. In a sense, representative of his larger journey
Into death and disease along with his return to life. The eventual sight of Joachim Is reminiscent of the “Snow” vision In the effect It has on Hans Castorp. The horror that he felt first upon seeing his x- ray and next In an Intensified fashion on the mountain. Is here repeated:
Schràg hin über die Hànde, den Kopf auf seinen Knien, starrte er welt vorgebeugt durch das Rotdunkel auf den Besuch Im Sessel. Elnen Augenblick schlen sein Magen sich umkehren zu wollen. Es zog ihm die Kehle zusammen, und ein vier- oder fOnffaches Schluchzen stIeB Ihn Innlg-krampfhaft. 'Verzeih!' flQsterte er 156
in sich hinein; und dann gingen die Augen ihm über, so da3 er nichts mehr sah (721).
The result of this vision is, however, not a thoughtful analysis—that
has already been done and is still with him— but the next logical
step, action: “Aber Hans Castorp war mit wenigen Schritten bei den
Stufen der EingangstOr und schaltete mit knappem Handgriff das
WeiBlicht ein” (721). The gesture repeats Settembrini’s earlier in
the novel but on a heightened level. Settembrini used the light as a
defense mechanism against any encroachment of death into the
world of the living (He had no interest in seeing his skeleton through
the x-ray machine). Hans, on the other hand, turns on the light with
full knowledge of what lies on the other side. In so doing, he ends the dream or vision and reintroduces the aesthetic world that masks
death, realizing that this has its justification. The building horror
at what he saw in each instance is thus converted to life and recalls
the promise he made after the “Snow” vision:29
‘Die Liebe steht dem Tode entgegen, nur sie, nicht die Vernunft, ist starker als er. Nur sie, nicht die Vernunft, gibt gutige Gedanken. Auch Form ist nur aus Liebe und G Cite: Form und
29 Commenting on Hans' new found ability to act, Henry Hatfield states: “Repeating an earlier gesture of Settembrini’s, he turns on the light. This is a long step toward the ideals of the People of the Sun and toward life” (95). Joseph Campbell contrasts Hans’ reaction with that of Stephen Dedalus in Ulvsses: “Stephen Dedalus, on the other hand, overcome by a similar visitation— of his mother—had struck the light out and gone wild. Thus the abyss that Hans refused, and together with Hans his author, Joyce and his characters entered [. . (660-61). 157
Gesittung verstàndig-freundiicher Gemeinschaft und schonen Menschenstaats—in stillem Hinblick auf das Blutmahl. Oh, so ist es deutlich getrâumt und gut regiert! Ich will dran denken. Ich will dem Tode Treue halten in meinem Herzen, doch mich hell erinnern, daB Treue zum Tode und Gewesenen nur Bosheit und finstere Wollust und Menschenfeindschaft 1st, bestimmt sie unser Denken und Regieren. Der Mensch soli um der Güte und Liebe willen dem Tode keine Herrschaft einràumen über seine Gedanken. Und damit wach’ ich a u f (523).
Critics such as Kowalik who argue that Hans’ act of turning on the light represents only flight from a realm that he is “[. . .] in fact not prepared to confront [. . .]” (41), seem to ignore the progression from one moment of insight to the next. Indeed, Hans’ existence through the course of the novel seems far more threatened by a desire to give in to the forces of death and disease than by a Settembrinian refusal to acknowledge their existence. By turning on the light he banishes death— not from his heart but from dominance over his mind— and thus embraces life.^o
In view of this positive conclusion to Hans’ journey through disease to “health”, it seems ironic that the end of the novel sees
30 Kristiansen agrees that Hans acts here in accordance with the humane ideals set forth in the “Snow” vision but believes that this is completely undermined in scenes that follow: “Castorp reagiert in dieser Episode zwar in Übereinstimmung mit der humanen Idee, aber— und das 1st strukturell entscheidend— seine humane Aktion halt nicht an, sondern ist auf eine nur momentané Unterbrechung seiner Sympathie mit dem Tode beschrankt. Das zeigt recht eindeutig seine Haltung zum Duell zwischen Settembrini und Naphta im Abschnitt ‘Die groBe Gereiztheit’” (302). This, however, denies the possibility of a progression that is not strictly linear. 158
the newly enlightened hero marching off to yet another field of death, namely war. There is naturally much critical debate over
Hans’ eventual fate. Some argue that he is a survivor, that he will emerge from the war more prepared to face life than ever before:
“Only Castorp will go on, strengthened and resolute, and possibly will complete his self-transformation from engineer to artist, so as to write a novel not unlike The Magic Mountain” (H. Bloom 3). Others side with the narrator’s comment in the last paragraph that Hans’
“[. . .] Aussichten sind schlecht [. . .]” (757). Heller, for one, remarks that the war “[, . .] most probably will destroy its citizen Castorp”
(30). But whether or not Hans actually dies in the course of the war seems—for the sake of an argument based on his progression through moments of photographic insight, at least—immaterial. The fact is that Hans has developed through his newly won ability to see and that he has shown himself able to act on his knowledge.
Furthermore, he has left the sanatorium; there is nothing more for him to learn there and staying would serve no conceivable purpose.
Under the circumstances provided by the time, taking positive action to change his life must necessarily lead him to enter the war. And
Mann does not preclude the possibility of the positive arising from the negative. He ends the novel not with a definitive statement but 159
with a question: “Wird auch aus diesem Weltfest des Todes, auch aus der schlimmen Fieberbrunst, die rings den regnerischen
Abendhimmel entzündet, einmal die Liebe steigen?” (757). While it is true that Hans leaves without being completely “cured”—there is still much room for intellectual growth—it is also clear that he now has a basis from which he can build. He will face the war with the same consciousness of the x-ray that he had in the “Snow” vision and the seance. Although no longer one of the shades (they are described as watching him, ashamed, from their position of safety,
756), he is aware of their existence and meaning. While the war may prove an unsatisfactory conclusion to Hans' journey in that it both presents him with the prospect of immediate death and prevents him from taking a societal position more suitable to his talents and inclinations, there is no evidence that it breaks his spell on the mountain only to return him unchanged to the novel’s beginning.
Kristiansen’s argument that the war destroys the metaphysical
“seeing through” of the world of appearances that was possible only in the sanatorium must therefore be disputed, for it essentially negates all of the experiences of the past seven years and denies the possibility of transferring knowledge learned in one realm to another: 160
An die Stelle der Zauberberg-Welt der Schopenhauerischen Metaphysik 1st am Ende des Romans anscheinend wieder die naive Weltauffassung getreten, die Erscheinungswelt sei als Sphàre des empirischen Lebens die wahre Welt, der der Mensch durch sein Tun und Handein verpfllchtet ist (289).
The last image of Hans Castorp is, after all, of him singing “Am
Brunnen vor dem Tore," a song that became his favorite while at the
Berghof, and one that was representative of the coexistence of life and death as he perceived it in his visions:
Hans Castorps holdes Heimwehlied, die Gemütssphàre, der es angehôrte, und die Liebesneigung zu dieser Sphàre sollten—‘krank’ sein? Mitnichten! Sie waren das Gemütlich- Gesundeste auf der Welt. Allein das war eine Frucht, die, frisch und prangend gesund diesen Augenblick oder eben noch, auBerordentlich zu Zersetzung und Faulnis neigte [. . .]. Es war eine Lebensfrucht, vom Tode gezeugt und todestràchtig. Es war ein Wunder der Seele,—das hochste vielleicht vor dem Angesicht gewissenloser Schonheit und gesegnet von ihr, jedoch mit MiBtrauen betrachtet aus triftigen Gründen vom Auge verantwortlich regierender Lebensfreundschaft [. . .] (6 9 0 -9 1 ).
As a reminder of the dual nature of existence and as a warning against too great a sympathy with death, this image at least remains with him.
Hans Castorp’s journey through disease to health can be related to photographs on two levels. As has been demonstrated, they are first and foremost an actual object within the text used to 161
guide the thoughts and actions of the protagonist and to unite widely separated scenes. They can also be viewed, however, in a more general sense, for the very nature of a photograph is representative of the journey as a whole, moving as it does through dark and light, shadow and substance. They are an embodiment of both what he explores and what he learns. In the novel's final chapter, the
narrator comments on the nature of Hans’ education:
[Settembrini] hatte aber wenig Ohr bei einem Schüler gefunden, der sich zwar von den geistigen Schatten der Dinge regierungsweise das eine und andere tràumen lieB, der Dinge selbst aber nicht geachtet hatte, und zwar aus der Hochmutsneigung, die Schatten fur die Dinge zu nehmen, in diesen aber nur Schatten zu sehen,— weswegen man ihn nicht einmal alizu hart schelten darf, da dies Verhaltnis nicht letztgültig geklart ist (750).
During the course of his stay in the sanatorium, Hans seeks to define
shadow and substance, truth and the appearance of truth, through
conversation, voluminous reading, and self-reflection. In the end,
only through his visions, through the x-rays, can he realize the true
nature of those images; the medium that contains the moment of
truth is also the avenue for reaching it. Laszio Moholy-Nagy, an
innovative leader of German photography in the 1920’s, worked with
x-rays and other negatives as an art form for this very reason. If
the camera could supplement the eye in scientific pursuits, why not 162
also in aesthetic ones?
Moholy-Nagy formulated the specific characteristics of the photographic medium and, on this basis, proposed guidelines for its future practice. For him, the medium itself was the content, but content was to be understood in terms of the extension of the boundaries of our perception (Eskildsen 103- 04).
In x-rays, this broadened ability to see is represented in the
physical nature of the product; what was once sheathed in the
greatest darkness is now given fullest illumination.
The negative as an end, rather than a means, fascinated Moholy-Nagy. [. . .] He found it extraordinary that the very parts of the scene where there was little or no light visible themselves became light in the negative. It is curious that W. F. Fox Talbot, inventor of the negative-positive process, should have appreciated the negative for these qualities. In 1839 he wrote: The effect of the copy though of course unlike the original (substituting as it does light for shadow and vice versa) yet is often singularly pleasing and would I think often suggest to artists useful ideas respecting light and shade' (Newhall, “Photo Eye” 80).
This reversal of light and dark functions on the level of
intellect as well. In the novel, the x-ray can represent both life (in the knowledge it leads to) and death (in the mysterious image of the skeleton it presents). In switching dark for light and light for dark, shadow and substance are also confused. What appears in the photograph as substance (the human skeleton or heart) is actually 163
only a shadow of the real thing cast on a screen or glass plate. By the same token, that same shadow can, in an actual photograph
(similar to Hans' vision of Joachim) take on all the appearance of substance, the real thing. Hans comes to a tentative realization of this after the first seance and relates his thoughts to an unappreciative Settembrini:
Sein Zogling sagte nicht ja und nicht nein dazu. Er meinte achselzuckend, was Wirklichkeit sei, scheine nicht bis zur Unzweideutigkeit klargestellt und folglich auch nicht, was Betrug. Vielleicht sei die Grenze flieBend. Vielleicht gabe es Cibergange zwischen beidem. Grade der Realitat innerhalb der wort- und wertungslosen Natur, die sich einer Entscheidung entzogen, der, wie ihm scheine, etwas stark Moralisches anhafte. Wie Herr Settembrini über das Wort ‘Gaukelei’ denke, diesen Begriff, in welchem Elemente des Traumes und solche der Realitat eine Mischung eingingen, die der Natur vielleicht weniger fremd sei als unserem derben Tagesdenken. Das Geheimnis des Lebens sei buchstablich bodenlos [. . .] (705).
There is then in this realization—one that is confirmed and strengthened in the final seance scene— an acknowledgement and acceptance of the complex relationship between art and truth in the
Nietzschean sense: “Wirklichkeit soli sich in Fiktion verwandein,
Fiktion das Wirkliche absorbieren, so daB jene ‘traumerische und reizvolle Vermischung der Spharen’ zustande kommt [. . .]” (Wysling
67). Hans' inability, and eventual unwillingness, to separate shadow 164
and substance is not a failure as the narrator might like to imply, but a sign of his own growing understanding of the truly complex nature of his visions.
Clearly, Hans Castorp’s journey through the realm of death and disease is not just a quest for knowledge in and of itself; it is a search for identity, for an expanded understanding of himself and the nature of existence. Through the x-rays and his visions, he attains a certain level of insight that brings him to a new, healthier state of mind. It is then, in a sense, photographs and their analogues that
“cure” him. Sander L. Gilman, in his work with the history of photography, has drawn attention to this healing power of photographs.31 He finds, in the mid-nineteenth century work of Hugh
W. Diamond, a significant breakthrough in the way photographs were viewed. While experimenting with various treatments for the insane. Diamond realized that the nature of photographs made them valuable not only as a tool for recording the appearance of patients but also as a means of shocking them into a new mode of self perception:
In addition to the use of the photograph as a diagnostic tool in the evaluation of the physiognomy of insanity. Diamond used his photographs in the treatment of the inmates at the Surrey
31 See especially his The Face of Madness: Hugh W. Diamond and the Origin of Psychiatric Photography. 165
Asylum. In freezing the features of the inmates, the camera was able to present an Indelible Image of the patient for the patient’s own study. These self-images had an effect on some of the Inmates, If just because of their novelty (Gilman, Face of Madness 9).
In a paper read before the Royal Society, Diamond outlined the successes he had observed, noting that the photographs served a double purpose. They acted both as an Impetus for change and as a unique means for recording the Individual steps that the change
Involved:
There Is another point of view In which the value of portraits of the Insane Is peculiarly marked.—viz. In the effect which they produce upon the patients themselves— I have had many opportunities of witnessing this effect— In very many cases they are examined with much pleasure and Interest, but more particularly In those which mark the progress and cure of a severe attack of Mental Aberration— I may particularly refer to the four portraits which represent different phases of the case of the same young person commencing with that stage of Mania which Is marked by the bristled hair [. . .] through less excited stages to the perfect cure” (qtd. In Gilman, Face of Madness 21).
These observations can be related to the extreme Interest Hans expresses In viewing his x-ray, an Interest that far surpasses that of any other character In the novel. The attention he pays these
Images may. In this light, be viewed as a sign of his own progress toward recovery. 166
In addition, his reactions to the photographs and visions at different stages in the novel present the outside observer, namely the reader, with the opportunity to evaluate the changes he has undergone. This is particularly true when viewed in reference to a somewhat strange conversation Hans has with Settembrini briefly before the “Snow” chapter. The discussion revolves around the mentally ill and, in particular, around those whose disease is manifested in their tendency to hallucinate. Settembrini, predictably, argues that a sound mind cannot produce such visions, and that a diseased mind, once confronted with the images of its own making, cannot react as one might rationally expect it to:
Aber der Scherz sei eben der, daS den Herren das gar nicht begegnen konne, da sie ja geistig gesund seien. Falls es ihnen aber begegnete, so waren sie nicht gesund, sondern krank und wiirden nicht wie ein Gesunder, das heiBt: mit Entsetzen und ReiBaus, darauf reagieren, sondern die Erscheinung hinnehmen, als ob sie ganz in der Ordnung sei, und sich in eine Konversation mit ihr einlassen, wie das eben die Art der Halluzinanten sei; und zu glauben, für diese bedeute die Halluzination ein gesundes Schrecknis, das eben sei der Phantasiefehler, der dem Nichtkranken unterlaufe (476).
