Ödön von Horváth’s Volksstücke.
Sounds and silences in dramaturgy and theatrical performance
Alina Sofronie
A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
School of Humanities and Languages
Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences
University of New South Wales
November 2016 ORIGINALITY STATEMENT
I hereby declare that this submission is my own work and to the best of my knowledge it contains no materials previously published or written by another person, or substantial proportions of material which have been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma at UNSW or any other educational institution, except where due acknowledgement is made in the thesis. Any contribution made to the research by others, with whom I have worked at UNSW or elsewhere, is explicitly acknowledged in the thesis. I also declare that the intellectual content of this thesis is the product of my own work, except to the extent that assistance from others in the project’s design and conception or in style, presentation and linguistic expression is acknowledged.
Signed …………………………
Date ………………………………
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank my supervisors, Dr Robert Buch, School of Humanities and Languages,
Associate Professor Gerhard Fischer, School of Humanities and Languages, and Dr
Meg Mumford, School of the Arts and Media, for the provision of their time, experience and advice. I have appreciated their constructive criticism and guidance during the development of this thesis. Throughout my candidature they have offered me support and generous as well as valuable assistance.
I would like to thank the staff members of the following libraries, archives and research centres who have supported me in this project:
Dr Michaela Giesing, Die Theatersammlung der Staats-und
Universitätsbibliothek, Hamburg
Barbara Schultz, Archive Department, Volksbühne Berlin
Horváth Archive, Akademie der Künste, Berlin
Dr Dagmar Walach, Institut für Theaterwissenschaft, Theaterhistorische
Sammlungen, Freie Universität Berlin
Dr Klaus Kastberger, Horváth Archive, Österreichische
Nationalbibliothek/Österreichisches Literaturarchiv, Vienna
Dr Franziska Lettowsky, Archive Department, Salzburger Festspiele.
I am also grateful to and wish to thank my family and my friend Roger Rushton for their encouragement, patience and support.
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ABSTRACT
This thesis investigates the dramaturgical art of Ödön von Horváth, currently one of the most staged German playwrights, focusing on the cycle of five plays known as the
Volksstücke (Revolte auf Côte 3018, Die Bergbahn, Italienische Nacht, Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and Kasimir und Karoline).
While critical responses to Horváth’s Volksstücke have referred especially to the
Bildungsjargon and its verbal patterns, Horváth’s creative use of the theatre’s non- verbal resources has been largely ignored. My research aims to address the lack of scholarly attention in this regard and to explore the intricacies of Horváth’s use of musical and silent moments in these plays. It shows that analysis of the roles of music and silence is crucial for a profound understanding of Horváth’s socially critical
Volksstücke as well as for an apt definition of their relevance to contemporary theatre practitioners. The main research methods consist of literary analysis and criticism of
Horváth’s Volksstück along with performance analysis of contemporary stage productions based on Horváth’s texts.
This study demonstrates that musical and silent interventions support Horváth’s reformation of the Volksstück genre both in its form and spirit. Based on theoretical frameworks that stress on the one hand the social aspect of musical meaning, and on the other the role of silence in dramatic communication, it reveals the direct connection between Horváth’s use of music and silence and the expression of socially critical ideas in these plays. It also demonstrates that music and silence represent significant influences on the way in which Horváth’s texts have been received recently. Christoph
Marthaler’s contemporary productions of Horváth’s Volksstück (Kasimir und Karoline,
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Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg, 1996, and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald,
Volksbühne Berlin, 2006) are used as the site of analysis.
My thesis extends the scholarly attention thus far given to Horváth’s Volksstücke. With its findings, it contributes to a more comprehensive understanding of Horváth’s playwriting technique, as well as encouraging further research into the significance of non-verbal elements throughout Horváth’s oeuvre. In addition, it opens up new discussions about the recent staging implications of Horváth’s use of music and silence.
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CONTENTS
ORIGINALITY STATEMENT i
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ii
ABSTRACT iii
CONTENTS v
INTRODUCTION 1
THESIS OUTLINE 11
NOTE ON PUBLICATION OF HORVÁTH’S WORKS
AND ON THE EDITIONS USED 13
NOTE ON TRANSLATIONS 15
CHAPTER ONE
Ödön von Horváth’s use of music: influences and critical perspectives 16
1.1. Contextual approach to Horváth’s use of music 17
1.2. Critical perspectives on Horváth’s Use of Music 27
1.3. Music in the tradition of the Volksstück genre and
in Horváth’s new Volksstücke 40
1.4. Theoretical perspectives 52
CHAPTER TWO
Music in Ödön von Horváth’s ‘political’ Volksstücke 56
2.1. Die Bergbahn 57
2.2. Italienische Nacht 63 v
CHAPTER THREE
Music in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald 74
3.1. Overview of the play’s characters 75
3.2. Overview of the musical elements 82
3.3. Johann Strauss’s waltzes 85
3.4. Further aspects of Horváth’s use of waltz music 92
3.5. Wienerlieder 102
3.6. Military music 107
CHAPTER FOUR
Music in Kasimir und Karoline 115
4.1. Kasimir und Karoline, the ballad 116
4.2. Overview of the musical elements 121
4.3. Kasimir und Karoline, the ballad of Horváth’s times 127
4.4. Further implications of music:
Demaskierung des Bewußtseins 135
CHAPTER FIVE
Ödön von Horváth and silence: definitions and critical perspectives 142
5.1. Definitions of silence 143
5.2. Silence and modern drama 148
5.3. Critical perspectives on Horváth’s use of silence 153
5.4. Silence in a dramatic text 161
5.4.1. The conjunctive silence 165
5.4.2. The disjunctive silence 168
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CHAPTER SIX
Silence in Ödön von Horváth’s new Volksstücke 171
6.1. Chronological account of Horváth’s use of silence 172
6.2. Horváth’s conjunctive silence 177
6.3. Horváth’s disjunctive silence 186
6.4. Particular aspects of Horváth’s use of “Stille” 194
6.5. Horváth’s silence in the text-performance translation 201
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sounds and silences in Christoph Marthaler’s productions of
Ödön von Horváth’s Volksstücke 205
7.1. New directions in theatre practice 206
7.2. Key features of Christoph Marthaler’s approach
to theatre directing 211
7.3. Christoph Marthaler’s staging of Kasimir und Karoline 217
7.4. Christoph Marthaler’s staging of
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald 232
CONCLUSION 245
BIBLIOGRAPHY 251
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INTRODUCTION
In the context of German literature, the name of Ödön von Horváth traces a special history. The author of 18 plays, 3 novels, and numerous shorter pieces, he was highly regarded by the audiences and literary elite of the Weimar Republic and widely considered, with Brecht and Zuckmayer, as “one of the leading lights of the newer
German drama” (Rosenberg, 1986, p. 376). In 1931, he received the prestigious Kleist
Prize (Brecht was the Kleist prize-winner in 1922), awarded to the most promising young German-language dramatist of the year. However, his anti-fascist literary attacks attracted hostility from the Nazi regime, and Horváth was forced to leave
Germany after the installation of the new political power in 1933. He spent the next five years in exile and died in an accident in 1938.
The history of Horváth’s reception was influenced by the Nazi prohibition of his plays. His name seemed fated to oblivion. The critic Wilhelm Emrich declared in
1963 that Horváth was almost unknown to the literary public (1977, p. 136). The situation changed after the first publication of a few of Horváth’s plays by Rowohlt
Verlag in 1961 and after the official opening of the “Ödön von Horváth Archive” in
West Berlin in 1963. In the wake of these events, the number of productions of
Horváth’s plays increased yearly in the German-speaking countries. By the end of the
1960s the general reception exploded into the so-called ‘Horváth-Renaissance’. His works garnered extensive critical attention and Horváth was placed the eighth most performed playwright in German theatres after authors like Brecht, Shakespeare,
Molière and Nestroy.1 This moment marked Horváth’s recognition as one of the most
1 586 Horváth performances were recorded in the 1971/72 theatrical season, according to the blurb page of Materialien zu Ödön von Horváths Glaube Liebe Hoffnung, ed. Traugott Krischke (1973). 1 important German-language authors of the last century. He is now considered a classic author of Austrian and German literature.
Scholars share the general opinion that Horváth’s importance rests especially on his Volksstücke. These are five plays written between 1926 and 1932, namely Revolte auf Côte 3018 (Revolt on Côte 3018), Die Bergbahn (The Cable Car), Italienische
Nacht (The Italian Night), Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Tales from the Vienna
Woods), and Kasimir und Karoline (Kasimir and Karoline). Some critics include
Glaube Liebe Hoffnung (Faith Love Hope) in the cycle of plays Horváth called
“Volksstücke”. For example, the first complete edition of Horváth’s works (1970-1971, edited by Dieter Hildebrandt, Walter Huder and Traugott Krischke) included Glaube
Liebe Hoffnung in the volume dedicated to Horváth’s ‘folk-plays’. Although originally conceived together with Kasimir und Karoline as a “Volksstück in seven tableaux”
(“Volksstück in sieben Bilder” [Horváth Archive, ӦLA BS 39, 3/W 36, p. 1]), Glaube
Liebe Hoffnung is later referred to as a “comedy in three” or “in five acts” (Horváth
Archive, ӦLA BS 39 [b], 3/W 15) before receiving its final subtitle: “a little dance of death in five tableaux” (“ein kleiner Totentanz in fünf Bildern” [Horváth Archive, ӦLA
3/W225-3/W224, p. 325]). These deliberate changes from the initial description of the play are consistent with alterations in its dramatic form, and explicitely illustrate
Horváth’s intention to distinguish Glaube Liebe Hoffnung from the plays of the
Volksstück cycle.