On one level, these remarks obviously foreshadow both Hans' “Snow” vision and, even more specifically, the appearance of Joachim at the seance. In so doing, however, they also point to certain discrepancies in Settembrini’s argument. According to his logic, the 167
fact that Hans sees what he does while on the mountalntop and in
the seance would indicate that his is a diseased or mad mind. Yet he
in each case reacts with that horror typical of the sane. This
defiance of Settembrini’s logic is made particularly clear at the end
of the seance. When confronted with Joachim’s ghost, Hans does not
“start up a conversation” but rather specifically refuses
Krokowski’s orders to speak to it. And it is, of all the members
present, Hans who turns on the light and leaves the room. His
reaction implies the existence of a combination that Settembrini
refuses to acknowledge, i.e., of a sanity that has come to terms with
madness.32 in viewing the image of Joachim or of the bloody old women behind the temple, Hans is really confronting something of himself. They are x-rays of his own mind, exposing a realm of darkness within that, in order to be overcome, must first be acknowledged. Darkness, death, and disease reveal themselves not as an entirely separate world but as an integral part of sanity. In
32 In Camera Lucida. Roland Barthes endows the photograph with qualities of madness and draws an interesting parallel between it and a hallucination: "Now, in the Photograph, what I posit is not only the absence of the object; it is also, by one and the same movement, on equal terms, the fact that this object has indeed existed and that it has been there where I see it. Here is where the madness is, for until this day no representation could assure me of the past of a thing except by intermediaries; but with the Photograph, my certainty is immediate: no one in the world can undeceive me. The Photograph then becomes a bizarremedium, a new form of hallucination: false on the level of perception, true on the level of time: a temporal hallucination, so to speak, a modest, shared hallucination (on the one hand it is not there,' on the other ‘but it has indeed been'): a mad image, chafed by reality” (115). 168
viewing these images and recognizing them to be, in essence, a part
of himself, Hans is like the madwoman described in Diamond’s
report. The more carefully he studies the “pictures”, the more able
he is to deal with the madness that his moments of insight
represent. It is from this angle, then, that Settembrini’s continued
remarks on the insane can be interpreted:
[. . .] diese Leute [die Halluzinanten], meinte er, lieBen sich ganz unerlaubt viel durchgehen und hàtten es ôfters sehr wohl in der Hand, ihrer Tollheit zu steuern, wie er selbst bei gelegentlichen Besuchen in Narrenspitàlern gesehen. Denn wenn der Arzt oder ein Fremder auf der Schwelle erscheine, so stelle der Halluzinierende meist seine Grimassen, sein Reden und Fuchtein ein und benehme sich anstàndig, solange er sich beobachtet wisse, um sich hernach wieder gehenzulassen (4 7 6 -7 7 ).
He implies that observation, here from an outside source, can effect
a change in a patient’s behavior. By his own admission, however, this external force can be exerted only temporarily. To arrive at a
more permanent state of health, the observation must come from within. Self-scrutiny, for which purpose photographs and their analogues offer the most efficient medium, is therefore ultimately the path that Hans takes in completing his journey. 169
Dr. Krokowski as a Photographer Figure
There is In Der Zauberberg a second character for whom the
Interaction between photography and psychology plays a role, and that Is Dr. Krokowski. Upon first meeting the doctor, Hans Is surprised at the strangeness of his costume and the pallor of his skin and Is Immediately reminded of a photographer he once saw:
Er war ungefàhr fünfunddrelBIg Jahre alt, breltschultrig, fett, bedeutend klelner als die belden, die vor Ihm standen, [. . .] — und auBerordentllch blelch, von durchschelnender, ja phosphoreszlerender Blasse, die noch gehoben wurde durch die dunkle Glut seiner Augen, die Schwarze seiner Brauen und seines ziemllch langen. In zwel Spltzen auslaufenden Vollbartes, der berelts ein paar welBe Fàden zelgte. Er trug elnen schwarzen, zwelrelhlgen, schon etwas abgenutzten Sakkoanzug, schwarze, durchbrochene, sandalenartlge Halbschuhe zu dicken, grauwollenen Socken und elnen welch überfallenden Halskragen, wie Hans Castorp Ihn bis dahin nur bel elnem Photographen In Danzig gesehen hatte und welcher der Erscheinung Dr. Krokowskl’s In der Tat ein atellermàBIges Gepràge verlleh (20).
His phosphoresence, surrounded as It Is by black clothing. Is
reminiscent of an x-ray and therefore also of death. Indeed, he
Inhabits a dark basement office that Is described as an analytic x- 170
ray cabineti^s
Er [Hans Castorp] kam die Treppe hinunter, die reinlich linoleumbelegte Treppe mit Aussicht auf die Tür zum Ordinationszimmer, zu dessen beiden Seiten die Durchleuchtungskabinette gelegen waren, links das organische und rechts um die Ecke das um eine Stufe vertiefte psychische, mit Dr. Krokowski’s Besuchskarte an der Tür (389).
Unlike Behrens, whose realm is the body, Krokowski takes pictures of the mind and then subjects them to his theories of psychoanalysis. It is certainly significant in this regard that Hans at times feels uncomfortable around Krokowski. He senses a strange aura about him, “etwas Bedenkliches” (387), and enters into conversation with him even though he is always haunted “mit dem durchdringenden GefOhle der ScheuBlichkeit” (388). Krokowski seems to have the ability to see through people, to penetrate their thoughts. Talking to him draws forth fears similar to those expressed by some of the early subjects of the x-ray machine:
‘Step inside,’ he said, opening the door, which was on the side of the box farthest from the tube. I immediately did so, not aitogether certain whether my skeleton was to be
33 Koopmann sees Krokowski's office as a miniature Magic Mountain; “Vermittelte das Sanatorium als Ganzes den Eindruck, als sei man zwar vom Flachlande zu ihm heraufgeraten, im Grunde aber in die Unterwelt hinuntergestiegen, so stellt der Untersuchungsraum Krokowskis geradezu eine Zauberbergwelt im Kleinen dar. [. . .] Aber noch in anderer Hinsicht wird das Ordinationszimmer Krokowskis zum “Zauberberg” in nuce: wie auch am Ende der Fahrt Hans Castorps und der Ankunft in Davos ein Dammerzustand herrschte, [. . .] so herrscht auch in Krokowskis analytischem Kabinett ‘verhülltes Halblicht, tiefe Dâmmerung’, was den katakombenhaften Charakter des Ortes nur noch unterstreicht" (70-71). 171
photographed for general inspection, or my secret thoughts held up to light on a glass plate’ (qtd. in Nitske 132).
But even though they might scare him, Krokowski’s qualities and interests naturally attract Hans; they offer him a means of exploring the dark side of life, the depths of the human mind, in a way that his discussions with Naphta, another death figure, cannot.
Only with Krokowski, who “pries die Durchleuchtung des
UnbewuBten” (137), can he learn to see like an x-ray, and only through him can he enter the world of the supernatural and occult where he experiences his final vision. It is in this sense then that
Krokowski can be viewed as a kind of leader on Hans’ journey.^^
Many of his lectures in fact deal with destroying illusions (134) and with attaining knowledge by taking the less-traveled morbid path rather than the healthy one:
[. . .] sie [Krokowski’s Vortràge] handelten von den profunden Seltsamkeiten des Hypnotismus und Somnambulismus, den Phànomenen der Telepathie, des Wahrtraums und des Zweiten Gesichtes, den Wundern der Hysterie, bei deren Erorterung der philosophische Horizont sich derart weitete, daB auf einmal solche Ratsel dem Auge der Zuhôrer erschimmerten wie das des Verhaltnisses der Materie zum Psychischen, ja dasjenige des Lebens selbst, welchem beizukommen auf unheimlichstem, auf krankhaftem Wege, wie es scheinen mochte, mehr Hoffnung war als auf dem der Gesundheit . . . (692).
34 Although he stops short of viewing Krokowski as Hans’ leader, Henry Hatfield also argues that “[. . .] he too teaches Hans a valuable lesson [. . (94). 172
In his lectures— and most likely in their additional secretive
discussions as well— Krokowski lays out the path Hans must take.
And through his insistence that Hans play the medium at the final
seance, he also provides him with the means for reaching his goal.
Weigand argues that although Hans undergoes both medical and
psychoanalytic treatments during his stay at the sanatorium, “[. . .]
we fail to see that either method has any visible effect upon the
state of his health” (17). Hans' progression through the course of the novel is, however, strong testament to the contrary. Whether or
not he is physically healed may be debatable, but he certainly
demonstrates a higher level of mental health than ever before when
he turns on the light to end the seance. Clearly, Hans surpasses
Krokowski at some point along his journey, for although the doctor
may understand the value of the subconscious and the moment of insight, he becomes mired in the realm of darkness and ultimately fails to integrate the lessons of death with the world of light.^s
35 In “Okkulte Erlebnisse” Mann speaks of his own personal experience with the world of the occult and warns of its dangers: "Ich sage verdorben', denn es ist wirklich und deutlich eine Art von Verderbnis, die ausgeht von der Welt, die mir im Sinne liegt, dem wahrscheinlich nicht tiefen, aber untergründigen, trüben und vexatorischen Lebensgebiet, mit dem ich mich leichtsinnigerweise in Berührung gesetzt: eine Verführung fort von dem, was mir obliegt, zu Dingen, die mich nichts angehen sollten, die aber gleichwohl auf meine Phantasie und auf meinen Intellekt einen so scharfen, fuselartigen Reiz ausüben (fuselartig im Vergleich mit dem Wein des Geistes und der Gesittung), daf3 ich wohl verstehe, wie man ihnen lasterhafterweise verfallen und über einer monomanischen, nàrrisch-müBigen Vertiefung in sie der sittlichen Oberwelt auf immer verlorengehen kann” (136). 173
Photography and Parody
But Krokowski’s figure—like many others in the novel—is not an entirely serious one. As weighty (in both senses of the word) as
Mann’s work might be, it must be remembered that it was originally intended as something quite different:
Am 1. Oktober 1912 erschien Der Tod in Venedig in der ‘Neuen Rundschau’. Im nachsten Jahr, am 24. Juli 1913, schrieb Thomas Mann an Ernst Bertram: ‘Bin dreiwochiger Aufenthalt am südlichen Meer’—gemeint 1st Viareggio—‘hat mir wieder recht wohl gethan. Trotzdem lasse ich meinen wunderlichen Roman noch weiter liegen und bereite zunachst eine Novelle vor, die eine Art von humoristischem Gegenstück zum Tod i V zu werden scheint’ (SauereBig 8).
That Mann believed the book to have retained at least something of this initial vision is clear, for many years later in “The Making of
The Magic Mountain” he labeled it a “very serious jest” (721). The result is in reality a combination of serious themes with comic moments. While the humor clearly remains the subordinate element, it works together with the serious to create a more powerful
message.36 Mann’s employment of parody to make fun of certain
36 While admitting their presence and importance, Henry Hatfield downplays the humorous aspects of the novel: “Hans Castorp has a touch of rascality, as when he throws his mentors' pet phrases back at them. Yet despite Settembrini's repeated words to Castorp, Engineer, you are a rogue,' Castorp is really a very serious young man; and despite much humor and some touches of parody, the book is in the last analysis a very serious one. The theme of education, which superseded the original plan of a grotesque novella, also kept the many comic elements in a subordinate position" (86). 174
people and situations was to him a part of the artistic creation:
Die Freude an der Mimikry, Thomas Manns Histrionentum, hàngt mit seiner Gabe des genauen Sehens eng zusammen. Darüber hinaus entspricht sie seiner Neigung zur Parodie—wie Nietzsche und Freud war er ja geneigt, im Paredistisch- Imitatorischen die Wurzel alien Künstlertums zu sehen (Wysling 6 7).3^
Finding the comic, then, is a little like finding truth; it is all a matter of “seeing”. The photograph, whose piercing eye is employed in the novel on one level to explore such deeply complex topics as time, death, and the search for identity, is, on another level, equally suitable for unveiling the comic within these very same issues.
Here, however, it is not the character who, looking at a picture, wins insight into the nature of self, but the reader who sees something of the character that he himself cannot recognize. In this way,
Krokowski, the very serious-minded psychoanalyst who feels he can communicate with intelligence from another realm, becomes a different sort of photographer figure. He is the professional, who, believing or at least pretending to create what Abraham Bogardus celebrated as ‘“the difficult, delicate, mystic art’” (qtd. in
Greenough 260), is actually one of the “cheap-johns” who “[. . .]
37 To this effect see also Harold Bloom: “That The Magic Mountain parodies a host of literary genres and conventions is finely obvious. The effect of Nietzsche upon Mann was very strong, and parody was Nietzsche's answer to the anxieties of influence. Mann evidently did believe that what remained to be done was for art to become its own parody” (1). 175
could attract and maintain a steady, high volume of business through creative promotional schemes and advertising [. , .]” (Greenough
2 6 0).38 Although his lectures, like most any photograph, impart certain truths, it is telling that he (along with the majority of patients with whom he gains popularity) ultimately fails to see their deepest significance.
The novel's x-rays function in much the same manner, for they too have multiple layers of meaning that can be interpreted from different angles. This versatility did not go unnoticed by the many people who were fascinated by x-rays in the years early after their discovery.39 Cartoons appeared in various magazines depicting
“[. . .] a fashionable party, with guests dressed in elegant attire, and then showing the same positioned persons as skeletons" (Nitske
123). Equally intent on approaching the new invention from its more humorous side were popular poems, such as “Lines on an X ray
38 The ambiguity depicted in the figure of Krokowski recalls the reputation of the doctor described by Mann in “Okkulte Erlebnisse”: “Sie haben zur Voraussetzung die Bekanntschaft mit einem Mann, über den die Meinungen noch vor kurzem so gründiich auseinandergingen, daB die einen ihn für einen Scharlatan und betrogenen Betrüger erklarten, die anderen ihn als charakter- und verdienstvollen Forscher und Mit- Initiator einer neuen Wissenschaft ehrten. Er heiBt Dr. Albert Freiherr von Schrenck- Notzing” (139-40).
39 Binder comments on the “x-ray craze” that swept through Germany in the year following Rôntgen's discovery: “Rontgens Entdeckungen erregten ungeheures Aufsehen. Innerhalb eines Jahres erschienen über 1000 Verôffentlichungen über Rôntgenstrahlen” (146). 176
Portrait of a Lady” by Lawrence K. Russel:
She is so tail, so slender; and her bones— Those frail phosphates, those carbonates of lime— Are all well produced by cathode rays sublime. By oscillations, amperes, and by ohms. Her dorsal vertebrae are not concealed By epidermis, but are well revealed [. . .] (qtd. in Nitske 123).
While clearly much improved in terms of literary value, the thematic
employment of x-rays in Der Zauberberg certainly retains some of these comic elements. On one plane obvious symbols of death and disease, the photographs are on another a parody of the miniature
portraits so popular in the nineteenth century:
Diese besondere Bedeutung, die man der Bildnisphotographie beimiBt, hàngt damit zusammen, daB das Bildnis zur Zeit der Erfindung der Photographie eines der weitverbreitetsten Aufgabengebiete der Malerei ist. Bereits im 18. Jahrhundert wird es in den Kreisen des Adels eine regelrechte Mode, sich mit Miniaturbildnissen zu beschenken. Diente das Bildnis des Barock vornehmlich der offiziellen Représentation, so kündigt sich in der Beliebtheit der Bildnisminiatur eine neue, bedeutende Aufgabe der Bildnismalerei an: namlich Bildnisse für die ganz personliche Erinnerung zu schaffen, worin sich zugleich der Individualismus der Aufklarung ankundigt. Das Miniaturbildnis, das in die Hand genommen werden will, um aus intimer Nàhe betrachtet zu werden, steht in direktem Gegensatz zur monumentalen und distanzierten barocken Bildnisprasentation. Die Miniaturen sind oft in Kastchen, Schmuckstücke, Dosen Oder andere kleine Gebrauchsgegenstande eingelassen. Mit solchen kleinen Gegenstanden kann man das Bildnis nahestehender Personen 177
stets bei sich tragen (Peters 67).
And so do Hans Castorp and the other patients at the Berghof sanatorium treat their small “x-ray portraits”: giving them to each other as gifts to be remembered by, carrying them in a pocket as an expression of love for the person depicted, and displaying them on tiny easels as works of art. But far from confirming their individuality and giving a visual represenation to identity, these inner portraits do quite the opposite: one skeleton looks, to the non- scientific eye, much the same as any other. What they feel to be a particularly intimate picture is, therefore, actually revealed to be an image of their own lack of identity. The x-rays do indeed unveil the truth in all its seriousness but the characters are unable to see it, and herein lies much of the comedy. And thus, the photograph, reflecting the novel, “becomes its own parody” (H. Bloom 1).
Conclusion
A work as lengthy and complex as Der Zauberberg tends to
invite attempts at sweeping thematic evaluations rather than close,
detail-based analyses. On the one hand, this has a certain justification: the novel is far too rich in subtleties to allow for a truly exhausitive dissection of its many aspects. And one could 178
easily become mired in the thousands of details, losing grasp of a larger significance. On the other hand, it is precisely these details that give the whole its form and meaning. It is not surprising, then, that an apparently minor motif, such as photography, could at once have been overlooked by critics yet nonetheless be central to the interpretation of many major themes. But it is in relating these small pieces, such as the photographs, to the whole, that a further deterrent to this critical avenue arises, for it is not at all obvious at first glance exactly what role photography does play in Der
Zauberberg. The images are widely separated and seemingly unrelated. The x-rays, stereographs, and amateur portraits that appear in the course of the narrative are all actual products of a camera, while the analogy between photographs and the various visions experienced by Hans Castorp is primarily theoretical. An exploration of the interplay between these two levels sheds light on some of Mann’s major concerns, concerns that have already been widely recognized but which can now be viewed productively from a new perspective. Thus, the photographs and their analogues provide a means within the novel for rising above it. An examination of their role within the text leads naturally to the larger themes of time, death, and the search for identity. In each case, they provide a 179
unique possibility for self-reflection—for the protagonist as well as the reader—in what is clearly a very reflexive novel. In this sense, photography in Der Zauberberg functions like the novel within the novel, described here by Todd Kontje: “In addition to reflecting on the world around them, the novels also turn inward to reflect upon themselves. Of particular interest are those moments when the extensive readers portrayed in the novels become intensive readers of their own lives” fPrivate Lives 6). The photographs and the related visions are a means of expressing the concepts behind concepts. They are an attempt to reach the essence of time, death, and identity—to give form to the ineffable.
While it would be naive to argue that, without the camera,
Mann could not have treated the themes he did in Der Zauberberg. it is clear that the employment of photographic images makes it a better novel. Technology provided Mann with an efficient new art form whose complexity rivaled that of the novel itself, for encapsulated in the miniature form of the photograph is much of what the work as a whole strived to achieve. And, indeed, in many ways the photographs reflect not only on the book’s contents but also on the novel itself. Thus, the new relationship to time depicted in the photograph, the attempt to bring past, present, and future 180
together in a single instant, is reflected not only in the sealed atmosphere of the “Magic Mountain” but also in the experience of the modern novel itself. Like the photograph, the novel has the ability to both progress through and stop time. The narrative may move through days, months, and years, but once written, those moments are frozen, left in concrete form to be studied again and again. In
‘The Making of The Magic Mountain” Thomas Mann testifies to the complexity of his novel, admitting that he himself could still learn from it and urging his audience to do the same by rereading it:
Young Nemerov’s is a most able and charming commentary. I have used it to help me instruct you—and myself—about my novel, this late, complicated, conscious and yet unconscious link in a great tradition. Hans Castorp is a searcher after the Holy Grail. You would never have thought it when you read his story—if I did myself, it was both more and less than thinking. Perhaps you will read the book again from this point of view. And perhaps you will find out what the Grail is [. . .] (726-27).
In stopping time, the novel, like the photograph, provides a means for measuring intellectual development. While Der Zauberberg remains the same, its readers and their world do not. The ability to return to the novel and see it from a new perspective, thereby finding truths that were previously hidden, evinces change in the subject. Thus, Hans Castorp’s search for identity, first facilitated by photographs and their analogues and then traced through his 181
changing reactions to them over time, is reflected on a larger scale in the relationship between novel and reader. Here Mann clearly follows in the tradition of Moritz, Goethe, and Schiller who “[. . .] favored self-contained works that rewarded repeated study, neither
intoxicating the readers with sensory stimuli, nor browbeating them
with moral lessons” (Kontje, Private Lives 4). It is in this
imperative to reread and re-examine that Mann seems, despite the
novel’s ambiguous ending, to see the possibility of hope. Just as
Hans Castorp sought and found truth in his x-rays and related
visions, so too can the reader use the novel as a mode of self
reflection, a means to insight and positive change. CHAPTER IV
Tableau and Photography in FleiBer’s Pionlere in Inoolstadt
The strength of most great playwrights lies not in their creation of shocking new dramatic theories, but rather in an ability to work with literary traditions in ways that are innovative and thought provoking. This holds true for authors who want to uphold a given system as well as for those who desire to challenge it.
Indeed, it is often most effective to question a tradition by employing it in such a manner that it undermines or at least casts doubt on its own validity. In her drama, Pioniere in Ingolstadt.
Marieluise FleiBer does exactly that. She invokes an eighteenth- century dramatic tradition, namely that of the tableau and the bürgerliches Trauerspiel, in order to parody traditional notions of gender, love, and family. FleiBer completed three different versions of her play, one in 1928, another in 1929, and a final revision in
1968. Although the versions differ (at points, greatly) in plot
182 183
details and mood/ it is certainly significant that the basic
structure of the endings is maintained. FleiBer closes each version
with easily recognizable tableaux that are, however, “modernized”
and given new meaning in the sense that they are captured through the eye of a camera. While some significant changes were clearly made in the three different versions of this final scene, photography serves basically the same purpose in each: it exposes the mechanisms that are at work behind the tableaux and destroys any possibility of true reconciliation in the system as it exists.
The Tableau
In his essay entitled “Tableau und coup de théâtre: Zur
Sozialpsychologie des bürgerlichen Trauerspiels bei Diderot. Mit
1 A number of critics have analyzed the similarities and differences among the various versions, although most tend to concentrate on the two which were published, i.e., the 1929 and 1968 versions. Stritzke notes the change in emphasis from the individual to social concerns: “Was in der 1929er Fassung noch starker auf die individuelle psychische Deformation des Pioniers Karl reduziert worden war, wird in der BSer Fassung als eine Folge des militârischen Unterdrückungsapparates bewertet. [. . .] Durch diese Aussage wird ein gesellschaftlich praktiziertes Gewaltverhaltnis deutlich gemacht, nach dem ein Unterdrücker sich immer noch ein Opfer sucht, an dem er seine erlittenen DemQtigungen abzureagieren versucht” (76). Schmidt also notes this change in focus between early and late versions and attributes it to Brecht's influence on FleiBer: . .] she [FleiBer] distanced herself from her earlier literary efforts by evoking an analogous gender contrast: the ‘instinctive’ (female) social criticism in her prewar writing, she maintained, had now become ‘conscious’ (male). This paradigm shift was linked to Brecht’s legacy, which she believed she comprehended more clearly than before. [. . .] By expanding the sociocritical component of her works, she was convinced that she was enhancing their relevance for postwar audiences’’ (139). 184
einem Exkurs über Lessing”, Peter Szondi discusses Diderot’s theory
of the tableau as It appears In his drama Père de famille. Here, a
family first depicted In a state of disorder and crisis. Is brought
together harmoniously In the final scene.2 As the curtain drops, they
joyfully await the prospect of a double marriage:
Da3 die jungen Llebhaber sich kriegen, dieser tradltlonelle KomodlenschluO, der fast schon zum Formgesetz des Lustsplels gehort, erhalt hier elnen neuen Sinn, Indem der Topos In den DIenst der Empflndsamkelt genommen wird: gerOhrt, mit Trànen In den Augen betrachten die Menschen elnander und sich selber und lessen sich von den Zuschauern betrachten. Es 1st, als wollte darüber die Zelt, wie Im Blld, stehenblelben (Szondi 209).
For Diderot and the tradition of thebürgerliches Trauerspiel, the withdrawal Into the bourgeois family, this moment of
reconciliation, was a positive ending; there was a strength and
2 In his theoretical writings, Diderot encouraged the use of tableaux not only as an effective means of ending a drama but also as a way of emphasizing certain moments through the course of the entire play. On the stage, however, this proved both impractical and unpopular: "Es scheint, als sei es gerade die Tableau-Konzeption gewesen, die Diderots Stücken den Publikumserfolg versagt hat. Denn die gemachliche Aneinanderreihung von Bild an Bild, von nur unmerklich gegeneinander veranderten dramatischen Situationen, die alle getreulich die klassizistisch vorgeschriebene Einheit des Ortes wahrten und demonstrativ auf den Einsatz von spannungserzeugenden, von spannungssteigernden Theatereffekten zu verzichten suchten, brachten gewiB naturwahre Sequenzen als Bilder des bürgerlichen Familienalltags hervor, dem aber der Zuschauer ja vielleicht gerade im Theater nicht zu begegnen hoffte. [. . .] Der Gang der Handlung in den Tableau-Stücken Diderots ist jedenfalls von qualender Langsamkeit; wo an die Stelle der dramatischen Prazipitation die szenische Auffacherung von Genrebildern tritt, schleicht sich Stockung, Statik und eine betuliche Verweildauer des Geschehens ein, durch welche die Handlung weniger entwickelt als vielmehr nur noch im Schneckentempo weiterbewegt wird” (W. Berger 138). For this reason, only the SchluBtableau has truly retained its influence and popularity through the centuries. 185 meaning to be found in these middle-class bonds, for they could protect one from outside evils:
Im Frankreich des ancien régime, das Diderots Frankreich war, ist Tugend dagegen ein Privates, an dem der Bürger sich aufrichtet, indem er vor den Intrigen und der Bosartigkeit der Gesellschaft in seine vier Wande flieht, aus der Welt dercoups de théâtre ins tableau (Szondi 225).^
The feeling of permanence and stability created by the static yet
supposedly natural quality of the tableau (“eine Stellung dieser
Personen auf der BOhne, die so natOrlich und so wahr ist, daB sie mir
in einer getreuen Nachahmung des Malers auf der Lein wand gef alien
würde” [Diderot qtd. in Szondi 213])4 was thus intended as a final
image of hope for the audience; this, if nothing else, was the
picture that should remain long after the curtain fell.
3 In his article on the tableau Willy Berger discusses this escapist moment as one of the four defining characteristics of an "idealSchluBtableau: " “Viertens: Die rührenden SchluBtableaus der ernsten Komodie haben Exemplum-Charakter, indem sie in der demonstrativen Zurschaustellung des Familienglücks ein Ideal vom bürgerlichen Leben aufleuchten lessen, in welchem die Tugend das Laster besiegt hat; sie haben zugleich ideologisch-affirmativen, auch wohl eskapistischen Charakter, indem sie das Bild der bürgerlichen Kleinfamilie einerseits ins Idealische verklaren, es andererseits aber auch abschirmen gegen die Widrigkeiten der auBeren Welt, gegen die Machinationen der groBen Politik etwa: das war ein Feld, das dem Bürgerlichen Trauerspiel überlassen blieb, denn hier konnte es nicht zur harmonischen Aussohnung, hier muBte es zur tragischen Kollision kommen" (139).
4 Willy Berger describes the SchluBtableau similarly: . .] eine erstarrte Momentaufnahme des Lebens, zu der sich eine Folge dramatisch verknüpfter Ereignisse im Bild des glücklich zustandegebrachten oder wiederhergestellten bürgerlichen Familienverbands zuguterletzt auf der Bühne arrangiert [. . .]’’ (138). 186
The tableau, as theoretically developed and practiced by
Diderot, is clearly the result of applying one art form (painting) to
another (literature). FleiBer, however, modernizes her tableaux by
presenting them to the audience through the eye of a camera: rather
than merely standing still on stage, the characters are actually
photographed; their images and the moment are captured
mechanically and physically preserved for the future. In many ways,
photography is— even more so than painting—ideally suited to
achieving the traditional goals of the tableau, for it can portray life
with startling realism, is inherently democratic in nature, and is an
ideal means of viewing the private sphere. More than anything else,
Diderot stressed that the tableau, in order to have its desired effect
on the audience, be realistic in nature. It was to focus on moments that existed within the realm of possibility and was to present these moments in a natural, meaningful way:
Ein Tableau also soil es sei, das dem dramatischen Künstler abverlangt wird, natürlich und wahr sollen die dramatischen Situationen erscheinen, in die er seine Buhnenfiguren hineinversetzt, in dramatischen Gemalden soli sich auf der Bühne die wahre Poesie des Lebens als dessen getreue Nachahmung widerspiegeln. Die Aniehnung ans antike Mimesis- Konzept ist unverkennbar [. . .] (W. Berger 133).®
5 Berger continues: “Doch zuriick zu Diderot und seiner Forderung nachImitatio naturae. In den maierisch aufgefaBten und arrangierten Tableaus, die der Dramatiker für sein Stuck wâhlen musse, sollen sich dem Zuschauer also Ausschnitte des naturwahren, vom bloBen Schein der poetischen Illusion befreiten Lebens prasentieren. Das meinte Diderot buchstablich ernst [. . .]” (133). 187
While a play’s plot consists of a sequence of moments that moves it through time, it is obvious that each individual moment is not equally suitable for presentation as a tableau. According to Diderot, the "tableaux réels” could only be arranged or created in certain instances, “de moments favorables” (W. Berger 132). Like Szondi,
Berger here sees a correlation to Lessing’s theoretical writings:
Zweierlei wird hier deutlich. Erstens die Inkraftsetzung eines neuen dramaturgischen Begriffs durch Erhellung und Analogiebildung aus einer benachbarten Kunst: der Malerei, wobei der Beg riff des brauchbaren Augenblicks, den der Dramatiker furs Tableau wâhlen musse, sich in verblûffender Übereinstimmung mit dem Beg riff des ‘fruchtbaren Augenblicks’ befindet, den Lessing im Laokoon vom bildenden Künstler fordert (132).