My study does not consider this play when analysing the dramaturgical art of
Horváth’s Volksstücke. Despite a thematic connection to Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald and Kasimir und Karoline, which brings to one’s attention a recurring theme in
Horváth’s writing (the exploitation of women and the drama of their confrontations with a brutal, bigoted society in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and Kasimir und
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Karoline and with a discriminatory legal system in Glaube Liebe Hoffnung), Glaube
Liebe Hoffnung clearly differentiates itself from the plays of the Volksstück cycle. It is characterised by stylistic austerity, and does not draw on the same complexity of dramaturgical techniques in its depictions of the decadent aspects of life during the
Great Depression. Music, a defining element of Horváth’s reworking of the Volksstück tradition, fulfils an ornamental role here. It provides the musical backdrop for the play’s events without being involved in the text’s semantic structure. A certain sense of locality that is characteristic of Horváth’s Volksstücke is also absent in Glaube Liebe
Hoffnung. An urban setting without local colour, a female figure as the leading character, and a linear plot are the ‘ingredients’ of this drama, which offers more the impression of a Gelegenheitsstück (occasional work). As stated in its preface, Glaube
Liebe Hoffnung was in fact written in collaboration with a Munich journalist, Lukas
Kristl, who served as a court correspondent (Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, pp. 327-329). The play is based on Kristl’s reports regarding a real court case.
Therefore, my study excludes Glaube Liebe Hoffnung from the analysis of
Horváth’s Volkstücke and focuses on dramas that mark Horváth’s reformation of the
Volkstück genre. It starts with Revolte auf Côte 3018, wherein Horváth’s intention to create a new form of popular theatre was first expressed openly, and concludes with
Kasimir und Karoline, which I consider to be a stylistic paradigm for the analysis of
Horváth’s Volkstück as a dramatic form.
The most discussed topics with regard to Horváth’s Volkstücke are his choice of subject matter and his use of language. The critics are in agreement that all the plays of the cycle deal with the phenomenon of Fascism, whether they are overtly political (Die
Bergbahn and Italienische Nacht; for example, François, 1978) or devoted to the social
3 background that led to the rise of Fascism (Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and
Kasimir und Karoline; for example, Fritz, 1973). With regard to Horváth’s use of language, the scholars share the critical view that Horváth has developed an entirely original style based on the Bildungsjargon, the hybrid language of the sociologically defined petite bourgeoisie (for example, Nolting, 1976).
The critics of the ‘Horváth-Renaissance’ also noticed the importance of non- verbal features in the plays of the cycle. Spoken words blend with music/songs and silences and create a specific tonality of Horváth’s Volksstücke that was referred to as
“Horváth sound” (Winston, 1977, p. 53). However, as the critical response to the
Volksstücke has focused especially on the Bildungsjargon and its verbal patterns,
Horváth’s creative use of the non-verbal resources of the theatre remains largely unexplored. More recent research has opened new perspectives on ‘reading’ silence
(for example, Benthien, 2002) and grasping the role of music in Horváth’s plays and their stage production (for example, Kurzenberger, 2001), yet the matter of language continues to be predominant in the analysis of Horváth’s drama, its other ‘voices’ still being generally ignored.
My thesis addresses the lack of scholarly attention with regard to Horváth’s use of the non-verbal features of the theatre. I examine the intricacies of Horváth’s choice to extend the importance of music and silence in his Volksstücke, as illustrated in the stage directions of these plays. I specifically investigate the connection between
Horváth’s use of these non-verbal features and the new form of socially critical
Volksstück that he envisaged.
The aim of my study is to stress the importance of music and silence for a broader and more profound understanding of Horváth’s Volksstücke. Contrary to the
4 findings of the majority of critical studies to date, I argue that the powerful expression of Horváth’s Volksstücke does not derive particularly from his use of language but rather from his creative use of the non-verbal resources of the theatre next to the spoken word. My thesis contributes to Horváth scholarship not only by providing a more comprehensive analysis of the role of music and silence in Horváth’s plays than has yet been undertaken but also by proposing new perspectives on this topic.
With respect to Horváth’s use of music my study distances itself from the general critical assumption that connects the Volksstücke with the epic dramatic model.
I contend that, although there are certain similarities between Horváth’s and Brecht’s dramaturgies, they differ in the way music is employed. In contrast to Brecht’s epic theatre, where music was to make little or no use of its capacity to stir emotions,
Horváth’s drama relies specifically on the capacity of music to act as an emotional medium. An obvious principle of separateness between music and the other dramatic elements does not apply to Horváth’s Volksstücke either. Musical insertions seem to be perfectly motivated and in accordance with the overall theme of each play. They interrupt but also accompany the dialogue and are not separated from the action by formal means as in the case of Brecht’s theatre. Taking into consideration the similarities and particularly the divergences between Horváth’s work and epic drama, my thesis proposes a broader analytical frame for the discussion of music’s significance in Horváth’s Volksstücke. In this thesis, I investigate Horváth’s use of music as a defining element of a playwriting technique that served the creation of a new form of popular theatre in the interwar period. My study argues that music is part of Horváth’s calculated attempt to break up the old patterns and expectations of the genre in order to create a ‘new’ Volksstück that is engaged in social criticism. It shows that music no longer serves an entertaining dramatic convention, as in the traditional examples of the
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Volksstück genre, but rather the ironical key in which Horváth’s plays are conceived.
Music no longer supports generally comic plots with potentially satirical accents and a prerequisite happy ending. It rather assists depictions of reality that result in concrete forms of social criticism.
These conclusions are based on a close analysis of music’s occurence in each play of the cycle. The argument is developed by taking into consideration a current of thought active during the Weimar years which was mainly concerned with the renewal of the musical theatre and the social impact of art. In this context, Theodor Adorno’s critical views on the culture industry and its products are particularly stressed. I draw on the sociology of music and recent theories formulated by Adorno’s successors, such as John Shepherd (1977, 1991) and Tia DeNora (1986, 2003), for my thesis that the social aspect of musical meaning is determinant in Horváth’s choice and distribution of music in his plays. I consider that only the sociological perspective, which generally emphasises the social construction of reality, applied to the nature of musical meaning
(in contrast to the empiricist or rationalist theory which claims that the meaning of music is either inherent in it or generated by our basic mental activity), can open real possibilities for the interpretation of the role of music in Horváth’s Volksstücke.
With respect to Horváth’s use of silence, my thesis extends the previous critical discussions which contain many general observations that lack foundation in careful analysis. Previous research has focused on the indication of “Stille”, for example, and has neglected to consider and explain the significance of Horváth’s other stage directions of silence (for example, “Schweigen” or “Pause”). This study clarifies these aspects and differentiates between various functions of silence in the Volksstücke. It proposes an original approach to Horváth’s use of silence as a presence, a meaning carrier and a part of the dramatic communicational structure of the play. 6
I develop the concepts of ‘conjunctive’ and ‘disjunctive’ silences in order to identify and analyse the major types of silence in Horváth’s texts. I borrow the terms
‘conjunctive’ and ‘disjunctive’ from theatre scholars Mick Wallis and Simon Shepherd, who used them to differentiate between two types of stage directions in a dramatic text
(Wallis, 2010). I call ‘conjunctive’ the category of silences that are constitutive elements of characters’ communication and describe the absence of talk. I name
‘disjunctive’ the author-identified pauses that are not necessarily related to the characters’ interaction; they represent a distinct meaning of the stage directions that establishes a certain relation between the text and the meta-text of the play. This study argues that Horváth’s indications of “Schweigen” and “Pause” represent the first category, while the stage directions of “Stille” belong to the latter one.
My analysis of the role of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke is framed by a multidisciplinary approach to the phenomenon of silence. From the perspective of the philosophy of language, for instance, I discuss Max Picard’s (1988) and Bernard
Dauenhauer’s (1980) theories that deal with aspects of the relation between silence and speech in order to support my line of argument that silence is a presence congruent with language, which can be as powerful as the spoken or written word. Theories from the area of communication studies are also drawn on when I argue the similarity between the role of silence in fictional and ordinary speech. But my distinction between the two major categories of silence in Horváth’s texts (conjunctive and disjunctive silence) is underpinned by Manfred Pfister’s (1991) view regarding the potential existence of multiple levels of dramatic communication. According to Pfister, the dramatist
‘speaks’ indirectly through the characters’ speech, which is the ‘internal’ level of dramatic communication, and directly through the stage directions, which represents the ‘mediating’ level. I argue that the ‘conjunctive’ silences are active at the internal
7 level, while the ‘disjunctive’ silences are a sign of the ‘mediating’ communication in drama. Drawing on the above mentioned theoretical foundation, the analysis of the texts of the Volksstücke allows me to identify and examine key features of Horváth’s use of silence and to trace their importance to a comprehensive understanding of the plays of this cycle.
The analysis of Horváth’s indications of music and silence in the Volksstücke demonstrates Horváth’s preoccupation not only to ascertain the semantic implications of the musical and silent moments within the dramatic structures but rather to orchestrate the theatrical effect of his plays based on the communicative functions of music and silence. This study considers that the stage directions for music and silence in the Volksstücke belong to what Manfred Pfister calls “authorial secondary text”: “a literary construction–a narrative and descriptive text which preimposes an interpretative perspective on the dramatic presentation that follows it” (1991, p. 72). Taking into consideration these assumptions, my thesis concludes with a performance analysis that investigates the ways in which Horváth’s indications of music and silence become effective in an actual production. I carried out a preliminary research on relevant contemporary theatrical productions that are based on Horváth’s texts before choosing to discuss Christoph Marthaler’s staging of two of Horváth’s Volksstücke: Kasimir und
Karoline (Deutsches Schauspielhaus, Hamburg, 1996) and Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald (Volksbühne Berlin, 2006). I decided to examine Marthaler’s productions because they enable the analysis of Horváth’s work in the present context of postdramatic theatrical practices.
This performance analysis allows me to understand the evolution of Horváth’s theatricality from text to performance and to respond to the following research questions: 1) how is Horváth ‘read’ by a contemporary director? and 2) does the 8 specificity of Horváth’s Volksstücke, which according to my study consists in his creative use of the non-verbal elements of the theatre next to the dialogue, become apparent in a contemporary performance?
I claim that the discussion of the importance of music and silence for Horváth’s
Volksstücke becomes even more relevant nowadays, when the ‘musicalization’ of theatre has been identified as a significant trend in contemporary staging and performance practices. The tendency towards a musical organisation of theatrical means was noted, for example, by David Roesner’s or Hans-Thies Lehmann’s studies, which discuss stylistic traits of the postdramatic theatre (Roesner, 2003 and Lehmann,
2006). In line with these theories, in one of her most recent studies (The
Transformative Power of Performance), Erika Fischer-Lichte acknowledges the recent emergence of a “performative generation of materiality” in which sound as well as its absence, i.e. silence, plays a significant role (2008, p. 75). In this context, as I demonstrate through the analysis of Marthaler’s productions, Horváth’s dramaturgy, which involves speaking, singing, music and silences, gains special theatrical power.
More precisely, I suggest that the presence of music and silence is responsible for the contemporary resonance of Horváth’s Volksstücke and call for postdramatic readings of
Horváth’s texts.
In my performance analysis, I draw extensively on Erika Fischer-Lichte’s semiotic theory that considers the stage production to be an ‘interpretant’ of the underlying drama (Fischer-Lichte, 1992). This positioning offers the possibility to regard performance not only as an aesthetic transformation of drama but also to grasp performance and drama as two independent phenomena. I rely on significant sources of information about the creation and reception of Marthaler’s productions, such as
9 video recordings, rehearsal logs, and interviews with the artists involved, theatre programmes, reviews and criticism.
To my knowledge, this study is the first to attempt to discuss the particular role of music and silence in Horváth’s drama, from the text through to contemporary performance.
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THESIS OUTLINE
This thesis is structured in seven chapters that follow the argument outlined above. The analyses of music in the first chapters and then of silence include separate theoretical frameworks, literature reviews and methodologies because they involve different fields of research.
Chapter One to Chapter Four investigate the role of music in Horváth’s
Volksstücke.
Chapter One introduces and describes my research, provides a background discussion of Horváth’s use of music, reviews the critical literature on this topic, introduces my argument and discusses the theoretical framework and methodology.
Chapter Two examines the role of music in Horváth’s ‘political’ Volksstücke (Revolte auf Côte 3018, Die Bergbahn, and Italienische Nacht).
Chapter Three analyses the intricacies of Horváth’s use of music in his first overtly socially critical Volksstück (Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald).
Chapter Four investigates the role of music in the last play of the cycle (Kasimir und
Karoline).
Chapters Five and Chapter Six deal with silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke.
Chapter Five provides a background discussion for my analysis of Horváth’s use of silence, a literature review, and then explains the new concepts of conjunctive and disjunctive silence, which this study develops and which are instrumental in my analysis.
Chapter Six identifies, investigates and discusses the significance of various types of silence in Horváth’s plays.
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Chapter Seven examines Christoph Marthaler’s two contemporary productions of Horváth’s Volksstücke (Kasimir und Karoline and Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald). It first sets the stage for the analysis of Marthaler’s staging by presenting aspects of the contemporary theatrical context and reviewing key aspects of Marthaler’s approach to theatre directing. The performance analyses of Kasimir und Karoline and then of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald follow next.
The Conclusion restates the research topic, summarises the findings and conclusions and highlights the original contributions of this study. This section also presents some of the implications of this study and suggestions for further research.
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NOTE ON PUBLICATION OF HORVÁTH’S WORKS
AND ON THE EDITIONS USED
Since 1963, when Horváth Archive was officially opened in West Berlin, Suhrkamp
Publishing House has been the main publisher of Horváth’s works.
An exhaustive Suhrkamp edition of Horváth’s collected works, based on the materials found in Horváth Archive in Berlin, was published in 1972. Edited by
Traugott Krischke and Dieter Hildebrandt, this edition included the final version of all
Horváth’s plays together with editorial comments (volume 1 to volume 4); autobiographical notes, pieces of poetry, short prose and novels (volume 5 and volume
6); versions of Horváth’s dramatic and narrative texts, theoretical writings, poems and personal letters (volume 7 and volume 8).
Another Suhrkamp edition of Horváth’s works, subtitled ‘Kommentierte
Werkausgabe in Einzelbände’, was issued in the early 1980s and continued in the early
2000s. This edition is the most recent Suhrkamp edition of Horváth’s works. It comprises 12 volumes that arrange Horváth’s dramas and prose in chronological order.
Each volume is dedicated to a text or a group of texts from a specific period and contains the final version as well as earlier versions, and commentaries regarding their conception, transmission and composition.
Since 1990, Horváth Archive has been acquired by the Österreichische
Nationalbibliothek, together with the Wiener Stadt- und Landesbibliothek, and is now part of the collections of the Österreichisches Literaturarchiv (ÖLA).
Starting in 2009, ÖLA, in collaboration with Walter de Gruyter Publishing
House, had the initiative of the so-called ‘Viennese edition’ of Horváth’s complete
13 works (Ödön von Horváth: Wiener Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke, edited by Klaus
Kastberger), a historical-critical edition that aims to offer a clear image of the genesis of Horváth’s texts. Ten volumes have been published so far, two of which are dedicated to Horváth’s Volksstücke: Band 4: Kasimir und Karoline (edited by Klaus
Kastberger and Kerstin Reimann, Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009) and Band 3: Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (edited by Erwin Gartner and Nicole Streitler-Kastberger, Berlin:
De Gruyter, 2015). This critical edition reveals the exact explanation of the texts’ origin by undertaking a philological evaluation of many sources: initial plans and sketches, photocopies of the original manuscripts, personal letters and documents.
In my analysis of Horváth’s Volksstücke, I used the ‘Wiener Ausgabe’ of
Horváth’s complete works for the study of Kasimir und Karoline and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald because it provides the most recent and comprehensive critical edition of these plays (Band 4 and Band 3).
I used the last Suhrkamp critical edition of Horváth’s collected works (Ödön von Horváth, Gesammelte Werke. Kommentierte Werkausgabe in Einzelbände, edited by Traugott Krischke and Susanna Foral-Krischke) for the study of the plays that have not yet been published in the De Gruyter collection: Revolte auf Côte 3018 and Die
Bergbahn (Band 1: Zur schönen Aussicht und andere Stücke, 2001) and Italienische
Nacht (Band 3: Italienische Nacht, 2003).
I also used the 1972 Suhrkamp edition of Horváth’s complete works because it provides relevant material concerning to Horváth’s theoretical statements, interviews and prose. Horváth Archive (ÖLA) was another source of significant information in this regard.
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NOTE ON TRANSLATIONS
All translations from German, including quotations from Horváth’s works and the research literature consulted, are my own unless otherwise indicated.
To preserve the readability of the entire thesis and the language fluency, translations of very short passages are given, followed by the original quote in brackets.
For longer passages, the original version and the translation are given either one after the other or side by side in the text.
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CHAPTER ONE:
Ödön von Horváth’s use of music: influences and critical perspectives
This chapter presents the context of Horváth’s use of music and the major ideas that influence its reception to introduce my research on the topic of music in Horváth’s
Volksstücke and the central argument of my thesis.
It opens with an overview of the artistic styles and modes of expression that dominated the musical and theatrical life of the Weimar Republic.
The chapter then considers some of the approaches Horváth critics have taken in examining the instances of music in Horváth’s plays before presenting my own perspective in relation to this critical context.
In the last section of this chapter, a comparative analysis of the role of music in the traditional forms of the Volksstück genre and in Horváth’s plays further introduces my argument and a discussion of my theoretical framework and methodology.
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1.1. Contextual approach to Horváth’s use of music
Horváth’s preoccupation with the reformation of the Volksstück genre and for the use of music in his plays did not occur in isolation. His use of music in the Volksstücke cycle mirrors the interwar artists’ search for new artistic styles and modes of expression in the fields of music and musical theatre. The subsequent review presents the essential features of Weimar musical and theatrical life in order to emphasise the most influential ideas that circulated in the epoch and created a feverish atmosphere of stylistic experimentation.
The years between 1923 and 1929, when Ödön von Horváth wrote the
Volksstücke, was a time when the economy boomed and the cultural life flourished, particularly in the capital. Berlin was at its glittering heights and became the centre of the artistic and intellectual life of Weimar Germany. Its musical life was particularly rich. With its orchestras, opera houses and conservatories, theatres, cabarets and revues, interwar Berlin was the unrivalled capital of European music and theatre.
Composers’ enthusiasm for experimenting with musical language, their attraction to new musical styles (e.g., jazz), and the formation of a broad middle-class, which became the newly targeted audience, produced significant mutations in the traditional forms of music and musical theatre.
Opera, for instance, was on the brink of reform. Its practitioners aimed to resuscitate its traditional and obsolete forms. In order to do this, the Weimar opera had to incorporate the musical innovations and influences of the time while keeping itself simple and effective. Although still influential, Richard Wagner’s concept of
“Gesamtkunstwerk” was questioned by composers of the Republic. The relation between music and speech was especially challenged. The already accepted masters in 17 music revised their style and ideas. With his operas written between 1917 and 1928
(e.g., Die Frau ohne Schatten–The Woman Without Shadow, Intermezzo, and Die
ägyptische Helena–The Egyptian Helen), Richard Strauss, for example, thought he was developing an operatic style that should trace a new path for the musical and dramatic compositions (Strauss, 1981, p. 149). His works of these years are clearly dominated by his interest in the relationship between music and speech. He believed in the narrative power of music. According to Strauss, music, whether used autonomously or with a text, transmits a meaning that could either be retranslated or coordinated with a parallel in language (1981, pp. 135-139). At the same time, as the preface of
Intermezzo states, he sought ways to enhance the comprehensibility and impact of speech in opera (1981, pp. 140-149).