The writer, in imitating reality by incorporating what are essentially paintings into a literary work, must follow some of the same rules as a painter. And for Lessing the choice of the instant was pivotal: “Die Malerei kann in ihren koexistierenden
Kompositionen nur einen einzigen Augenblick der Handlung nutzen, und muB daher den pragnantesten wâhlen, aus welchem das
Vorhergehende und Folgende am begreiflichsten wird” (24 -25). For the modern dramatist intent on capturing this moment and presenting it as realistically as possible, the photograph seems an obvious choice. Unlike the painter, who must reproduce a chosen 188
moment through time, i.e., through the days, weeks, or months it
takes to recreate the image on canvas, the camera can freeze any
given occurrence as it happens. The machine defines the moment
more precisely than any human hand. This, in turn, lends the image a
greater sense of realism, something that appealed to many writers
who were seeking new vehicles of expression. Edgar Allan Poe, for
instance, commented:
All language must fall short of conveying any just idea of the truth, and this will not appear so wonderful when we reflect that the source of vision itself has been, in this instance, the designer. Perhaps, if we imagine the distinctness with which an object is reflected in a positively perfect mirror, we come as near the reality as by any other means. The variations of shade, and the gradations of both linear and aerial perspective are those of truth itself in the supremeness of its perfection (38).6
Given this new, more realistic art form, it was only natural that authors gradually began to apply some of its qualities to their own
6 Paul Valéry suggested that this realism inherent in photography might be helpful to literature— not as something it could imitate or incorporate but rather as encouragement to authors to return to their true calling: "I mean that the proliferation of photographic images I mentioned could indirectly work to the advantage of Letters, Belles-Lettres that is, or rather. Letters that truly merit that adjective. If photography, which is now capable of conveying color and movement, not to mention depth, discourages us from describing, it is because we are thus reminded of the limits of articulate language and are advised, as writers, to put our tools to a use more befitting their true nature. A literature would purify itself if it left to other modes of expression and production the tasks which they can perform far more effectively, and devoted itself to ends it alone can accomplish. It would thus protect itself and advance along its true paths, one of which leads toward the perfecting of language that constructs or expounds abstract thought, the other exploring all the variety of poetic patterns and resonances" (193). 189 work, just as they had with painting earlier. And for the modem audience, a tableau in the form of a photograph would carry much more meaning than one based on the characteristics of a painting.
As Willy Berger points out in his article on the tableau, it was of primary importance to Diderot's sense of realism that drama move away from its traditional focus on society’s ruling and upper classes;
Das Drama, das er [Diderot] auf die Bühne stellte und theoretisch verfocht, gründete auf der Vorstellung eines Allgemeinmenschlichen, das über alle Standeschranken und -klausein sich hinwegsetzte, eines Allgemeinmenschlichen, das als Beg riff und Forderung im Naturrechtsdenken verankert war und ein entscheidendes Moment der revolutionàren bürgerlichen Idéologie des 18. Jahrhunderts geworden 1st (136).
The tableau was thus a means of centering attention on middle-class citizens who had the same right to feelings and suffering as the more privileged. And, indeed, FleiBer’s Pioniere in Ingolstadt closes with tableaux of “ordinary” people; servant girls, soldiers, and a local businessman’s son. Given this group of individuals, it is much more likely that they pose before a camera rather than a real or imagined portrait artist. One of photography’s greatest appeals was that it was simple and cheap. While painted portraits were for 190 those with money, virtually anybody could have their picture taken
As soon as these technical improvements [improved lenses, etc.] had been made, portrait studios were opened almost everywhere in the western world. Their number can hardly be estimated. [. . .] All kinds of people sat before the camera; thanks to the relative cheapness of production, financial distinctions mattered little. Celebrated men and women as well as less renowned citizens who otherwise would be forgotten have left their features on the silvered plate [. . .] (Newhall, History 30)8
In applying this relatively new art form to an old construct, FleiBer gives her tableaux a more natural feel and at the same time emphasizes the fact that this is indeed a play about the “kleinen
Leute” (FleiBer, “Über die ‘Pioniere’” 517).
7 In his article on Walt Whitman’s photographs, Ed Folsom emphasizes the attraction that this aspect of photography had on the poet: “He [Whitman] would often comment about how photography was part of an emerging democratic art, how its commonness, cheapness, and ease were displacing the refined image of art implicit in portrait painting: I think the painter has much to do to go ahead of the best photographs.' For Whitman, the old hierarchy of seeing was represented by painting and sculpture, which emphasized selectivity, patience, formal structuring and composing (and a formality of posing), and which created objects that were never precisely what they portrayed but instead were distillations of reality— ideasabout things. Painted portraits were for the privileged classes, and even the wealthy did not have their portraits painted regularly [. . .]” (2). “The camera, like Whitman's poetry, democratized imagery, suggesting that anything was worth a photograph " (5).
8 Cecil Beaton and Gail Buckland make a similar observation in The Magic Image: The Genius of Photography from 1839 to the Present Day: “Although etchings, woodcuts and silhouettes had been launched successfully on the commercial market, it was photography that democratized the hitherto restricted art of producing pictures. The rise of the middle classes, the widening of people's interests, the trend towards mass production in industry and the rationalization of all processes in the Victorian machine age produced the desire for the use of the mechanical— even in the manual realms of art" (14). 191
A final aspect of photography which makes it particularly suitable as a modern expression of Diderot’s theory is its ability to penetrate the public image and explore the private sphere. With the growing emphasis on the rights of all individuals, regardless of class, to experience the feelings, hardships, and triumphs that were previously attributed only to the aristocracy, there came an increased need to create a window on the private lives of ordinary people. Diderot hoped to accomplish this with the “painted” family portrait that was the basis of the tableau:
Der Dramatiker also als jemand, der das Leben gleichsam in seinen wahren Augenblicken uberrascht, und zwar, das sei gleich hinzugefügt, in Augenblicken privaten Charakters, in Szenen intimer und familialer Hauslichkeit, die sich scharf von den offentlich-feierlichen Auftritten der Tragédie classique unterscheiden (W. Berger 131-32).
While not every household could have its portrait painted, the invention of photography did make it possible for each family to take and collect pictures of itself. And the supposedly “private” moments no longer needed to be staged and posed for an artist. The camera could be taken into the home to capture people in the most relaxed, personal, and private settings possible:
Hier artikulierte sich ein Eigeninteresse an privaten Bildern, das sich aus den kollektivierten Sehbedürfnissen ableitete. Der Wunsch nach Bildern des eigenen Lebens wuchs mit der allgemeinen massenhaften Bildproduktion (daB die Malerei weder der einen noch der anderen Sphare angemessen 192
entsprechen konnte, bedarf keiner weiteren Erorterung mehr). In den fotografischen Aktivitàten versuchte man die privaten Interessen gegenüber den offentllchen ‘am Leben' zu erhaiten: das Familienalbum, die Privatchronik wurden zur Instanz individueiler Selbstbehauptung (Kaufhold 192).
What Diderot could only envision as being achieved through the qualities of a painting is thus possible to a heightened degree through the photograph. The camera can capture a scene of intense privacy with a realism and naturalness inconceivable to a portrait painter. Integrated into a drama, such an image allows the audience a greater chance of relating to the scene on stage, of recognizing the individuals portrayed as representative of their situation as a whole.
But by presenting her tableaux in the form of photographs,
FleiBer is actually playing on the complex nature of the mechanically produced image. While it is, on the one hand, ideally suited to upholding and confirming the traditional values of the bûrgerliches Trauerspiel before a twentieth-century audience, it is equally suited to simultaneously tearing these constructs down—to presenting the truth behind the apparent truth:
Gefordert war ein Sehen, das auf die Hohe der Technik und des modernen Verkehrs gehoben worden war. ‘Aller moderne Verkehr ist ein Erfassen des Augenblicks geworden’, registrierte Friedrich Naumann. ‘Die ganze Anschauungsweise der ruhigen Zeit ist anders als die der Maschinenzeit. . . Wir wollen schnell Ergriffenes, schnell Verschwindendes fixieren. 193
kleine Ausschnitte des stürmenden Daseins intensiv erleben! . . . Die Maschine zerstôrt und baut, sle andert. Wir alle und unser ganzes Zeitalter sind unter dem EinfluB der werktatigen surrenden Râder. Die Wirkungen aber, die von der Maschine ausgehen, sind nicht in eine knappe Formel zusammenzufassen’ (Kaufhold 192).
As a writer in the early part of the century, FleiBer was surely aware of such conversations surrounding this relatively new medium. For in the 1920’s, photography was still a widely- discussed and controversial topic: it raised questions about art, reality, and the advancement of technology. As Kassens and
Toteberg note, FleiBer’s Pioniere in Ingolstadt was strongly influenced by Neue Sachlichkeit, a movement they describe as “Die
Tendenz, wieder die Wirklichkeit selbst zu Wort kommen zu lessen: eine deutliche Abkehr von jeglicher Prophétie und Mission, vom 194
Pathos des Expressionismus” (29).^ And indeed, FleiBer does employ photography here as a new form of capturing realism. The photographs taken at the end of this drama literally expose everything behind them; they work destructively rather than constructively—destroying illusions behind male-female relationships. This unique ability of photography to expose the true nature of objects and to see things that the eye could not, was recognized very early and continued to be of great interest. In 1859,
Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote of photography: “Every conceivable object of Nature and Art will soon scale off its surface for us”
(Holmes 81). Several decades later, in his “Kleine Geschichte der
Photographie,” Walter Benjamin discussed the camera as an instrument that could see in a way that was very different from the
9 Eskildsen notes the natural relationship that exists between photography and this new search for realism: “The ways in which the concept of ‘new objectivity’ was defined by a camera were naturally linked to the photographic tradition and to the properties of the instrument itself, although much of the creative impetus came from other media, particularly Russian film. One must also remember that a photographic image always represents a piece of the real world; an ‘objective’ character is inherent in the medium” (101). And in his discussion of the photography ofNeue Sachlichkeit Herbert Molderings comments: “The aesthetic renewal of the photographic craft, which it [a new generation of artists] undertook and which by analogy with painting received the name of ‘new realism’ {Neue Sachlichkeitj, consisted not so much in discovering new areas of observation as in renewing or rediscovering what was already known by means of a change in photographic technique: an innovation in the method of reproduction. As Albert Renger-Patzsch, the chief representative of the new school, contended, the task of photography was not simply to copy things but once more to explore and display them. This alteration of technique is also central to the principal artistic theory of photography at the time, advanced by the constructivist Laszio Moholy-Nagy, who wrote in 1925 in Malerei, Fotografie, Film: ’. . . the camera can perfect or supplement our own optical instrument, namely the eye’” (88-89). 195
human eye: “Es ist ja eine andere Natur, welche zur Kamera als
welche zum Auge spricht” (50). He commented on photography as a
possible language of the future, a language that could, for those able
to read the pictures it produced, reveal a great deal:
Immer kleiner wird die Kamera, immer mehr bereit, flüchtige und gehelme Bilder festzuhalten, deren Chock im Betrachter den Assoziationsmechanismus zum Stehen bringt. [. . .] Nicht umsonst hat man Aufnahmen von Atget mit denen eines Tatorts verglichen. Aber ist nicht jeder Fleck unserer Stadte ein Tatort? nicht jeder ihrer Passanten ein Tâter? Hat nicht der Photograph— Nachfahr der Augurn und der Haruspexe— die Schuld auf seinen Bildern aufzudecken und den Schuldigen zu bezeichnen? (64)
It is in this manner that FleiBer’s photographs—and therefore
tableaux—ultimately function, for upon a close reading they do have
the power to shock and, in a sense, unmask the “guilty.”
1928 Version
The original version of Pioniere in Ingolstadt. while never
published, was performed in Dresden in March, 1928. Although the
piece was found by many to be entertaining,it was, as Schmidt
points out, far from perfect: “Its scenes indeed often lack economy,
losing their focus on significant themes and characterizations.
10 Schmidt notes: “Having traveled down from Berlin to see it [the performance of Pioniere in Inaolstadt]. Herbert Ihering declared it to be 'a merry work with a hundred comical touches. Weak only in the depiction of events’” (127). 196
Particularly, Fabian’s purchase of the car Is a lengthy process with little relevance” (127). Yet the work Is certainly of Importance, for
It Includes In a loose form many of the topics that FleiBer was to emphasize and strengthen In the following two versions—Including the tableau endings created through photographs. Here FleiBer, as the playwright and. In a sense, as the photographer, shapes the final
Image of the play by posing Korl and Berta and then Fabian and Alma before the camera. The photographer clicks the shutter and In this brief moment the pairs are frozen for eternity before the audience.
The tableau nature of this ending Is emphasized by Korl’s warning to
Berta after they have been photographed together (‘“Jetzt sagst aber nichts mehr’” 58)ii and by Fabian’s stillness (“halt sich ruhig” 62) as he himself stands before the camera. In his “Kleine Geschichte der Photographie” Benjamin notes the Increased Impact that the stillness required for early photographs had on the viewers of these
11 In their article entitled “Augen-Blicke” Gisela Schneider and Klaus Laermann explore the relationship between men and women as they appear in Classical paintings and also in family portraits of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. One of their observances is that the woman is typically confined to silence within the frame of the picture while the man retains a connection to the outside world: “Wahrend der Mann, den Blick aus dem Bild heraus in die Feme gerichtet, die Weite seines Handlungshorizonts in Augenschein nimmt und damit unter Beweis stellt, daB er über den Bildraum hinaus durch seine pure Wahrnehmung Ansprüche geltend macht, bleibt der Blick der Frau nicht nur in den Bildraum gebannt, sondern in stummer und anspruchsloser Zuwendung auf den Mann gerichtet. [. ..} Halt der mannliche Blick auf Distanz, indem er dem Betrachter seinen Platz auBerhalb des Bildes dadurch anweist, daB er ihn zu fixieren scheint, so versucht der weibliche, ohne sich augenscheinlich um die âuBere Realitât zu kümmern, die Distanz zwischen den Personen innerhalb des Bildes zu iiberwinden" (37). 197 pictures:
‘Die Synthase des Ausdruckes, die durch das lange Stillhalten des Modells erzwungen wird, sagt Orlik von der frühen Photographie, ist der Hauptgrund, weshalb diese Lichtbilder neben ihrer Schlichtheit gleich guten gezeichneten oder gemalten Bildnissen eine eindringlichere und langer andauernde Wirkung auf den Beschauer ausüben als neue re Photographien.’ Das Verfahren selbst veranlaBte die Modelle, nicht aus dem Augenblick heraus, sondern in ihn hinein zu leben; wahrend der langen Dauer dieser Aufnahmen wuchsen sie gleichsam in das Bild hinein [. . .] (52).
While the two pictures that end FleiBer’s play certainly achieve this goal common to both an effective tableau and a good photograph—namely, that of exercising a long-lasting influence on the viewer—, a closer examination of each picture reveals its power to lie in a negative rather than positive message.
At the close of the play, the soldier Korl appears with a somewhat doubtful Berta and promises her that he is finally willing to become engaged:
Korl: [. . .] Ich muB mich verloben. Auf dem Platz hier muss ich mich verloben.
Blasse Presse: Warum auf einmal?
Korl: Frags! Ich bin der Sklave meiner Frau.
Berta: Es ist wieder nicht wahr.
Korl: Das wird wahr sein, wenn ich den Photographen mitgebracht habe (58). 198
While the image they eventually present on paper is ostensibly one of a couple happily united after a long struggle, it is clear that every detail surrounding the creation of the actual photograph points only to the true emptiness of their relationship. Korl, who obviously has
no intention whatsoever of marrying the servant-girl Berta, appeals
here one last time to her innocent and gullible nature. He plays on the common belief that photographs, as realistic representations of
life, must necessarily also depict truth on emotional and
intellectual levels. In this sense, the act of fixing their
“engagement” on paper for the world to see makes it undeniably true, thereby effectively silencing any remaining doubts or
objections on Berta’s part: “‘Berta, dies Bild sei Dir gewidmet zum
Andenken an unsere glückliche Verlobung auf der Pionierbrücke.
Jetzt sagst aber nichts mehr”’ (58). Also telling is the fact that the
photographer, after taking their picture, “fàngt gleich an zu
entwickein” (58). He is quick and proud to inform the couple that he
is a “Schnellentwickler (58) and that they will therefore have only
a very short wait until they can see their portrait. His speed in
producing the much-awaited picture obviously allows little time for
quality and in this sense is reflective of the shallow, largely
“undeveloped” bonds that connect Korl and Berta. Their relationship 199 has throughout emphasized speed over quality, pure physical satisfaction (Korl) over the desire for emotional stability (Berta).
Given Korl’s lack of interest in exploring anything beyond the surface level and Berta’s blind trust, it is somehow not surprising that neither of the two seem disappointed with the photograph:
“Photograph zeigt ihnen das grosse und sehr grassliche Bild, 12 das sie mit grosser Freude betrachten” ( 5 8 ). Berta’s optimism throughout the course of the play, her unwillingness— except for a few brief moments—to take Korl for what he really is, is here expressed one final time. For the outside viewer, the close-up serves a purpose typical of“Neue Sachlichkeit ”, i.e., to show reality
12 In a letter from December 4, 1902 to Agnes F. Jennings, George Bernard Shaw (a writer fascinated by photographs and the camera) complained that poses typically chosen by photographers of the day could hardly help but produce results similar to those described here by FleiBer: “The photographs seem to me just diabolical. It is no use: you can do nothing better with that lens and with the sitter staring meaninglessly at the corner of the camera in front of your left shoulder. I knew how it would be when you told me to look at that fatal spot; but you wouldn't have believed me if I had remonstrated; so I let you do your worst. The definition of the large heads is frightful: the skin is seen as under a microscope, whilst the size of the head is reduced greatly from life. There is no suggestion that I am anywhere: I am stuck flat on a background. It is all horrible, studioesque, photographic in the most injurious sense. [. . .] There is nothing wrong with the exposure or the development. But the total result is hideous. No woman will fall in love with any of those portraits: most people will mistrust and loathe the original of so unnatural an image” (Quoted in Jay 41).
13 Although one can assume (given the similarity in the photographer’s method) that the quality of the photographs produced at the end of the 1929 and 1968 versions is equally poor, this is the only version in which FleiBer specifically stresses the actual appearance of the final product. Such direct commentary on the way the pictures lock is made less necessary in the other two versions by virtue of the fact that this scene is in each case more carefully led up to through the course of the action. In both revisions there are earlier “photographic” scenes that prefigure this final tableau. 200 in a new and startling way.
Like Korl and Berta, the equally unlikely pair of Fabian and
Alma also have their engagement commemorated through a photograph at the end of the play. It is in fact their picture that creates the drama’s final image or tableau. Here too, however, the action surrounding the making of the photograph belies the appearance of happiness and reconciliation presented on paper. In many ways the union of these two characters in the final scene seems purely accidental. They meet by coincidence at the departure of the soldiers as two weak and unadmirable characters: Fabian, with his intention of blowing up the bridge as a statement of his manliness, and Alma, a servant girl and prostitute whose sadness at the soldiers’ departure is merely anxiety at losing a comfortable source of income. Because their relationship, like all the others
FleiBer presents, is based on a lack of trust, the idea of a photograph appeals to them as a means of keeping each other to their promises:
Fabian: Fraulein, ich mache Ihnen einen Vorschlag. Wenn Sie recht haben, sind Sie meine Braut. Sie haben doch nicht recht. Alma: Ich will es vor einem Zeugen haben.
Fabian: Ich werde sofort das Gerücht verbreiten.
Alma: Ein Gerücht hilft mir nicht. Da kann ich auf kein gebrochenes Eheversprechen klagen. 201
Fabian: Ich erkiàre es ôffentlich (61).
Clearly, the streetwise Alma has a different conception of marriage
than her still romantic friend, Berta. She views marriage as a
matter of pure exchange, and as such demands something for herself:
“‘Das geht nicht so elnfach. Ich müsste auch was davon haben’” (60-
61). This reduction of “love” and marriage to entirely economic
means is represented by the photograph in two ways. First, there is
the concept of the photograph itself as a com m odity.And secondly,
there is the bridge which Fabian decides to let stand as the backdrop
for their photograph (“‘Die lessen wir stehn als Hintergrund’” 62).
The bridge, as something which was paid for by the town in both
monetary and emotional terms (Berta), is an objective depiction of the reality behind Fabian and Alma’s relationship and it is therefore
only fitting that it and the couple be framed together in a form that
is itself being produced for sale.
Clearly, the very photographs that create the appearance of an
ideal tableau ending to the 1928 version of Pioniere in Ingolstadt
are also the means by which this facade is most efficiently
undermined. Upon close examination, it becomes obvious for
instance that the photographs presented here—like those in the two
14 This idea, while alluded to here, is much more thoroughly developed in the two later versions of the play. 202 later versions—are completely stripped of emotion. Missing are any signs of the sorrow or joy that should accompany the union of strength found represented in a tableau:
Die dramatische Spannung, die das Stuck zusammenhàlt, beruht vor allem auf Szenen eines demonstrativen Charakters, Szenen der Reuedarstellung, des Tugendbeweises, des Liebesbeweises, Szenen vorzugsweise aber auch der rührenden Zurschaustellung des eigenen Gefühis, eine Demonstration, die immer auch als ein Triumph der Sittlichkeit, der gegen alle Widrigkeiten und Anfechtungen des Lebens sich siegreich behauptenden Tugend erscheint. Versohnt versammelte Familie, Rûhrung und Trànen als Indizien der glücklich bestandenen Tugendprobe [. . .] (W. Berger 135).
The camera, as a machine, is a product of the technical age and is
itself devoid of all emotion. It was therefore an ideal tool for
photographers of the 1920's who were primarily interested in
developing an “objective” form of representation:
After the previous fashion for idealization, with its concealment of technique, the photography in the 1920s celebrated the pervasive influence of technology through a new objective style. The altered relation to ‘reality’ of that time expressed itself as an optimistic belief in the technical possibilities of the medium, which in turn changed the mode of perception itself. Wolfgang Born’s essay in 1929 illustrates how the ideals of Neue Sachlichkeit were shared by the exponents of the ‘New Photography’: ‘This discovery of reality is the mission of photography . . . its essential nature is deeply in harmony with our present day concept of the world, its method of recording objectively is appropriate to the intellectual approach of a generation of engineers’ (Eskildsen 111). 203
For FleiBer, the playwright, the camera becomes an ideal mode of expressing the true nature of human relationships as she observes them. Men and women are brought and kept together by forces that are often far removed from love. And while love should offer a means of achieving humanity (Diderot’s tableau), it rarely gets a chance here. As she states in “Über die Pioniere”: “Ausweglos sind die Dienstmàdchen, sie konnen sich nicht gegen die Ausbeutung wehren. Ihr Ausweg zur Menschwerdung bin ware die Liebe, aber sie fàngt erst gar nicht richtig an” (517). It is a theme that she was to develop with increasing clarity and even brutality in the next two versions of the same play.
1929 Versionis
The two tableaux which FleiBer creates in the final scene of the 1929 version of Pioniere in Ingolstadt appear at first glance—like those in the original edition—to offer a happy ending that would stand in accordance with Diderot’s tradition. A photographer who appears just as the soldiers have completed
15 It is certainly significant that FleiBer (with Brecht’s help) emphasized the element of photography in this version of the play by showing picture postcards of the town before and during the Berlin première: "Die Kostüme datierten aus dem Jahre 1910. Es wurde mit Inschrift, Film und kleinstadtischen Photos gearbeitet. Caspar Neher schuf ein Bühnenbild von transparentem Reiz" (FleiBer, Zwei Premieren 477). The audience is thus presented first with an idealistic view of the town and is then allowed to look “behind the scenes” to see a true representation of life there. 204 building the bridge and are about to march out of town, offers to take pictures that can be kept as souvenirs:
Meine Herren! Sicher werden auch Sie den Wunsch verspüren, ein kleines Souvenir an den Aufenthalt der Pioniere in Ingolstadt mitzunehmen. Stellen Sie sich auf, meine Herren, meine Preise sind eine nie wiederkehrende Gelegenheit. Sechs Bilder in Kabinettform kosten nur 5 Mark, das ganze Dutzend 8 Mark, vom Unteroffizier abwarts die Half te (221 )J®
In the following moments, his camera captures the images first of
Karl and Berta and then of Fabian and Alma. Since none of these characters moves (“Wenn Sie sich nicht ruhig verhalten, kann ich nicht photographieren” 221) or speaks after posing for the pictures, these are the last impressions left with the audience. Karl and
Berta stand harmoniously side-by-side and Fabian and Alma, soon to be united in wedlock, are brought together symbolically in their own tableau. On one level, then, it seems that FleiBer, in bringing together two pairs of lovers and fixing their images in time and space, is affirming the notion of reconciliation.
A closer examination, however, reveals that the action of the entire play, as well as the depiction of the final scene, undermines
16 Such traveling photographers were a common sight in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: “Ja, Einfachheit und Kürze der notigen Verrichtungen lieBen den UnikatprozeB, mit dem sich Sofortbilder herstellen lieBen, fur eine ambulante Gewerbepraxis besonders geeignet erscheinen. Und dies um so mehr, als sich die standige Einrichtung eines Atelierbetriebes in kleineren Stadten oder gar auf dem Land noch nicht lohnte. ‘Wanderdaguerreotypisten’ oder ‘Daguerréotypistes voyageurs’—wie sie sich gern vornehmer titulierten—suchten ihre Kundschaft an deren Wohnsitz auf (Hoerner 28). 205 the possibility of any such reconciliation. The union of Fabian, who has been characterized throughout the course of the play as an incompetent, comic male, and Alma, a prostitute, can hardly be read as positive. There is no indication whatsoever that these characters have made any significant development that would allow them to form a meaningful bond. For Fabian, this appears as only the last of his many fruitless attempts to live up to his father’s image of manhood. Only in the photograph can he assume a “Mannsbild” (201).
Likewise, Alma’s “insight” in the tenth scene comes much too quickly to be taken seriously:
Nein, Herr Benke. Das 1st kein schones Leben. Die Herren befriedigen nur ihre Sinnlichkeit. Wenn sie befriedigt ist, werfen sie einen weg. Ich mache das einfach nicht mehr mit. Immer dieses Liebesleben. Nie wieder, Herr Benke, schlaf ich mit einem Mann, und wenn Sie mich mit ihm zusammenbinden” (2 1 7 ).
Indeed, she then undermines her own credibility by immediately initiating a sexual encounter with Fabian. The two lovers conclude their interlude in the barn just in time to have their picture taken and announce their engagement. Their union becomes ridiculous and is, as such, a reflection of the untenability of the entire system. For these are the only two characters in the play for whom the male- female marketplace economy, described here by Kassens and 206
Toteberg, actually functions;
Angebot und Nachfrage bestlmmen den Wettbewerb, dem man sich zu stellen hat und den man mehr oder weniger erfolgreich besteht. Liebesbeziehungen werden nach dem Marktgesetz geregelt, das sagt Karl Berta ins Gesicht: ‘Heut muB ein Màdel sich was gefallen lassen, weil es wenig Manner gibt. Wir geben an, wie was gemacht werden muB, GottseidankI’ (58)
It is therefore appropriate that the bridge, as a symbol of these same principles on a purely economic level, should again provide the backdrop for their photograph:
Fabian: Einen Moment, Willi. Die Brücke lassen wir stehen als Hintergrund. Ich lasse mich namlich mit meiner Braut photographieren. Hier meine Braut 2 ( 2 1).
It is clear that their union, a result of economic necessity on Alma’s part and of a need on Fabian’s part to prove himself as a man in the face of society, has its common ground not in true emotions but in mere physical satisfaction. The silence imposed on them by the camera becomes representative of both Fabian’s shallowness throughout the play (‘“Mir fallt immer nichts zum sagen ein’” 191,
17 It was common practice for the person being photographed to request that certain items of special, personal signifcance be included in the photograph: "Die seit dem 18. Jahrhundert entwickelte dingorientierte Wirklichkeitssicht auBert sich hier in aufschluBreicher Weise. Offnete diese den Blick fur die Eigenwertigkeit der Dinge, so vermogen die Dinge jetzt ihre Eigenwertigkeit auf den Menschen zu übertragen. Deshalb prasentiert auch die Familie Keuchen in ihrer hauslichen Umgebung, ganz im BewuBtsein ihrer wohlhabenden Gediegenheit. Allés 1st mit Bedacht zurechtgerückt, um, wie Hamann zu diesem Bildnis bemerkt, ‘dem Moment gerecht zu werden, da seine Existenz im Bild historisch werden soil'” (Peters 69). It is certainly telling that although this is supposedly a “family” portrait, they choose to have not a house or garden but rather a bridge (an economic symbol devoid of all feeling or perhaps an ironic image of failed connections) as a backdrop. 207
218) and the empty sexual moment experienced time and again by
Alma in her various relationships (‘“Sehen Sie, Herr Benke, die
Hauptsache ist, daB man nicht so viel dabei redet.’Ab in den
Schuppen” 220). In addition, their upcoming marriage, typically a positive comic ending in that it insures the continuation of the family unit and social order (Schmidt 13), takes on negative implications when one considers that FleiBer presents in the play only one family after which they could model themselves— Benke’s.