Of the musicians of a younger generation, Kurt Weill was regarded as the most influential figure. Weill credited music as being innately dramatic, even when devoid of textual support or other musical associations. After the publication of his essays,
“Die neue Oper” (1926), “Zeitoper” (1928), and “Über den gestischen Character der
Musik” (1929), his ideas became influential in the artistic and musical circles of the time.2 Weill believed in music’s fundamental Gestus that can reproduce the essence of a theatrical situation. Kim Kowalke explains that Weill regarded Gestus as a concentration of “music’s communicative capacity”, able to liberate music from “its traditional parallelism to the text” (1994, p. 227). Music, says Weill, can prescribe “a definite attitude for the actor and eliminates any doubts or misunderstanding” about the events on stage (Kowalke, 1979, p. 492). Bertolt Brecht found in Weill the ideal partner in staging Die Dreigroschenoper (The Threepenny Opera), a ‘play with music’
2 “Die neue Oper” was originally published in Der neue Weg, 16 January 1926, pp. 24-25; “Zeitoper” in Melos 7 (3), March 1928, pp. 106-108; “Über den gestischen Character der Musik” in Die Musik 21 (March 1929), pp. 419-423. They are translated into English in Kowalke (1979): “New Opera”, pp. 464- 467, “Zeitoper”, pp. 482-485, and “Concerning the Gestic Character of Music”, pp. 491-496. 18 based on John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera of 1728. Both Weill and Brecht rebelled against the Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk. Consequently, in this opera, the conjunction of music and drama resulted in a parody of the operatic Romantic convention.
Although lyrics and music were blended together in a single song, they were treated as mutually independent elements. The Brecht-Weill Dreigroschenoper was the biggest theatrical success of the Weimar Republic.
The influence of jazz on Weill’s Die Dreigroschenoper contributed greatly to its remarkable success. Weill regarded this new musical style as an invigorating factor as stated in an article (“Notiz zum Jazz”) dated from 1929.3 It offered a novel assortment of melodic and above all rhythmic elements (two-quarter time and syncopation), which, as Weill emphasised, increased the “simplicity and comprehensibility” of his music (Kowalke, 1979, p. 497). It soon became a cornerstone of the so-called ‘Zeitoper’, a new trend in operatic form that developed in the mid-1920s and was mostly characterised by an obvious reference to the everyday life of the audience. The classic of the genre is considered to be Ernst Křenek’s opera
Johnny spielt auf (Johnny Strikes Up–1927).
In the Weimar era, Berlin was also fermenting with ideas about the social function of music. The spirit of Neue Sachlichkeit demanded a functional music focused on the needs of society, employing critical detachment and rejection of emotional involvement. Paul Hindemith’s and Kurt Weill’s works responded to the new ideas about the social dimension of art and artist’s social responsibility.
Hindemith promoted the term ‘Gebrauchsmusik’ (‘music for use’), which describes music composed with a particular purpose and according to prescribed social premises.
3 “Notiz zum Jazz”, Musikblätter des Anbruch 11 (March 1929), p. 138. I use Kowalke’s English translation of the article, “A Note Concerning Jazz”, published in Kowalke (1979), pp. 497-498. 19
On the other hand, under the influence of jazz, folk and avant-garde music, Weill created the musical correlative of Brecht’s epic drama, a type of functional music that rejects the emotional, self-projecting manner of romanticism.
Of all the forms of music theatre, opera was the most highly appreciated. As
John Rockwell explains in his study on the operatic reform in the late Weimar era, this was due to “[opera’s] centricity in German cultural life” as well as to “Germans’ self- image as citizens of a cultured nation” (2006, p. 184). However, the taste of the audience was eclectic in the interwar era and many Germans still yearned for nostalgic stories and regional topics. Accordingly, operetta was a privileged form of popular entertainment during the 1920s in Germany while its popularity declined elsewhere.
With its contagious melodies, romantic intrigues, and happy endings, it aroused memories of the ‘good old days’ before the military disaster of the First World War and the subsequent social and economic turmoil. The world premiere of Franz Lehár’s Der
Zarewitch (The Tsarevich) took place in the German capital in 1927; Lehár’s
Friederike was performed for the first time, also in Berlin, in 1928, and Das Land des
Lächelns (The Land of Smiles) in 1929.
During the Weimar Republic, music was heard not only at the concert halls but
also at the cabaret. Elegant cabaret shows with musical numbers consisting of
humorous songs flourished in the post-war Berlin. The political cabaret, which
mocked aspects of everyday life in the Republic addressing subjects such as inflation,
bankruptcy, new fashions or cultural trends, was another major attraction. It was
primarily based on popular songs marked by topicality, next to comic and satirical
monologues or dialogues. After 1923, however, the political themes were largely
abandoned and the era of experimental cabaret began to decline. The decline of
cabaret was linked to the rapid development of a mass culture, one of the specific 20 characteristics of the Weimar period. The development of a mass culture was greatly influenced by radio, firstly broadcast in Germany in 1923. Radio made available to a wider audience the popular tunes of the era. In his study on the popular music of the
1920s, Ronald Pearsall notes that “a popular song broadcast on the radio could reach a bigger audience in one night than a music-hall song of the Victorian age could get to in half a century” (1976, p. 13). As a result of the quick development of a ‘popular culture’, cabaret shows lost their audiences; they remained only “an intimate bourgeois enclave for an economic if not intellectual elite” (Lareau, 1991, p. 480).
Cabaret shows were overshadowed in the mid-1920s by the increasing popularity of the revue. The revues were more extended and sophisticated productions that were performed on larger stages. They were usually based on kitschy musical numbers, a linkage of satirical songs and dialogues, and tended to lack political focus. They became the leading attractions in interwar Berlin. In “Cult of Distraction”, Siegfried Kracauer explains the appeal of the revue as consisting of permanent stimulations of the public’s senses by “inciting episodes” (1995, p. 326).
Aiming at the masses, they “raised distraction to the level of culture” (Kracauer, 1995, p. 324). The interwar German revue was defined musically by jazz and fox-trot rhythms, which, according to Peter Jelavich (1993), replaced the characteristic melodies of the pre-war revues, such as waltzes, polkas, mazurkas, folk songs, and marches. Of the revue composers of the Republic, Friedrich Holländer and Mischa
Spoliansky were the most famous. Their tunes rapidly became hits due to their easy melodic structure and intrinsic satirical message. For instance, the fox-trot “Es liegt in der Luft eine Sachlichkeit” (“There is an Objectivity in the Air”), the theme song of
21
the revue Es liegt in der Luft (It’s in the Air), was the most popular tune of the year
1928.4
The development of a mass culture and the impact of popular music provoked also a great deal of criticism. Although Theodor Adorno’s major works were published almost two decades later, his critical views on the culture industry and its products were influential within the musical and intellectual circles at the time. In the late 1920s,
Adorno wrote a few articles where he dealt with these topics (“Reaktion und
Fortschritt”, “Arbeitsprobleme des Komponisten: Gespräch über Musik und soziale
Situation”), which were followed in 1932 by his substantial essay: “Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik”.5 Here, he emphasised the central distinction between popular music, “passive and undialectic” and, therefore, non-intellectual, which is produced simply as a commodity for sale in the market, and music which is intellectually challenging (Adorno, 2002, p. 395). He argues that the new ‘commodity’ status of music mainly derives from its “socio-psychological function”, its ability to offer pleasure and a misleading sense of cultural security due to its familiar elements
(2002, p. 460). According to Adorno, two major features of mass mentality are to be found in the products of mass culture and, therefore, in the whole range of melodies considered ‘popular’: superficiality and standardization. The principles and presuppositions that are evident in Adorno’s critique of popular music in the early
1930s, the years when Horváth completed the plays of the Volksstücke cycle, recur throughout Adorno’s work, and were never subsequently modified in any fundamental
4 Es liegt in der Luft (1928) by Marcellus Schifer (lyrics) and Mischa Spoliansky (music). 5 “Reaktion und Fortschritt” was published in Anbruch 12/6 June 1930 and “Arbeitsprobleme des Komponisten: Gespräch über Musik und soziale Situation” in Frankfurter Zeitung, 10 December 1930. “Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik” was originally published in Zeitschrift für Sozialforschung 1 (1/2, 1932), pp. 103-124, and translated as “On the Social Situation of Music” by Wesley Blomster in Telos 35 (1978), pp. 129-164. I use Susan H. Gillespie’s translation of Adorno’s article, which is included in Adorno (2002, pp. 391-436). 22 way. They are discussed in a later section of this chapter, which focuses on the theoretical perspectives that underpin my analysis of music in Horváth’s plays.
The variety of musical productions that were performed during the Weimar period, the questions on the validity of Gesamtkunstwerk, composers’ innovative approach to music drama, and the development of ideas regarding the social function of music, all lead to significant changes in the way music was employed in the ‘spoken’ theatre of the time. Music acquired an important status in the theatrical productions of
Weimar Berlin. It was treated as an independent element of the theatrical code, no longer used for creating a specific atmosphere or illusion but rather for commenting on the stage events. During the first half of the 1920s, the outstanding directors were Max
Reinhardt and Leopold Jessner. They paid extended attention to the role of music in their performances. It was used as a quotation, adaptation, and pastiche; it linked the scenes or ordered their rhythm. In his study on the theatre of the Weimar Republic,
John Willet (1988) points out that Reinhardt’s Regiebuch recorded the mood, duration, dynamics and orchestration of each piece of incidental music required, together with the noise effects suggested by the text. On the other hand, “Jessner ... concentrated mostly on developing similar sound effects, which like everything else in his theatre had to be kept simple and precise” (Willet, 1988, p. 172).