The way in which this narrow-minded patriarch dominates his household could hardly have been viewed by FleiBer as a possibility worth perpetuating in a positive way through a tableau. The final image of Fabian and Alma is thus an absurd one, presented not as a viable option for resolving gender issues but rather as a revelation of the social mechanisms that stand behind the facade of the middle-class family. Stritzke’s positive evaluation of this union must, then, in the final analysis be rejected:
Er [Fabian] findet seine Frau: Alma. Die von den Pionieren Enttauschte und sexuell Ausgebeutete nimmt sich seiner an und gelangt so, als Braut des Sohnes der ‘Herrschaft’, doch noch zum gewünschten gesellschaftlichen Aufstieg. Von ihr fOhlt Fabian sich verstanden, sie gewahrt ihm eine mutterliche Fürsorge, die er wohl seit dem Tod seiner Mutter vermiBte (3 7 ). 208
Like the relationship between Fabian and Alma, the union of
Karl and Berta in the photograph at the end of the play is undermined through an understanding of the events that lead up to it. The appearance of the photographer as he quotes off prices for various pictures is an obvious reminder that the snapshot of Berta and Karl is to become a commodity, something to be bought and sold just as women have been colonized and treated as sale objects throughout the play. gy buying “das groBte Format” (221) for Berta, Karl does not buy her satisfaction or leave the audience with the impression that he is, after all, concerned with her fate; rather, he leaves her with the largest possible reminder of the emptiness of their relationship. Reality appears here in blown-up, larger than life proportions— now more easily recognizable than ever. Karl grants her the original desperate desire to have him to herself (“Um gar nichts ist mir angst Karl, als daB dir eine andere gefallt” 199), but
18 A number of critics have analyzed photographs in economic terms. Sontag notes: “Photography is acquisition in several forms. In its simplest form, we have in a photograph surrogate possession of a cherished person or thing, a possession which gives photographs some of the character of unique objects. Through photographs, we also have a consumer's relation to events, both to events which are part of our experience and to those which are not—a distinction between types of experience that such habit-forming consumership blurs” (155-56). And Allan Sekula writes: “It goes almost without saying that photography emerged and proliferated as a mode of communication within the larger context of a developing capitalistworld order. No previous economy constituted a world order in the same sense. Inherently expansionist, capitalism seeks ultimately to unify the globe in a single economic system of commodity production and exchange” (16). He continues: “By the turn of the century, then, photography stood ready to play a central role in the development of a culture centered on the mass marketing of mass- produced commodities” (21). 209 only in a perverted form, i.e., on a piece of paper. The image, staged by Karl, becomes, like many photographs of the time, a picture of how he feels she should be seen: “Das Bild projiziert das mannliche
Wunschbild vom liebesbereiten Weib schlechthin” (Kaufhold 73).
Karl's indifferent attitude towards the entire relationship is made poignantly clear in his last words to Berta before the arrival of the photographer: “Wenn Menschen auseinandergehen, dann sagen sie auf
Wiedersehen!” (221) Karl uses the opportunity presented by the photographer in two ways, neither of which supports a reading of their final appearance together as a positive moment of reconciliation. Like many other soldiers who want to have their pictures taken with their “girls”, Karl feels a need to appear
“decent” in front of his friends. It is a gesture that, as the Sergeant reminds him, should be made: “Na, Lettner, einen Anstand werden
Sie doch haben” (221). In addition, Karl sees this as an opportunity to appease, and more importantly, silence Berta.
This is, however, only the final and most violent step in a long process of suppressing her voice and destroying her illusions. As early as the third scene, Karl begins to strip Berta of her romantic language:
Berta: Die Sterne scheinen drauf. In deine Augen scheinen sie auch. 210
Karl: PaB auf und red nicht.
Berta: Karl, 1st das schon?
Karl: Jetzt her" ich auf, weil ich nicht mehr mag. So laB ich mich nicht ansingen (199).
Immediately before her defloration, Berta makes what McGowan refers to as her “letzten Romantisierungsversuch” (“Kette und
SchuB” 20):
Karl: Komm her. Also, was ist nachher mit der Jungfernschaft?
Berta: Karl, ich hab sie bewahrt.
Karl: Das hàtte es nicht gebraucht.
Berta: Mit dir kennt man sich nicht aus. Ich geb’s auf.
Karl: Hast du Furcht, Berta? Ich bin doch ein Kavalier!
Berta: Heute sollst du recht haben, weil es gleich ist, aber das andere Mai gibst nach.
Karl: Einmal muBt du nachgeben und einmal muB ich nachgeben.
Berta: Doch nicht hier? Ich hab mich frei gemacht fur die Nacht.
Karl: Tut mir leid. Ich bin beim Militar. Ich kann nur einen Moment weg.
Berta: Mir ist ganz schlecht.
Karl: Das will ich allés nicht wissen. Das Weib hat zu schweigen, wenn es genommen wird (219). 211
Karl, as a representative of the patriarchal structure, gradually deadens her voice until it is ultimately eliminated in the final scene; Berta, as she is represented in the photograph with Karl, has lost her voice entirely and the way is thus paved for the male authoritarian voice, in the figure of the Sergeant, to make the last speech of the play. In this final image, Berta’s earlier insistence that she is ‘“nicht wie die anderen’” (194) is refuted once and for all. This supposedly personally meaningful photograph looks just like everybody else’s, and her individuality is lost in the masses:
Da das Individuum, der Einzelne, nur im Wechselverhaltnis mit der Gesellschaft, der Vielheit, begriffen und definiert werden konnte, waren die individualisierenden Bildnisse naturgemàB nicht singular, wie das angestrebt und behauptet worden ist, sondern überindividuelle Bildsetzungen, die gegen den Typus des Individuums konvergierten (Kaufhold 106).
Like the tableau of Fabian and Alma, the photograph of Karl and Berta only appears to represent the re-establishment of order in a positive scene of reconciliation. In actuality, however, the tableau undermines the tradition it first seems to support by showing quite clearly “that the restoration of order actually depends on the marginalization of the traditionally powerless: women, lower classes, other races or nationalities, socially unacceptable 212
individuals” (Schmidt 28)J9
In the 1929 version of Pioniere in Ingolstadt. the photographs
taken at the end of the play are only the final step in a long process
of illumination. This is demonstrated most clearly through FleiBer’s
use of light imagery in describing the relationship between Karl and
Berta. The two first meet and speak to each other in a night scene.
They are cloaked in darkness and Berta must ask Karl to light a
match so that she can see his face: ‘“Magst ein Zündhôlzel aufzünden, daB ich dich sehe?”’ (194) Here, by the flickering light of a match, her illusions about romantic love are still possible.
Slowly, however, she is stripped of these illusions: Benke discusses her as if she were a piece of property^o, and Karl teaches her that
19 Sekula sees a clear connection between photography and the power to oppress: “Above all, in momentarily isolating this historically specific ideology and practice of representation we shouldn't forget that it gives concrete form to— thus lending both truth and pleasure to— other discursively borne ideologies: of ‘the family,' of 'sexuality,' of 'consumption' and production,' of 'government,' of ‘technology,’ of nature,' of communications,' of ‘history,' and so on. Herein lies a major aspect of the affiliation of photography with power. And as in all culture that grows from a system of oppressions, the discourses that carry the greater force in everyday life are those that emanate from power, that give voice to an institutional authority" (15).
20 Benke suggests that Fabian, who is having difficulty finding a girl, “practice" on their servant Berta since she is, in a sense, already trapped in their house: “‘Wie stellst du dich denn an, Bub? Das Dienstmàdchen hat man im Haus, das ist doch das bequemste, das ist doch nicht wie bei ‘ner Fremden. Ich mocht nicht wissen, was du mir sonst fur eine herbringst. MuBt immer wissen, was du willst, Fabian. Gehst einmal bin zu ihr auf den Gang. . .'" (191). He later further objectifies Berta when he speaks of her and a car on equivalent terms: “Ich kaufe auch kein Auto fur einen wie du bist. Wenn ich kein richtiges Mannsbild von Sohn habe, dann kaufe ich auch kein Auto. Nicht einmal einem Madel wird er Herr und will einem Auto Herr werden" (202). 213 deception rather than truth must form the foundation of male- female relationships: ‘“Ihr relzt einen selber dazu. Wenn man von einem Mann was will, darf man nicht zeigen, was er mit einem machen kann’” (205). Even Fabian, in their brief meeting, threatens her with the notion of bourgeois morality and attempts— although in his usual comic manner—to achieve domination over her:
Fabian: Schau, Berta, jetzt bist du doch keine reine Jungfrau mehr.
Berta: Warum bin ich keine Jungfrau mehr?
Fabian: Weil du keine bist. Wenn sich ein Made! einmal so welt einlaBt, dann 1st das Madel hin.
Berta: DaB ich keine Jungfrau bin, das hàtte ich nie von mir gedacht.
Fabian: Weine nur (212).
Finally, in a scene that seems to be a set-up for the photograph that will soon be taken, Berta sees reality in a way that cannot be denied.
After their brief sexual encounter, Berta and Karl are isolated, as if in a studio. As in their first meeting, it is night. This time, however, the match has become a spotlight and reality is laid bare:
{Berta und Karl kommen ins Licht ). {Pioniere ab ).
Karl: Was 1st dir jetzt wieder nicht recht?
Berta: War das allés? 214
Karl: Warum? Hat dir was gefehit?
Berta: Ich meine halt, wir haben was Wichtiges ausgelassen. Die Liebe haben wir ausgelassen.
Karl: Eine Liebe muB keine dabei sein.
Berta: Das ist mir jetzt ganz arg.
Karl: Nimm dich doch zusammen. Tu wenigstens so, als wenn es dir recht ware, wie die anderen auch.
Berta: So kann ich nicht leben.
Karl: Oder ware es dir lieber, wenn ich dich aniügen würde?
Berta: Ja, luge mich an, dann ist mir leichter (220).
These are clearly the words that resound behind the images captured
in the photograph. The strong light directed on the pair exposes their relationship in such a way that it can be caught by the camera.
The viewer of the picture thus sees not reconciliation between the
two partners, but rather a relationship based on the belief that
women are commodities; they exist not in and of themselves but are
instead objects to be used and discarded by men.
1968 Version
In her 1968 reworking of Pioniere in Ingolstadt. FleiBer uses
tableaux created through photographs in a way that is similar to
that of the earlier versions. Clearly, the changes she makes in the 215 final scene are representative of her attempt to give the play a broader social basis, to go beyond an examination of male-female relationships:
Das Problem stellte sich, die historischen Konstellationen des Stückes in ihren Strukturen deutlich zu machen, das Verhaltnis von gesellschaftlichen Ursachen und Wirkungen zu beschreiben. [. . .] Es kam ihr darauf an, die Figuren in ihren gesellschaftlichen Gebundenheiten darzustellen (Stritzke 75).
Such a revision had, however, a twofold effect. On the one hand, it weakened the play, and certainly the power of its ending, by destroying the sharp focus that was so characteristic of the 1929 version. But on the other hand, her expansion of certain episodes, including that with the photographer, works to clarify many of the ideas only hinted at earlier.21 It is significant for instance that
FleiBer, although also ending this play with two tableaux, exchanges that of Fabian and Alma for a group photograph of the soldiers.
Fabian's greatly diminished importance in this final edition is thus reflected in his absence at the conclusion. FleiBer turns her attention instead to the arrangement of the soldiers on stage:
21 Schmidt sees the value in some of the changes FleiBer made to the play (“FleiBer’s clarification of plot and motivation is at times indeed a significant improvement” 140), but ultimately views the 1929 version as the better of the two: “By converting the play into a demonstration of what she had since learned about military and civilian life in Ingolstadt, she stripped it of some of its greatest assets. Version 3 is primarily denotative, lacking the connotative, gestic openness of V2 [Version 2] as well as its richinterplay of serious conflict and comic exaggeration. Although V3 retains the Berta-Karl relationship with minor alterations, it obscures its centrality with extraneous subplots” (142). 216
Fotograf: So, stellen Sie sich auf, meine Herren, Sie gruppieren sich zwanglos, die groBen Herren nach hinten—
{Pioniere stellen sich auf).
Die hinteren stehen, die mittleren knien, die vorderen liegen, damit ich alle ins Bild bringe, damit jeder Charakterkopf draufkommt (127).
Once again, the tableau here functions to undermine the positive picture that it projects upon first glance. The solidarity among men supposedly depicted here is only illusory, for the way in which the soldiers pose—with those of higher rank standing in the back— reveals the “Unterdriickungsmechanismen innerhalb einer militàrischen Hiérarchie" (Stritzke 32). The structure behind the
Sergeant’s comment to Fabian about having to take the blame for the stolen wood is crystallized in the picture as a visual image:
[. . .] In solchen Fallen wird der General ein Stier, und der Major wird ein Stier, und der Hauptmann wird ein noch groBerer Stier. Je mehr nach unten, desto reiBender der Zorn, und desto mehr wirkt es sich aus. Der Druck geht nach unten9 1 ( ).2 2
But the tableau reveals more than just the soldiers' relationships to each other. What FleiBer once called the “Welt ohne Weiblichkeit”
22 Kaufhold sees in the group photographs of the early twentieth century a sign of democratization: “Von Demokratisierung ist selbst da zu sprechen, wo nicht einzeine Vertreter des Kleinbürgertums und Proletariats fotografiert worden sind, sondern Gruppen, wie in einer von Paul Wutke um 1900 aufgenommenen Fotografie, die stellvertretend fur die vielen StrafSen- und Milieufotografien dieser Jahre steht" (182). Here, however, both the subject (soldiers) and the way in which they are posed turn this concept on its head. 217
(qtd. in McGowan, Marlelulse FleiBer 55), also has an impact on other parts of society: “Gerade in der Kaserne überlebt heute noch eine
Doppelmoral: die Frau hat sich aus ‘Mannersachen’ herauszuhalten, andererseits jedoch als Objekt eben dieser Mannersachen herzuhalten” (McGowan, Marieluise FleiBer 54). In not allowing women to appear in such a final picture, FleiBer is thus showing in the clearest manner possible society’s suppression of the other—in this case the woman.
The second tableau which FleiBer arranges in the 1968 version, namely that of Berta andK o r l,2 3 remains much the same as it appeared in the earlier edition. There are, however, some changes in the scene which put a slightly different perspective on its final effect. Berta becomes here, more than ever, an object that is silenced through the acts of m e n . 2 4 The spotlight, which was previously used to reveal Berta’s final devastating realization that her relationship with Karl was based on nothing more than the
23 Schmidt explains the name change: “Fieisser used the Bavarian ‘Korl’ in V I [Version 1] and V3. That a Prussian soldier acquires a Bavarian name and speaks Bavarian-inflected German shows to what extent the play is conceived from the perspective of an Ingolstadt resident. Korl' becomes Karl' in the Berlin version (V2)" (175).
24 Korl here justifies his treatment of her by arguing that somewhere he must find an outlet for the pressures exerted on him at work: ‘“Den ganzen Tag muG ich mich schikanieren lassen, bei den Weibern lasse ich mich aus. Das muB eine einsehn'" (111). The woman is thus presented as occupying the lowest spot in the social pecking order. 218 satisfaction of a physical drive, now works even more brutally:
{Er [Korl] schlagt mit ihr in ein Gebdsch. Die Pioniere arbeiten welter, es dauert eine gewisse Zeit. Sie singen: Was ndtzet mir ein schones Mà-àdchen, wenn andere drin spazierengehn? )
Rosskopf {schadenfroh ): Scheinwerfer nach links.
{Berta und Kori kommen durch den Busch ins Licht. Die Pioniere johien und pfeifen ).
Korl: Nehmt euer kindisches Licht weg, verdammt.
Rosskopf: Was willst du, es ist bioB der Neid.
Münsterer: Ach wo, das machen wir doch jeden Tag.
{Sie nehmen das Licht weg ) (126).
Berta’s iliusions of romantic love could not have been destroyed more violently; the illuminated image which stands behind her photograph with Korl is here no longer even her words of recognition, but rather herself as public sexual object. In this light,
Korl’s gesture of paying for the picture becomes even more degrading than his request in the 1929 version for the largest format. He literally buys hers ile n c e : ^ ^
Rosskopf: Na, Lettner, du wirst dich verewigen lassen mit deiner Verflossenen, soviel Anstand wirst du noch haben. Dann hat sie dich auf dem Papier.
25 This suggests another use of the photograph, namely blackmail. The Feldwebel also touches on this when Alma confronts him and asks him to pay her for the previous evening's favors. He denies that It was actually him and demands proof: “‘Da müssen Sie schon mit Fotos arbeiten, wenn Sie elnen erpressen”’ (107). 219
Korl: Komm, Berta. {Er stellt sich mit ihr in Positur ). Sie müssen das Bild an die Dame schicken.
Berta: Berta Kobold, hier, DollstraBe siebzehn.
Fotograf: Ich kassiere sofort.
{Berta will Geld herausholen ).
Korl: Sie kassieren bei mir. {Er zahit ) (128).
Once again, FleiBer clearly employs the tableau in order to expose the mechanisms behind Korl and Berta's relationship. True
reconciliation can take place only between two subjects; it cannot
be the result of the suppression of one individual by another into submission. Although FleiBer highlights the notions of woman as commodity and sexual object somewhat more obviously and brutally in the final scene of the 1968 version than in the 1928 or 1929 versions, the overall result is virtually the same: the happy end remains an illusion.
In drawing out the final scene, FleiBer was also able to clarify and expand upon the use of photography as a destructive force.
Although the sheer length and repetitiveness of the 1968 ending would most likely make it difficult to stage, it is effective insofar as it brings forth several aspects of the photography theme that could only be hinted at in the earlier, more condensed, versions.
Here, for instance, the concept of photography as a business rather 220 than an art form becomes a primary focus. Immediately after having their group picture taken, the soldiers line up one by one to leave their names and addresses and to pay the photographer. Benjamin viewed the rise of the career photographer, such as the one depicted in this scene, as a primary cause of the downfall of photography as art:
SchlieBlich aber drangen von überallher Geschaftsleute in den Stand der Berufsphotographer ein, und als dann spaterhin die Negativretusche, mit welcher der schlechte Maler sich an der Photographie ràchte, allgemein üblich wurde, setzte ein jaher Verfall des Geschmacks ein. Das war die Zeit, da die Photographiealben sich zu füllen begannen (Kleine Geschichte 5 3 -5 4 ).
It is obvious throughout that this photographer has no concern with creating something artistic; his goal is to sell as many pictures as he can as quickly as he can. All mystery and sense of illusion often associated with portrait photographs is thus removed. The snapshot of Korl and Berta becomes just one of many; one can imagine that the same scene will be repeated in the next town the soldiers visit— just as their treatment of women as commodities will be repeated.
Another significant, although seemingly minor addition to the
1968 version, draws the audience’s attention to the important role that the eye plays in photography. As the soldiers stand posed facing the photographer, he shouts a final warning: “Schauen Sie 221
nicht In den Apparat” (127). Benjamin comments on this phenomenon
and its effects in his essay “Ciber einige Motive beiBaudelaire”:^®
Was an der Daguerreotypie als das Unmenschliche, man konnte sagen Todliche muBte empfunden warden, war das (ûbrigens anhaltende) Hereinblicken in den Apparat, da doch der Apparat das Bild des Menschen aufnimmt, ohne ihm dessen Blick zuriickzugeben. Dem Blick wohnt aber die Erwartung inne, von dem erwidert zu warden, dem er sich schenkt (461).27
In other words, there can be no illusions surrounding photographs
because they destroy the aura around their subjects (Benjamin,
“Liber einige Motive” 461). The reality behind the tableaux as they appear in the snapshots is completely exposed to those viewing them. McGowan also refers to the importance of eyes in FleiBer’s works, although from a somewhat different perspective:
Das wohl auffalligste sprachliche Motiv ihres [FleiBers] Werkes hat in diesen religiosen Schuidgefühlen seinen
26 See also Kaufhold: "Auffallend viele der portratierten Manner und Frauen blicken in den freien Raum, oder aber am Bildbetrachter vorbei. Das schloB den Blickkontakt mit den Bildrezipienten aus und bewahrte die Dargestellten davor, sich mit jedem gemein zu machen. Gemein machte man sich nur mit denen, die sich aufgrund gleicher AuBerlichkeiten wie Kleidung, Statussymbolen, Habitus mit ihnen gleichstellen konnten, und bei denen somit ein schichtenspezifischer Konnex gegeben war" (101-02).
27 Benjamin also comments on this phenomenon in his “Kleine Geschichte der Photographie": “Darum sind wohl auch die Modelle eines Hill nicht weit von der Wahrheit entfernt gewesen, wenn ihnen das Phànomen der Photographie’ noch ‘ein groBes geheimnisvolles Erlebnis’ war; mag das für sie auch nichts als das BewuBtsein gewesen sein, vor einem Apparat zu stehen, der in kürzester Zeit ein Bild der sichtbaren Umwelt erzeugen konnte, das so lebendig und wahrhaft wirkte wie die Natur selbst.’ Man hat von der Kamera Hills gesagt, daB sie diskrete Zurückhaltung wahre. Seine Modelle ihrerseits sind aber nicht weniger reserviert; sie behalten eine gewisse Scheu vor dem Apparat, und der Leitsatz eines spateren Photographen aus der Blütezeit: ‘Sieh nie in die Kamera’ konnte aus ihrem Verhalten abgeleitet sein ” (51). 222
Ursprung: das der Augen. Die Schuld des einzelnen schaut unleugbar aus seinen Augen heraus, und er kann sie zudem vor der Allgegenwart fremder Augen—der Mitmenschen, der gesellschaftlichen oder metaphysischen Kontrollinstanzen— nicht verbergen ^Marieluise FleiBer 19).
The guilt referred to here as being visible in the eyes can be related back to Benjamin’s comment on photography as an exposer of guilt
(Kleine Geschichte 64). Through the medium of photography, FleiBer captures these eyes and, in a sense, the guilt of a system, for eternity. She thereby strips the final images of any positive notion of reconciliation, leaving the audience instead with a clear view of the social and psychological mechanisms that control gender
relations. In the final scene the audience is indeed led “zu einer spiralartig gesteigerten Clbersicht, welche es erlaubt, die gesellschaftlichen Bedingungen wie mit Rôntgenaugen zu durchschauen” (Buck 49).
Conclusion
In her 1928, 1929, and 1968 versions of Pioniere in Ingolstadt.
Marieluise FleiBer thus invokes the eighteenth-century dramatic
traditions of the tableau andbûrgerliches Trauerspiel in order to
undermine the system for which they stood. By capturing her
tableaux through the eye of a camera, she presents the audience with 223 a new view of reality. Although her dramas offer no solutions, it would be misleading to state, as Cocalis does, that FleiBer never really questions the patriarchal order (202), for in the act of exposing the mechanisms behind a system she is necessarily casting some doubt on the tradition's validity. The sense of permanence captured in the final photographs of all three versions is surely not an indication that FleiBer viewed this as an order that should be preserved and perpetuated. Rather, it was an expression of her own hopelessness at being trapped in an unjust system that she felt could not be overcome: “Pioniere in Ingolstadt ist ein Stuck Ciber die
Ausweglosigkeit der kleinen Leute” (FleiBer, “Ciber ‘Pioniere’” 517).
Clearly, she reveals the traditional withdrawal into the family—previously the final place of refuge from the evils raging outside—to be an impossibility. The family is merely society and, therefore suppression, on a smaller scale. In the final analysis, then, FleiBer’s photographs express an extreme frustration at being confined within an order that one can at once recognize as untenable yet still be unable to escape. Conclusion
The invention of photography, a result of scientific and
chemical experimentation and investigation, came to have a profound
effect on society at large. It changed the way we view ourselves,
others, and the world. Consequently, it also transformed our
concepts of art and the function of art in society. The questions it
raised and which it continues to raise revolve around fundamental
human concerns: love, death, the reliability of images, and the ever-
changing distinction between public and private spheres. Because these have always been themes basic to literary texts as well, it seems only natural that authors would begin to integrate elements of photography into their works as a new way of coming to terms—whether it be positively or negatively—with these issues in a quickly changing world.
In addition, photographs seemed to represent for many authors a new means of criticizing, or at least questioning the validity of, certain societal structures. Literature and technology, rather than merely struggling against one another, found ways of forming
224 225
meaningful partnerships. Their goals, as pointed out in an essay
conversation between Raoul Hausmann and Werner Graft, were
perhaps more similar than one might first expect:
G: So what do you want to say about art and technology? H: That both are means, closely related, for clarifying the position of man in the world of things. Technology and art help clarify the possibilities held out by nature for expanding our physical capacities and our senses (195).
Two realms that were traditionally viewed as antipodes (literature with its appeal to the mind and soul, and technology with its focus on the material, physical world)i were thus found to have some common ground as well. The alliance of literature with the camera was made even more attractive by virtue of the fact that photography was not only a representative of technology but also an art form in and of itself. Its inclusion in novels, dramas, and poems
1 In his book The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America. Leo Marx examines this conflict between literary ideals and the rise of technology in some detail. As the title suggests, he deals primarily with American texts but the arguments he makes are of general interest and could, in many instances, be applied to works from other traditions as well. He particularly focuses on technology as a disruptive force in literature: “[. . .] again and again our writers have introduced the same overtones, depicting the machine as invading the peace of an enclosed space, a world set apart, or an area somehow made to evoke a feeling of encircled felicity. [. . .] Most important is the sense of the machine as a sudden, shocking intruder upon a fantasy of idyllic satisfaction. It invariably is associated with crude, masculine aggressiveness in contrast with the tender, feminine, and submissive attitudes traditionally attached to the landscape” (29). Another valuable study on technology's impact on society is Arnold Gehlen’s Die Seele im technischen Zeitalter. While this work does not deal specifically with literature its insights are useful to a general understanding of the problems many authors of the time were trying to come to terms with. 226
could thus help authors ask new, more reflective, questions about the nature of art itself.
Photography in Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer: A Summary
As the Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer texts each demonstrate,
the possibilities for the use of photography within literary works
proved just as great in practice as they had in theory. Each of the
works has a distinctly different style and message, yet each is able
to integrate “literary” photographs into its narrative in ways that
are powerful and effective. In my examination of Die Kassette. for
example, the photographs are shown to operate on two levels. First,
within the action of the play itself, they provide the characters with
a means of creating and then maintaining the facades of what they
perceive to be normal relationships. Krull uses Seidenschnur’s
photographs of Elsbeth to appear dominating and in control while
Elsbeth herself looks to the very same pictures for evidence of a
beauty that could rival Fanny’s. At the same time, the photographer
employs his camera as a tool of seduction, a means of controlling
women and bolstering his own reputation as a romantic. But because
the characters are so entirely consumed with their efforts at
deception they fail to recognize their own play-acting. And it is 227
here that the photographs’ second level of meaning becomes clear, for through them the audience sees what the characters cannot. The photographs give insight into the empty reality behind the facades and reveal how distant these characters actually are from any sort of truly personal contact or experience. They act as masks that are simultaneously instrumental in their own “unmasking.”^ The fact that they are essentially the only medium for communication among the characters serves to demonstrate just how meaningless these conversations really are. This overall thematic importance of the photographs in Die Kassette is emphasized on a more subtle level through Sternheim’s distinctive writing style. The reality behind
(indeed, within) the images created by Seidenschnur is mirrored in
Sternheim’s reduction of language to its bare necessities. His writing is sharply focused, descriptive, and matter-of-fact. In short, it has all of the “reliable” qualités of the photographs it describes.
2 This quality of the photograph is summed up effectively in a quote from Italo Calvino describing a photographer at work: “‘He freed himself from the cloth and straightened up again. He was going about it all wrong. That expression, that accent, that secret he seemed on the very point of capturing in her face, was something that drew him into the quicksands of moods, humors, psychology: he, too, was one of those who pursue life as it flees, a hunter of the unattainable, like the takers of snapshots. He had to follow the opposite path: aim at a portrait completely on the surface, evident, unequivocal, that did not elude conventional appearance, the stereotype, the mask. The mask, being first of all a social, historical product, contains more truth than any image claiming to be ‘true’; it bears a quantity of meanings that will gradually be revealed ' (qtd. in Hunter 115). 228
A close study of Der Zauberberg led my examination of the role of photography in literature in somewhat different directions from those presented in the Sternheim drama. This was due partially to the non-traditional nature of many of the novel’s “photographs”
(stereographs, x-rays, and visions with photographic qualities) as well as to the highly philosophical, reflective character of the work itself. Like Sternheim, Mann clearly saw in the photograph a complex form of expression that could be utilized to lay bare successive and increasingly complicated layers of meaning.^ Mann, however, turns the experience of the photographs and their analogs into an intensely personal one, for they accompany Hans Castorp on his search for meaning behind the concepts of time, death, and— ultimately— identity.
As Mann states in his speech “The Making of The Magic
Mountain”, it is the writer’s aim to capture past, present, and future in a single moment—a moment that defines a person’s life, work, and personality (718). Such a goal clearly requires a motif that is both linear and circular; it must be able to maintain the present while
3 Another similarity to Sternheim is the fact that Mann too uses photography stylistically— something that is not immediately apparent because their styles are so divergent. While Sternheim's writing touches on photography through its nominalism, its seeming limitation to a stark representation of facts and nothing more, Mann's style is photographic in its cold complexity. His narratives are distanced; they strive for an objectivity similar to that captured by the mechanical eye of a camera. 229
never losing hold of the past or sight of the future. The photograph
achieves this in remarkably efficient fashion: it continually
reminds the present of the past by depicting that which is absent
and at the same time points to the future by reminding us of the
inevitability of our own deaths. This moment of simultaneity (the
“magical nunc stan^) that Mann is striving for is reached in the
novel through a series of tightly interwoven patterns or recurring
images, the most powerful of which is the vision or dream. These visions are related to photography not only on a theoretical level (in that they act as a camera that lays bare the soul and preserves these moments of insight for later study within the context of a continuum) but also by association with actual photographs, primarily x-rays. It is through the novel’s x-rays that Hans is confronted with his own death and introduced to an otherwise unknown world of inner darkness.^ His journey through this realm climaxes in three separate events: the viewing of himself and
Joachim through the x-ray camera, his “Snow” vision, and, finally, the seance scene in the darkroom. In each instance he gains a
4 In his article “Penetrating Surfaces: X-Rays, Strindberg and The Ghost Sonata” John L. Greenway makes brief reference to the role of x-rays in Der Zauberberg. He focuses in particular on their relationship to death: “If one reaction to X-rays produced speculations with lurid overtones, the Cabaret du Néant show indicated another direction of popular reaction to X-rays: memento mar!' (31). 230
moment of “photographic” Insight that leads his progression from a state of sympathy with death through a tentative recognition to an affirmation of light over dark, life over death. Photographs, actual and theoretical, provide the protagonist—and for that matter, the reader—a means of self-reflection that allow for a greater understanding of both himself and the nature of existence.