From 1924 on, Erwin Piscator and especially Bertolt Brecht revolutionized the theatre’s use of the musical element. To these artists who wanted to create a kind of theatre that was totally anti-illusionist, the ‘new’ music, jazz, and popular tunes seemed to be very attractive. Music was intended to reinforce the tempo of Piscator’s productions, and functioned as a medium of distanced reflection in Brecht’s epic theatre.
23
Piscator envisaged a form of socially engaged ‘total theatre’ that he described as a “‘symphonic’ synaesthetic artwork on the broadest dramaturgical basis ..., in which all possible means of expression, including music and film techniques, were to be brought into play” (Piscator, 1968, p. 272). He included in the performance projection of film sequences, pictures, subtitles, and newspaper headlines; made use of complicated stage machinery with revolving and multileveled platforms, as well as a small orchestra. All these devices were meant to continuously stimulate the audience’s senses by arousing its excitement and involvement. Although Piscator tried to engage the public on an emotional level, he still demanded a critical distance from the performance. His performances of Hoppla, we are alive! and Rasputin staged in 1927, and The Good Soldier Schweik from 1928, represented the most innovative type of theatre in Berlin in the middle years of the Weimar Republic.
Like Piscator, Brecht regarded the theatre as a means of changing society. He aimed to arouse the spectator’s critical judgement as well as his capacity for action.
Brecht considered that the Aristotelian form of theatre cannot serve this purpose because all of its elements are “‘fused’ together” into a synthesis that encourages the passive reception of the artwork:
So long as the expression ‘Gesamtkunstwerk’ ... means that the integration is a muddle, so long as the arts are supposed to be ‘fused’ together, the various elements will all be equally degraded, and each will act as a mere ‘feed’ to the rest. The process of fusion extends to the spectator, who gets thrown into the melting pot too and becomes a passive (suffering) part of the total work of art. (Brecht, 1964, pp. 37-38)
Brecht proposed a theatre formula that radically separates its elements–music, text, and scenography–in order to stimulate the audience’s attention and to enhance its analytical reception of the stage events. Music was a key feature of this new theatrical ‘epic’ 24 form. With Die Dreigroschenoper, which Horváth could certainly have seen at the time, Brecht’s intention with regard to the role of music in his non-Aristotelian drama became explicit.6 Contrast rather than harmony is the hallmark of the relation between music and text in Brecht’s theatre. Music was meant to act as a ‘distantiation’
(Verfremdung) factor that disrupts the stage illusion and prevents spectators from succumbing to the emotional impact of represented reality.
Brecht sought to realise this primarily by enhancing the separateness of the music to other elements in the performance. Music was usually presented by a visible source (musicians had to be seen), and all the musical moments were announced or indicated by placards with titles or comments. Musical material was isolated from the action also in terms of content. According to Meg Mumford’s study on Brecht’s performance strategies (2009), the famous “Mac the Knife” ballad is a clear example in this sense. The melodic line in C major, which “helps create the charm and reassuring solidity of Macheath’s comportment as a gentleman businessman” is contradicted by the ballad’s lyrics about “the exploits of a Jack-the Ripper style killer” (Mumford,
2009, p. 85).
Secondly, Brecht was in search of a music that was able to participate in the awakening of the audience’s critical awareness. Consequently, Brecht disregarded certain sorts of music. He rejected the string-dominated orchestration and the musical tradition of the nineteenth-century opera because he could make no political or philosophical use of them. As Brecht notes, these sorts of music simply seduce the listener “into an enervating, because unproductive, act of enjoyment” (1964, p. 89).
6 Die Dreigroschenoper was first performed at the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm in Berlin in August 1928. Horváth moved to Berlin in 1924 where he would reside until 1934. Here, Ullstein published his works, he was a regular contributor to the Berlin newspapers and frequented the literary and theatrical circles of the time, where he met writers like Carl Zuckmayer, Kurt Tucholsky and Walter Mehring, and men of the theatre like Max Reinhardt, Ernst Josef Aufricht and Heinz Hilpert. 25
Weill’s compositions, mostly atonal melodies, satisfied Brecht’s requirements. They served the ‘epic’ model by being a partner of other elements in creating the
‘distantiation’ effect. After the success of Die Dreigroschenoper, Brecht and Weill continued working together at Der Lindbergflug (The Flight across the Ocean), Happy-
End, Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny (The Rise and Fall of the City of
Mahagonny), Der Jasager (He said Yes), Die sieben Todsünden (The Seven Deadly
Sins).
Horváth witnessed all these creative provocations and aesthetic transformations.
He was certainly influenced by the musical theatre of his time. He included cabaret scenes in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (“At Maxim’s”), planned to write a revue for Max Reinhardt together with Walter Mehring (Magazin des Glücks–The Happiness
Store), as well as a text in the new form of radio-play (Stunde der Liebe–The Hour of
Love). Horváth was also certainly aware of Brecht’s ideas on the role of music. Under
Brecht’s influence or perhaps inspired by the popularity of Weill’s works for the theatre, he was tempted to use the latter’s compositions in his most influential
Volksstück: Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald. In the opening of its first version,
Horváth noted: “Die Schönheit aus der Schellingstrasse. Volksstück with music and dances by Ӧdӧn von Horváth. Music by Kurt Weil. Dances: Cläre Echstein. Director:
Erich Engel” (“Die Schönheit aus der Schellingstrasse. Volksstück mit Gesang und
Tanz von Ӧdӧn von Horváth. Müsik von Kurt Weil. Tänz: Cläre Echstein. Regie:
Erich Engel”).7 Horváth eventually changed his perspective on the type of music deemed most suited to accompany stage events. He reconsidered his initial demand for original songs expressly prepared for this play and appealed instead to existing extra-
7 According to Horváth Archive, Ӧsterreichisches Literaturarchiv (ӦLA)/Ӧsterreichischen Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (NL Horváth, Gruppe 1.1.3., BS l (5), ӦLA 3/W13, p. 1). 26 textual musical material, mainly from the field of popular culture (Viennese songs).
The significance of this shift is addressed in the following sections of this chapter.
1.2. Critical perspectives on Horváth’s use of music
Peter Szondi’s Crisis of Modern Drama (1959) and Theory of Modern Drama (1963) as well asVolker Klotz’s study on the “closed” and “open” forms of drama (Geschlossene und offene Form im Drama, 1975) have provided important cues for the way in which the scholars of the ‘Horváth-Renaissance’ have approached the topic of music in the
Volksstücke cycle. According to Szondi’s and Klotz’s works, which discuss aspects of the distinction between ‘epic’ and ‘absolute’ dramatic models, the main feature of epic drama, is the existence of ‘narrative’ devices. They attest the presence of a narrator/author/story-teller which is presumably absent in the ‘absolute’ drama. Under the influence of these theories, critics have regarded Horváth’s choice of music, its place within the dialogue, and its sudden interruptions as voluntary interventions, which express a clear authorial intentionality, and set Horváth’s plays within the epic model. Gisela Günther’s or Stuart Parkes’s view that music serves mainly as an ironical counterpoint to the plot and dialogue is shared by most of the scholars who have examined the role of music in Horváth’s Volksstücke (Günther, 1978, p. 24;
Parkes, 1977, p. 116). Music is generally regarded as one way of disrupting the stage illusion and generating a distancing effect.
Hajo Kurzenberger (1974 and 2001), for example, explicitly compares the role of music in Horváth’s plays to the effect of ‘distantiation’ (Verfremdungseffekt) that music serves in Brecht’s theatre. He argues that “Horváth, like Brecht, considers that they [musical elements and dialogue] should act in a contrasting manner in order to
27 make the figures accessible and open to spectators’ criticism” (“Für Horváth genauso für Brecht, sie [Liedelementen und Dialog] sind kontrastierend gegeneinander auszuspielen, um dadurch die Figur für den Zuschauer einsehbar und kritisierbar zu
Machen” [2001, pp. 93-94]).
Like Kurzenberger, Wilhelm Martin Baumgartner connects Horváth’s
Volksstücke with the epic drama with regard to the role of music. Although Horváth’s use of music created a great deal of scholarly interest, Baumgartner’s study (“Lied und
Musik in den Volksstücken Ödön von Horváths”, 1988) is the only one entirely dedicated to this topic. The other critical positions that are included in the present review are expressed in studies that discuss general aspects of Horváth’s dramatic art.
Baumgartner’s analysis contains precise observations concerning the similarity between Horváth’s technique and that of epic theatre. He speaks of Horváth’s use of music as “epic commentary”.
Da Lied und Musik oft als ein Mittel in der Kommunikation Autor-Publikum eingesetzt werden, stehen die Dramen auch nach diesem Kriterium in der Nähe des epischen Theaters. Als Leitmotiv, Vor- und Rückverweis, Parallele oder Kontrast zur Handlung und durch das verfremdende plötzliche Abbrechen besitzt die Musik die Funktion eines Rezeptionssignals und ist Ebene epischen Kommentars. (Baumgartner, 1988, p. 178)
Because the songs and music are often used as a means of communication between the author and audience, the dramas are similar also, from this perspective, to the epic theatre. Music, as a leitmotif or linkage, set in parallel or contrast to the action, with its alienating sudden interruptions, functions as a reception signal and belongs to the category of epic commentaries.
Rather than the music itself, Baumgartner regards its sudden interruption followed by a pause as responsible for the Verfremdungseffekt. He emphasises that Horváth develops
28 a complex technique of juxtaposing music and moments of silence, in order to provoke the audience’s ‘distantiation’.
Das plötzliche Abbrechen [der Musik], besonders wenn es “mitten im Takt” geschieht, ... soll das Miterleben verhindern und das Publikum anweisen, in distanzierter Haltung Dialog und Handlung zu verfolgen. Gleichzeitig wird das Vertraute der Musik gestört, die Einstellung des Zuschauers wechselt von Identifikation zu Distanz. (Baumgartner, 1988, p. 176)
The sudden interruption [of music], especially when it occurs “in the middle of a beat” ... should prevent empathy and instruct the audience to follow the dialogue and action in a distant attitude. The familiar sound of music is simultaneously disturbed and the spectator’s mood changes from identification to distantiation.
Thus, according to Baumgartner, Horváth comments upon the play’s events not only through the choice of music itself but also through special directions about when it should stop or start again. When music is unexpectedly stopped, the audience’s empathy is inhibited and, consequently, their attention is forced to focus, for example, on the subsequent moment of the dialogue.
Both Baumgartner and Kurzenberger are in agreement with Alfred Doppler, who argues that Horváth’s use of popular music appeals to the common subconsciousness of the spectators, inviting them to identify themselves with the characters on stage (1976, p. 18). However, while Baumgartner considers that, with the help of unexpected pauses and by contrasting music and action, “Horváth suppresses eventually the empathy and identification in favour of distantiation and self-awareness”
(Baumgartner, 1988, p. 178), Kurzenberger proposes a slightly different version with regard to the spectators’ participation. He agrees that the spectators of Horváth’s
Volksstücke would be emotionally moved by musical means, yet not totally involved in
29 the illusory narrative world and in the characters’ emotions, and further suggests that the contrapuntal position of music and action or dialogue would result in the audience’s
“partial identification” (1974, p. 116). However, placed between ‘identification’ (a specific feature of the illusionist theatre), and ‘distantiation’ (a Brechtian technique), the “partial identification” still forces the spectator into a critical and analytical position towards the presented events.
Another important point of connection between Horváth’s plays and epic drama is, according to Baumgartner, Horváth’s use of songs. He points out that, in contrast to the ‘absolute’ and ‘closed’ drama, in Horváth’s Volksstücke the lyrics function as a substitute for dialogue. They belong to an “automatism of quoting”, to which
Horváth’s characters resort because of their incapacity for individual expression (1988, p. 178). Due to Baumgartner’s more detailed research, his study might be considered the most comprehensive one on this topic.
Krishna Winston (1977) also refers to music and songs as elements of
Verfremdung in Horváth’s plays (p. 183). Music, says Winston, is used to undercut illusion or to sharpen effects. The Verfremdung occurs when, for example in
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, cheerful Viennese music, represented mainly by
Strauss waltzes and folksongs, serves as an ironical counterpoint to the sad events in the play. Any idyllic view of Viennese life maintained by the audience is consequently altered and the spectators’ analytical judgement is aroused. Another example occurs when, in Revolte auf Côte 3018, for instance, “the workers sing of the freedom and beauty of the mountains, but the conditions of their lives and their subsequent conversation reveal that they cannot possibly share the sentiments expressed in the song” (Winston, 1977, p. 183). Closely studying six of Horváth’s plays, including
Revolte auf Côte 3018, Italienische Nacht and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, 30
Winston contends that the juxtaposition of music and dialogue is typical of Horváth’s entire oeuvre, and not only a characteristic of his Volksstücke.8
The elements of Horváth’s playwriting technique are more sparsely reviewed in more recent research and no different interpretations are provided with respect to the role of music in Horváth’s plays. However, new concepts concerning Horváth’s work arise, for example, “dramaturgie de la façade” and “Horváth Spielraum”, which involve indirect references to Horváth’s use of music. Under the concept of “façade dramaturgy”, Ingrid Haag (1991) defines a dramaturgical continuity within the plays of the Volksstücke, which consists of the systematic use of certain dramatic procedures
(among them the introduction of specific musical themes), and which is connected to the phenomenon of doubleness, manifesting itself through the permanent game of revealing and concealing. Haag draws on psychoanalysis and the Freudian model of dream interpretation in her critical approach to Horváth’s Volksstücke. On the other hand, Hajo Kurzenberger’s analysis of four exemplary Horváth performances of the
1990s concludes that the postmodern aesthetic, which defines the stage as a Spielraum, is suited to Horváth’s style (2001).9 Textual accuracy is not the main feature of contemporary postmodern Horváth productions; rather their atmosphere, where music is also pregnant with theatrical effect, is the main creative element. Discussing
Horváth’s contemporary reception, Melitta Becker (2001) claims, for example, that postmodern Horváth productions are true to the theatrical implications of the text–such
8 Winston’s study focuses on Horváth’s Revolte auf Côte 3018, Zur schönen Aussicht, Sladek oder Die schwarze Armee, Rund um den Kongress, Italienische Nacht and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald.
9 Hajo Kurzenberger discusses Christoph Marthaler’s Kasimir und Karoline (Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg, 1997), Martin Kušej’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Hamburg Thalia Theater, 1999), Andreas Kriegenburg’s Kasimir und Karoline (Staatsschauspiel Hannover, 1994) and Andrea Breth’s Der jüngste Tag (Wiener Burgtheater, 2000). 31 as visual atmosphere or the powerful expression of musical moments–rather than to the language of the text.
This overview has outlined the major critical ideas regarding the role of music in Horváth’s Volksstücke. As has been shown, they largely tend to connect Horváth’s use of music with the techniques of epic theatre. I agree that in Horváth’s Volksstücke the musical interventions represent the author’s ‘voice’, which comments on events and draws the receptor’s attention to certain aspects of the dramatic narrative. However, I contend that the frequently mentioned ‘epic’ quality of Horváth’s musical cues has less to do with ‘epic’ in the Brechtian sense and more to do with the ironical key of the plays and with the dramatic function of theatre in which Horváth believed: a means of catharsis in which the false consciousness of the petite bourgeoisie of his time is unmasked. Drawing on the critical literature that signals the differences between
Horváth’s and Brecht’s dramaturgies, I specifically argue that in Horváth’s and
Brecht’s works music serves divergent artistic aims and is involved in distinct forms of dramatic communication. My perspectives on Horváth’s use of music in relation to
Brecht’s are explained in more detail below.
The first point that I wish to emphasise is that in Horváth’s and Brecht’s plays music serves divergent artistic aims. In other words, what the two authors intended to communicate through music to the audience is not quite identical. Critics have noticed that although there are certain similarities between Horváth’s and Brecht’s dramaturgies, the differences outweigh the similarities on some significant levels. For example, in a study that discusses intertextual loops in modern drama, Christine Olga
Kiebuzinska notes that while Brecht was preoccupied with showing what must be done,
Horváth did not point out solutions (Kiebuzinska, 2001). According to Kiebuzinska,
Horváth is “more concerned with the disintegration of a moral and ethical point of view 32 in his characters than he is with presenting alternative ideological paradigms, as does
Brecht” (2001, p. 174). I agree that Horváth does not offer practical solutions to the social problems in his plays. As James Rosenberg argues, Horváth “is under no illusion that a magic solution is to be found in communism or Catholicism or royalism, or indeed any kind of ‘ism’” (1986, p. 377). Horváth, writes Rosenberg, sees the world in a similar manner to Chekhov; both of them consider that the “problem of evil” resides “in the heart of man, not in social organisations” (1986, p. 378). Horváth’s pessimism towards the social problems of his time resonates in all his Volksstücke. It is explicitly expressed in the motto that opens Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald:
“Nothing gives as strong an impression of infinity as stupidity” (“Nicht gibt so sehr das
Gefühl der Unendlichkeit als wie die Dummheit” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 705]). The
‘stupidity’ that Horváth refers to implies deformation of character, confusion, and emotional disorder, which make people vulnerable to corruption by external influences.
Horváth’s characters are hopelessly sick with ‘stupidity’ that paralyses their emotions, conscience, and, eventually, their independence of judgement. It makes them look “so vacuously alike” and “very sure of themselves, at least in their own minds”, as Horváth describes them, using a sentence from Italienische Nacht: “Sie sehen sich alle so fad gleich und werden gern so eingebildet selbstsicher” (1972, vol. 8, p. 660).
Horváth understands that the way to fight against this incorrigible ‘stupidity’ is by exposing it on stage. In contrast to Brecht’s and Piscator’s artistic endeavours that are aimed at influencing the historical process and moulding social consciousness,
Horváth’s “desire” was “just to describe the world as it unfortunately is”: “Ich [habe] doch kein anderes Bestreben …, als die Welt so zu schildern, wie sie halt leider ist”
33
(Horváth, 1972, vol.1, p. 13).10 From this perspective, according to Jean-Claude
François, who discusses aspects of popular theatre in Brecht’s and Horváth’s works, certain critics of Horváth’s time considered him “more dangerous than Piscator and
Brecht because he was more devious” (1979, p. 141). Later, in the 1970s, Peter
Handke suggests that Horváth is maybe not better but certainly different from Brecht. 11
In Handke’s opinion, Brecht’s theatre proposes a “simplistic solution” that represents
“only a convenience or an aphorism in which one postulates the orbloder of a possible world that one would like to put in place of the contradictions” (“Deswegen ist Brecht so einfach, vereinfacht: er zeigt zwar die Widersprüche, aber er zeigt auch die einfache
Lösung dafür. Diese Lösung ist aber für mich nichts als ein Bonmot oder ein
Aphorismus, in dem eine mögliche Ordnung der Welt behauptet wird, die man an die
Stelle der Widersprüche setzen könnte” [1970, p. 180]).