For FleiBer, however, the photograph holds quite a different appeal. Its layers of meaning provide the perfect Instrument for undermining a tradition that It at first appears to represent. In all three versions of her play, Pioniere In Ingolstadt. FleiBer Invokes the eighteenth-century dramatic tradition of the tableau In order to parody the very concepts that this construct originally espoused.
FleiBer’s tableaux are of Interest here because they are created In a uniquely “modern” fashion. I.e., through the eye of a camera. On one level, the camera provides a highly effective means of achieving
Diderot’s goals, for It realistically captures a moment on stage and
preserves this Image for the future. On another level, however, these very same Images work destructively by exposing everything
behind them. Rather than presenting the audience with a positive
Image of reconciliation, they destroy the Illusions behind the male-
female relationships they depict. The photographs taken of Karl and 231
Berta and then of Fabian and Alma at the end of the 1929 version, for instance, only appear to represent a harmonious union of two pairs of lovers. In actuality, the images have already been undermined by the lack of meaningful conversations and emotional bonds throughout the action of the play.s The photographs are—like the women they depict—commodities, silenced by the men who paid for them. The fact that the women are left in possession of the photographs serves only to remind them of the emptiness of such relationships, relationships that were no deeper than the paper on which they are now printed.
Photography in Literature: Some Arguments for its inclusion
Viewed from a broader perspective, the close analyses of the
Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer texts are all specific attempts to answer one very general question that was originally posed in the introductory chapter: why do so many authors choose to employ photography in their works? Obviously, the photographs are in each
5 In his book image and Word: The Interaction of Twentieth-Century Photographs and Texts. Jefferson Hunter comments on this ability of photographs and words to apparently work against each other to produce moments of irony similar to those in Pioniere in Ingolstadt: "Irony requires only a clash, not a clash between image and words, but it is usually sharpened by an image-word clash, since words convey meaning instantaneously, in a way that can contrast verbal crassness with pictorial sensitivity” (25). 232
case physical objects which serve a purpose on the story-as-story level, i.e., they play a role in the movement of the plot. But the relationship surely runs deeper than this. Great literature is carefully crafted; its details are consciously planned and included for a reason (certainly, Thomas Mann’s works provide us with an extreme example of this). The answer, then, must be explained in great part by the fact that photography has certain qualities that better help authors express ideas of common concern to the human condition. The camera, by its very nature as a new form of vision,® gives unique perspective on a number of themes that seem to span literature.
One such issue revolves around the notion of time, a concept whose elusive and mysterious nature serves only to make it all the more attractive. Writers—indeed artists of all varieties—have struggled for centuries to give tangible form to time’s essence, its passage, and naturally its cessation in death. Art has long sought a method of holding on to time, turning it back, or in some cases even stopping it completely. In literature this has traditionally been
6 In his 1926 essay “What the Eye Does Not See", Soviet literary and art critic Ossip Brik hailed photography’s unique vision and called upon writers and artists to take advantage of it: “Vertov is right. The task of the cinema and of the camera is not to imitate the human eye, but to see and record what the human eye normally does not see. The cinema and the photo-eye can show us things from unexpected viewpoints and in unusual configurations, and we should exploit this possibility" (219). 233
achieved through constructs such as flashback, foreshadowing, and narrative frames—to mention just a few. But the concept of time has also changed through time. Technology both increased the rate of change in everyday life as well as created a means for better perceiving that change. As a result, society assumed a new awareness of the passing moment. The camera, unlike any other artistic mode, was able to capture that instant and preserve it for future reference. While Der Zauberberg is perhaps one of the best examples of how literature can successfully adopt photographic methods to give “time” some sort of definition, the Sternheim and
FleiBer texts demonstrate the same theme in a somewhat subtler manner. Seidenschnur’s portraits are, after all, attempts to capture their subjects in the truth of the moment, moments that together signify the essence of a life:^
Every photograph, indeed, is a parable. One feels in its presence the agonized punctuation of time. That is specially and poignantly true in the photographic portrait. Unique itself, it projects the unique: the fragile architecture of a human character that has never existed before and will never exist again. [. . .] We read a face as we read a clock: to orient ourselves, to see where we are right now, right here, to place ourselves and everyone else in the nervous entanglements of
7 Russian photographer Alexander Rodchenko argued that photographic portraits were superior to painted ones because they could reveal a person from all angles, not just one: “It should be stated firmly that with the appearance of photographs, there can be no question of a single, immutable portrait. Moreover, a man is not just one sum total; he is many, and sometimes they are quite opposed” (241). 234
our own society (Maddow 18).
The snapshots that conclude Pioniere in Ingolstadt are also portraits, but FlelGer uses their solidity to emphasize a deadening of time. Time is stopped not only in the moment frozen by the camera’s shutter but also by the sameness of each of these moments: lives caught in hopeless circles.
Clearly, the qualities inherent to such photographic portraits lend themselves to the solution of other literary concerns as well.
For authors seeking to explore issues of personality and character development, the camera offers an eye into the private world; it is a means for exploring the psyche. While photographs are certainly not the only method of achieving this insight, they do have a number of advantages over more traditional approaches. No matter how apparently simple and straightforward they may appear at first glance, they nearly always unveil a truth behind the exterior image.
And they are able to get at this truth in a surprisingly quick and piercing manner. At the same time, there is an air of mystery surrounding the photographic portrait that helps attract the reader’s close attention. As Maddow states:
What we are given in a photograph is a frozen slice—something like a pathologist’s view of inner tissue; thin it may always be, but it is nevertheless forever real. For this reason, a 235
photograph, sometimes even the most inept, can exert a hypnotic force (25).
The camera, then, was called upon in literature to do what it had
already helped achieve in society at large, i.e., redefine the public
and private spheres. As Mann’s x-rays demonstrate in graphic fashion, there was virtually nowhere the camera could not go,
nothing that could escape its penetrating eye. With this in mind, it
is not surprising that many authors also translated qualities of the
camera into other forms (Sternheim’s keyhole views, Mann’s vision sequences, and FleiBer’s bright, exposing lights are just a few
examples). They, like the photographs they imitate, present the
public with a window to the private.
Another theme which had always been of literary concern but which was perceived with more urgency as technology’s impact on society became increasingly pronounced, was that of mediated experience. The attempt to define interhuman relationships— as well
as those between man and his environment—lies at the heart of virtually every author’s work. Always complex, these relationships
became even more problematic with the introduction of the machine, for this was something that many felt separated the individual from the most basic of experiences. This was a concept that surely found 236
one of its most Influential expressions in Marx but which was also mirrored in literature at large. The camera is a particularly apt emblem of these concerns because it represents mediation on two levels: in the actual machine that separates the viewing eye from the object and in the photographs it produces— images separated by time,® and most often space, from their observers. Thus, photographs embedded in literature provide authors with a means of depicting the vicarious nature of experience in the modern world. As
Susan Sontag states in On Photography: ‘To possess the world in the form of images is, precisely, to reexperience the unreality and remoteness of the real" (164). Photographs call into question one's connection to “life.” The fact that “love”, for instance, emerges only through the camera in all three of the texts in this study is hardly coincidental. Rather, it is reflective of a greater concern of the technological age— a concern that finds both its partial creation as well as one of its most efficient expressions in photography.
8 Barthes remarks: “With regard to many of these photographs, it was History which separated me from them.[...] Thus the life of someone whose existence has somewhat preceded our own encloses in its particularity the very tension of History, its division. History is hysterical: it is constituted only if we consider it, only if we look at it— and in order to look at it, we must be excluded from it" (Camera Lucida 64-65). 237
But if photographs are not the direct reflection of reality that they were originally thought to be®—the very shadow of the person as Elizabeth Barrett once wrote (qtd. In Sontag 183)—what exactly are they? For Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer at least they represent a means of depicting the human search for objectivity In all of Its complexities. In each case, photographs (or photographic analogues) allow the reader a glimpse at the truth, but It Is a truth that Is In each Instance veiled or hidden behind some sort of facade. ‘Truth”,
“Reality”, and “Objectivity” are not simply presented, they are achieved In the self-reflective moment that the photograph provides.
This capacity of photography— art— for containing a concealed moment of truth Is further problematlzed, however, by the fact that
It can also be manipulated. Seidenschnur’s portraits are used as mechanisms for exerting power, the Berghof residents take pictures to create a world that doesn’t exist, and Karl literally “buys”
Berta’s silence by posing with her. This reduction of art Implies a certain duty on the part of the reader of such Images to look beyond their Instrumentallzatlon. As Maddow remarks: “The photographic
9 Daguerre was not only an inventor but also an entrepreneur who sold his product by advertising its ability to closely reproduce reality: “In conclusion, the DAGUERREOTYPE is not merely an instrument which serves to draw Nature; on the contrary it is a chemical and physical process which gives her the power to reproduce herself" (13). Sekula notes: “In nineteenth-century writings on photography we repeatedly encounter the notion of the unmediated agency of nature" (“Invention” 86). 238
portrait Implies truth even when it manages to lie; this is a weighty responsibility, and one not really taken in the history of portraiture”
(18). This double nature of the photograph lends itself well to authors seeking to reflect on the ambiguous nature of art and on the many stray paths it presents to the individual in search of an objectivity and truth that has meaning beyond the strictly personal sphere of experience.
It is clear, then, that while “literary” photographs, on one level, simply represent a slice of reality, a reality that is more
“real”—and therefore more trustworthy—than any image created by the human hand, they are also, and more importantly, themselves complex texts. These are texts that must be read and interpreted just like the literary work that contains them. Once studied, it becomes obvious that each photograph embodies a set of assumptions, biases, and truths that go far beyond the surface level.10 John Berger defines this characteristic as “other than itself”:
10 In his essay “Looking at Photographs", Victor Burgin focuses on this intertextual nature of the photograph: “The intelligibility of the photograph is no simple thing; photographs aretexts inscribed in terms of what we may call photographic discourse’, but this discourse, like any other, engages discourses beyond itself, the 'photographic text', like any other, is the site of a complex 'intertextuality', an overlapping series of previous texts taken for granted" at a particular cultural and historical conjuncture” (144). 239
The expression indicates a conception of photography as a medium of reproduction and representation which refers to things beyond itself: other stories, discourses, images. It proposes an allegorical structure which adulterates the putative purity of the image. The expression is also the minimal definition of allegory: ‘something turned into something else. . .one text read through another" (Other than Itself n. pag.).
Photographs work with the text to move beyond the text. The
combination of the two forms allows for the expression of more
complex ideas and themes than either one alone could manage. A
study of photographs in literature challenges the reader by
suggesting new readings and, even more importantly, by shedding
light on the nature of literature itself. Here, then, perhaps is an
answer to the question that underlies the examination of the
Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer works—a question about the nature of the relationship between photography and literature which could be
asked productively of other texts as well.
Areas for Future Exploration
The close analyses of photography as it appears in Die
Kassette. Der Zauberberg. and Pioniere in Ingolstadt represent only a
starting point in a field that still offers much unexplored terrain. A
number of themes developed in this study present themselves for 240
application to a variety of additional works involving photography.
Within the realm of German literature from approximately this same time period, for instance, one could examine the role of photographs in the works of authors such as Gerhart Hauptmann, Georg Kaiser,
Theodor Fontane, and Alfred Doblin. Thomas Mann’s Gladius Dei and
Der Tod in Venedig also lend themselves to interpretation from this angle. Beyond this lies the great body of post-war literature where the number of works containing photographs with some level of larger meaning increases drastically—a reflection, in part, no doubt of the proliferation of instamatic cameras and the snapshot in the second half of the twentieth century. Here, questions of photography’s documentary nature and/or its ability to make political statements seem to carry special weight. Its use in these more recent works could also help shed light on the search for new narrative forms and the redefinition of literature as an art.
One additional text which I did not examine in this study but which would fit in well temporally and thematically with the
Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer works is Ibsen’s The Wild Duck. An exploration of Ibsen’s use of photography would surely be of interest on a number of levels. His status as one of the most influential and innovative dramatists of the modern era naturally begs attention. 241
At the same time, the play—while still a part of the Germanic literary tradition— represents a somewhat different cultural viewpoint. Like Sternheim, Mann, and FleiBer, Ibsen employs photographs to address a variety of interrelated themes. For one, they are representative of mediated experience: Hedvig, a girl who is slowly going blind, “sees” the world through the photographs she retouches. But they are also expressions of different levels of reality that are all occurring simultaneously. Each character seems to exist and function in a world of separate illusions, thus giving the theme of blindness metaphoric meaning. These are photographs that have clearly been manipulated: both literally (by retouching them) and figuratively (by using them to control or deceive others). Their unique ability to confuse realms of reality and illusion, truth and fiction, obviously lies at the heart of the play's message, and for this reason they deserve further careful study.
Because the development of photography itself was truly international in nature, its inclusion in literary works invites questions of comparison similar to those suggested between the 242
German and NorwegiantextsThis is a point stressed by Koppen in his introduction:
Die Photographie, in zwei Làndern gleichzeitig erfunden, von Anbeginn an eine europaische Sensation darstellend, sich mit Windeseile bis in die fernsten Winkel des Erdballs verbreitend, prasentiert sich nicht nur als ein internationales Phânomen par excellence, sondern auch als Phânomen, das eine internationale Rezeption fand (10).
How does the use of photography in American, French, British or any other national literature differ from its use in German texts? And what are the reasons lurking behind these differences— if indeed they do exist? Why should authors from time periods and backgrounds as different as Nathaniel Hawthorne’s (The House of the Seven Gablesk
Marcel Proust's (Remembrance of Things Pastl. and Milan Kundera’s
(The Unbearable Lightness of Beingl all be so attracted to photography as a messenger of ideas? Is photography truly—as many have claimed it to be—an international language or do its meanings also require some sort of translation from one cultural perspective to another? These are all questions that seem worthy of further investigation, not only due to the light some of their answers might
11 Another sort of comparative question— one dealing with genre— is also potentially productive. Although I was not able to examine the use of photography within poetry in this study, the topic seems to offer many possibilities. One could perhaps argue that in some ways the photograph is more closely tied to poetry than any other literary genre. It, like the poem, is a very succinct composition, a tightly-woven expression of layers of complex meaning. 243
shed on the individual works but also because of the broader picture they might give of the relationship between photography and literature in general.
Alexander Rodchenko, a prominent Soviet artist-photographer in the 1920’s, concluded one of his then highly controversial essays on photography in the following manner:
To sum up: in order to accustom people to seeing from new viewpoints it is essential to take photographs of everyday, familiar subjects from completely unexpected vantage points and in completely unexpected positions. New subjects should also be photographed from various points, so as to present a complete impression of the subject (“Paths” 261).
It is precisely this quality of photography that has proven so appealing to authors. By including descriptions of photographs in their works they have found a new, innovative way for literature to express age-old themes, themes which otherwise might have lost some of their edge with time's sweeping changes. Photographs, in other words, give literary texts a new window on the familiar. But the same can be argued from the reader’s point of view as well.
Examining photographs from all their complex angles, provides the reader with a fresh means of approaching literature. It suggests new, stimulating questions that challenge both mind and text. BIBLIOGRAPHY
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