Handke declares that he prefers Horváth, “with his disorder and unstylized sentimentality”, and further explains his preference: “the confused language of his characters frightens me; the examples of wickedness, powerlessness, confusion in a given society take on sharper outlines in Horváth” (“Ich ziehe Ӧdӧn von Horváth und seine Unordnung und unstilisierte Sentimentalität vor. Die verwirrten Sätze seiner
Personen erschrecken mich, die Modelle der Bösartigkeit, der Hilflösigkeit, der
Verwirrung in einer bestimmten Gesellschaft werden bei Horváth viel deutlicher”
[1970, p. 180]).
Horváth uses music as a key device in his endeavour to portray the false consciousness of his contemporaries. He unveils the characters–parodies of his intended spectators–not only through their action and language but also through the
10 Unless otherwise specified, all translations from Horváth’s texts are my own.
11 Franz Xaver Kroetz, Martin Sperr, Wolfgang Bauer and Peter Turini also recognise the decisive influence that Horváth exerts on their own themes and techniques (see Jarka, 1995, pp. 161-162). 34 music they listen to and to which they respond emotionally. Horváth creates a sense of parallelism between the characters on stage and the members of the audience in the performance hall by bringing to the centre of attention and on stage that which represents them best: their language (the Bildungsjargon) and their music. Horváth’s contemporaries, like his characters, are caught up in a web of lies and self-deception and, therefore, are receptive to music that encourages their fake sentimentality and illusions. Consequently, in contrast to Brecht, Horváth integrates into his plays already existing musical quotations that correspond to Adorno’s description of ‘hits’: popular tunes that deliver a ‘substitute’ for feelings and that count on people who are not fully mature and cannot control their expression and experience (Adorno, 1988, p. 27). The musical pieces he refers to in his drama uncover the taste of a wide spectrum of the audience of the early 1930s: Viennese waltzes and folk songs, military music and marches, drinking songs of the Heurige and of the Oktoberfest, and ‘popular classics’ heard on the radio. Horváth uses popular music to portray the façade of illusions and the superficial harmony promoted by petty-bourgeois culture, implicitly suggesting that music represents an essential part of this culture.
However, the validity of Horváth’s use of music in the Volksstücke lies not only in the contribution to the portrayal of ordinary people but rather in its ability to speak to them in the theatre. Brecht’s and Horváth’s works involve music in distinct forms of non-conceptual communication between the author and the audience. In Horváth’s theatre, the musical episodes urge an emotional response in the audience and, hence, become active elements in the process of ‘unmasking’ the false consciousness that was
Horváth’s ultimate aim. He addressed individual spectators so that they could become conscious of themselves by seeing themselves on stage. This intention is explicitly expressed in his theoretical statements. 35
Wie in allen meinen Stücken versuchte ich ... möglichst rücksichtslos gegen Dummheit und Lüge zu sein, denn diese Rücksichtslosigkeit dürfte wohl die vornehmste Aufgabe eines schöngeistigen Schriftstellers darstellen, der es sich manchmal einbildet, nur deshalb zu schreiben, damit die Leut sich selbst erkennen. Erkenne dich bitte selbst! ... so daß du dich immerhin nicht von droben, aber von vorne, hinten, seitwärts und von drunten betrachten kannst! (Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, p. 328)
As in all my plays, I tried ... to be as inconsiderate as possible against stupidity and lies, because this inconsiderateness might probably be the most distinguished task of an intellectual author who sometimes imagines himself writing only so that the people come to know themselves. Know yourself, please! ... So that you can look at yourself, not only from up, but from in front, from the back, from the side and from underneath!
Thus, Horváth’s ironical depiction of reality and portrayal of ‘stupidity’ implies also a didactic goal: the exposure of the deceitfulness should facilitate the members of the audience to acquire self-awareness. Horváth’s aim was to achieve the destruction of their illusions by exposing their false consciousness. “I have no other goal”, writes
Horváth, “than to unmask consciousness” (“Ich habe kein anderes Ziel, als wie dies:
Demaskierung des Bewußtseins” [1972, vol. 8, p. 660]). In other words, Horváth hoped that the members of the audience would recognise themselves in the characters that are portrayed on stage and, consequently, would feel uncertain and uncomfortable in their own reality:
Der Widerwille eines Teiles des Publikums beruht wohl darauf, daß dieser Teil sich in den Personen auf der Bühne selbst erkennt–und es gibt natürlich Menschen, die über sich selbst nicht lachen können. (Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, p. 13)
36
The revulsion of a part of the public is probably based on the fact that this part recognises itself in the persons on stage–and there are naturally people who cannot laugh about themselves.
In order to reach his aim, Horváth had to engage the audience at a subconscious level.
In contrast to Brecht’s theatre, which requires the spectators to maintain a critical distance towards the represented events, Horváth’s theatre relies on their emotional participation. Horváth openly declared that the new Volksstück he wanted to create should be “a true folk theatre” that “appeals to people’s instincts and not to their intellect” (“ein wahrhaftiges Volkstheater ... das an die Instinkte und nicht an den
Intellekt des Volkes appeliert” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662]).12 The idea that
Brecht’s and Horváth’s dramaturgies, although comparable in intention, end up as radically opposed ones is discussed, for example, by Margaret Mahony Stoljar, who asserts that while Brecht “points out phenomena and exposes them to rational observation”, Horváth “demonstrates phenomena which are experienced directly by the audience” (1977, p. 344). Unlike Brecht who rejected the catharsis theory, Horváth embraced the Aristotelian perspective and believed in the psychological function of the theatre. He specifically argues that theatre, whether it has an aesthetic or a didactic goal or whether it serves as pure entertainment, functions as a “valve” (“das Ventil”) for the spectator’s “anti-social impulses” and offers the satisfaction of these impulses through “experience” (“das Erlebnis”) as well:
Das Theater phantasiert für den Zuschauer, und gleichzeitig läßt es ihn auch die Produkte dieser Phantasie erleben. ... Was geht da in dem einzelnen Zuschauer
12 Horváth uses the term “instincts” for defining the non-rational impulses that ruled the conduct of the petite bourgeoisie of that time. Alan Bance considers that “it is far-sighted and courageous of Horváth to cite “instincts” at all, especially towards the end of the Weimar Republic, when the conservative Revolutionaries were achieving an ever greater impact with their rebellion of ‘the blood’ against intellect and doctrine, and Hitler was winning through” (2008, p. 39). 37
vor? Folgendes: seine scheinbare Antipathie gegen die kriminellen Geschehnisse auf der Bühne ist keine wahre Empörung, sondern eigentlich ein Mitmachen, ein Miterleben und, durch dieses Miterleben ausgelöst, Befriedigung asozialer Triebe. Der Zuschauer ist also gewissermaßen über sich selbst empört. Man nennt diesen Zustand Erbauung.13 (Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, pp. 14-15)
The theatre fantasises for the spectator and, at the same time, it allows him to experience the products of this imagination. ... What is going on then within each spectator? The following: his ostensible antipathy against the criminal happenings on stage is no real outrage, but it rather represents the acts of joining and witnessing; through these acts the satisfaction of the spectator’s antisocial impulses is accomplished. Thus, the spectator is at the same time outraged about himself. This state is called ‘edification’.
Horváth affirms here his conviction that theatre, as an art form, can never ‘die’ because it represents a powerful source of illusions that incites and satisfies the darkest subconscious impulses of individual spectators. Consequently, as Horváth states,
“people leave the theatre with less antisocial impulses” (“Die Leute gehen aus dem
Theater mit weniger asozialen Regungen heraus, wie hinein” [1972, vol. 8, p. 661]).
He also expresses his belief in the importance of the audience’s imaginative involvement in the action they witness. His appeal to the spectators’ response led Klotz
(1976) to describe Horváth’s drama as “Reagenz-Dramatik” (reagent drama). The call for imaginative involvement and empathy is necessary for eventually making the irony apparent and the caricature of his characters evident:
Mit meiner Demaskierung des Bewußtseins erreiche ich natürlich eine Störung der Mordgefühle - daher kommt es auch, daß Leute meine Stücke oft ekelhaft
13 Horváth explains that he uses the term “asocial” to describe “impulses that have a criminal base” rather than “movements that are directed against society” (“Unter asozial verstehe ich Triebe, die auf einer kriminellen Basis beruhen–und nicht etwa Bewegungen, die gegen eine Gesellschaft gerichtet sind” [1972, vol. 8, p. 661]).
38
und abstoßend finden, weil sie eben die Schandtaten nicht so miterleben können. Sie werden auf die Schandtaten gestoßen - sie fallen ihnen auf und erleben sie nicht mit. (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, pp. 661-662)
With my unmasking of consciousness, I naturally reach a disturbance of the criminal instincts–therefore, people often find my plays disgusting and repulsive because they cannot witness the outrages in this state. Facing the outrages–they are shocked and cannot experience them.
As Horváth explains, feelings of discomfort should mark the final stage of recognition.
The enticement of the audience’s active participation should end in disturbance so the
“unmasking” process can be completed.
Thus, Horváth envisioned the theatre as serving a psychological and didactic function, as a form of catharsis in which “asocial impulses” are experienced by being ultimately unmasked. As other scholars have already emphasised, music is an important element of this process. But contrary to the literature that connects music in
Horváth’s plays to the effect of “distantiation” or “partial identification”, which also implies a critical perspective on the presented events, my study considers that
Horváth’s use of music does not aim at rational analysis. The sense of discomfort that it eventually induces is not to be equated with the critical “distantiation” of Brecht’s theatre. Horváth’s shift from Kurt Weill’s avant-garde music to popular music is symptomatic of the divergent way in which music is supposed to effect/affect
Horváth’s Volksstücke in comparison to Brecht’s theatre. My study suggests that
Horváth does not appeal to spectators’ power of rational observation in his use of music. His intention was to capture the audience through the stimulation of their subconscious perception and response. Even if Horváth was attracted by Weill’s view that music was a perfect medium for communicating the “Gestus” (the essence) of theatrical events, he did not consider Weill’s ‘functional’ music as suited to serve his
39 purpose, and he subsequently abandoned his initial plan to use Weill’s compositions in
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald. The belief behind Horváth’s use of popular music, which echoes Adorno’s influence, is that music acts on consciousness, the body, on emotions.
I shall develop the argument that in his Volksstücke, Horváth plays with the illusion and disillusion at a subconscious level only. Music supports the audience’s involvement in a world of illusion that proves to be deceptive because it only reflects a mundane reality. Popular music encourages expectations of a genre that remain unfulfilled. It helps to establish a Volksstück façade that is gradually destroyed in the course of the action. Thus, my thesis connects the act of subverting the audience’s expectations by musical means with the process of destruction of the ‘old’ Volksstück that Horváth intended. He expressly states in the Gebrauchsanweisung that he attempts to radically transform the ‘old’ Volksstück “both in its form and in its ethos” in order to find a new form of the ‘folk-play’ (“Mit vollem Bewußtsein zerstöre ich nun das alte
Volksstück, formal und ethisch und versuche die neue Form des Volksstückes zu finden” [1972, vol. 8, p. 663]). Horváth’s use of music is analysed here as part of a playwriting technique that served the creation of a new form of ‘popular’ theatre in the interwar period.
1.3. Music in the tradition of the Volksstück genre and in Horváth’s new Volksstücke
Music has always been one of the fundamental elements of the popular theatre. By calling his plays ‘Volksstücke’, Horváth evokes certain expectations with respect to the role of music in his drama. This section discusses the complex role of music in the
40 tradition of the Volksstück, as it was developed in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, in order to introduce the expectancies of the genre as well as aspects of
Horváth’s innovative use of music in his Volksstücke to be explored in more detail in my analysis of Horváth’s plays.
Horváth refers to the incipient Volksstück of the eighteenth century as an important source of inspiration for the creation of his plays. He declared that, in the attempt to find the new form of his Volksstück, he turned “more to the tradition of folk- singers and folk-comedians than to the authors of the classical Volksstücke” (“Dabei lehne ich mich mehr an die Tradition der Volkssänger und Volkskomiker an, denn an die Autoren der klassischen Volksstücke” [1972, vol. 8, p. 663]).
According to Peter Branscombe’s study on the Viennese popular theatre, the
Volksstück tradition started around 1710, when Joseph Anton Stranitzky’s company of
German actors began to perform “plays with music” at Theater nächst dem Kärntnertor in Vienna (Branscombe, 1971-1972, p. 101). The eighteenth-century Volksstück was usually improvised theatre, in which musical and pantomime interludes played a significant role. The quantity of music composed for this type of theatre was enormous. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, the average number of sung pieces could reach at least sixteen per individual show, without taking into consideration the incidental music. The melodies, usually tuneful, harmonically simple and, hence, very popular, accompanied uncomplicated plots. However, as the musicologist Eva Badura-Skoda emphasises, it would be a mistake to criticise the musical content of the Viennese popular theatre of the eighteenth century for lack of critical depth. She affirms that the aria texts and libretti that survived from that period reveal “an interesting underlying philosophy depicting human tragedy as well as
41 comedy” that can also be found in the later plays of Ferdinand Raimund and Johann
Nestroy (1973-1974, p. 185).
In the traditional Volksstück, music’s relationship to the plot was not simply decorative but rather functional. The instrumental music was designed to aid the staging. It assisted the illustration of represented events and often fulfilled a mood- enhancing function. The musical interludes were meant to contribute to the unfolding of the amusement principle, which was a characteristic feature of the traditional
Volksstück. They initially included short and simple songs that were not necessarily linked to the stage action. However, the musical interludes expanded from simple ditties to ample monologues in the form of songs. The ‘solo’ or the sung monologue introduced the main comic characters or accompanied their exits. ‘Duets’ or alternating
‘solos’ were also frequently used. Choruses and quodlibets are other examples of the integral role of music in Viennese popular theatrical practice. Choruses were used for practical purposes, such as to bridge the gap between scenes or to end an act or a whole play in a stirring manner. A quodlibet consisted of a suite of popular tunes that were combined in such a manner as to serve a parodistic intent by their interchange. A typical example of a quodlibet comprised ten or fifteen musical excerpts that were incongruously juxtaposed. This overview of the most frequently employed categories of musical insertions emphasises the extensive use of music in Viennese popular theatre in the eighteenth century, from Stranitzky through the authors of traditional
Volksstück in the early nineteenth century: Joseph Gleich, Karl Meisl, and Adolphe
Bäuerle.
Although Horváth has never specified the names of the “authors of the classical
Volksstücke” who inspired him, most scholars have presumed that he referred to
Ferdinand Raimund and Johann Nestroy (“… zerstöre ich nun das alte Volksstück … 42 und versuche die neue Form des Volksstückes zu finden. Dabei lehne ich mich mehr an die Tradition der Volkssänger an und Volkskomiker an, denn an die Autoren der klassischen Volksstücke” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 663]). Their works are representative of two distinct forms of the Volksstück genre that became highly popular in the nineteenth century. Ferdinand Raimund is famous for his Zauberstücke (magical plays) with a strong emphasis on the moral improvement of the main character, while
Johann Nestroy is known for his Lokalstücke (local farces), a mixture of straight parody and comic satire.
Raimund retained the extensive use of the musical element from the traditional form of Viennese popular theatre. ‘Volksstück with music’ or ‘with songs and dances’ are common labels for many of his plays, such as Der Bauer als Millionär (The
Peasant as Millionaire) or Der Barometermacher auf der Zauberinsel (The Barometer
Maker on the Enchanted Island). Music is present in the form of orchestral accompaniment and choral or solo singing. The instrumental music fulfils a decorative or a simple functional role; it accompanies and emphasises a great variety of dramatic happenings and situations. The songs, on the other hand, accomplish a more complex function in Raimund’s plays than in the earlier comedies. Harry Zohn studies the role of music in Raimund’s theatre and remarks that Raimund is the first to combine monologues and songs (1984, p. 4). From this perspective, according to Zohn,
“Raimund foreshadows the Viennese operetta in both its golden and silver ages, and even the American musicals of Rodgers and Hammerstein” (1984, p. 5). Songs become dramatically purposeful in Raimund’s plays. They are more closely tied to the action and also further the plot. They give details about characters’ situations and feelings, and become artistic means of the protagonists’ portrayal and characterisation.
They also break through the magical world and localise the action in Vienna through
43 the inclusion of specific Viennese references. Choruses are also active ingredients of
Raimund’s Volksstücke. They introduce almost every play (an exception is Der
Barometermacher auf der Zauberinsel) and accompany most of the scene changes, providing an emotional frame for the audience. Next to choruses, quodlibets and situational songs are also important dramatic devices, with Raimund largely relying on their mimic or burlesque character. In Nestroy’s works their incidence diminishes considerably.
Although Nestroy’s first literary success, Der böse Geist Lumpazivagabundus
(The Evil Spirit Lumpazivagabundus, 1833), abounds in music, his later plays register a change in the quantity and type of music included. The incidental music is more conventional, merely designed to support the staging. The chorus is almost absent and the number of songs is decreased drastically. Nestroy relies mostly on couplets, which are satirical monologues in a song form. His tendency to include more couplets than other forms of vocal music corresponds to his intention to add a more pregnant critical dimension to his plays. In contrast to Raimund’s Zauberstück, Nestroy’s Lokalstück proposes a realistic and satirical approach to the social and moral life of Viennese people. Nestroy preferred the couplets because they were more apt to sustain the trenchancy of his monologues. They did not convey harmony like the songs in
Raimund’s plays but rather dissonance and, therefore, served Nestroy’s satirical attacks on the foibles of his day. However, in spite of a more apparent critical accent, the vocal singing and musical accompaniment in Nestroy’s plays still retains an entertaining principle, a comic plot with its mistaken identities and recognition-scenes that eventually calls for a parodic contrived happy ending. Music contains familiar and local references and acts as a means of connection between the stage and the world the spectators knew.
44
Thus, when Horváth called his plays ‘Volksstücke’, he raised quite specific expectations in an audience that was very familiar with this tradition. They would expect to see a piece of popular entertainment, generally comic, often rather sentimental, with a simple action and an episodic form. As in the tradition of the
Volksstück genre, popular music was supposed to produce pleasant emotional responses and a cosy, familiar atmosphere. It would conjure up a longing that, as Gerhard Fischer has emphasised in GRIPS. Geschichte eines populären Theaters, is closely related to
“the fairytale’s utopian power”: “the longing for the happy ending” (2002, p. 313).
However, in Horváth’s Volksstücke, music is put to new uses. It caters to the expectations specific to a piece of popular entertainment, only to be subverted by the dramatic events.
The new Volksstück form that Horváth envisaged is the work of a “true chronicler”, as Horváth called himself (1972, vol. 8, p. 662). It presents a “true” depiction of his time and brings on stage the everyday life of the people. As he declared, Horváth did not aim to portray individuals or particular situations but the
“large masses”: “Will ich das Volk schildern, darf ich natürlich nicht nur die zehn
Prozent schildern, sondern als treuer Chronist meiner Zeit, die große Masse. Das ganze
Deutschland muß es sein!” (1972, vol. 8, p. 662) But the people he portrayed and addressed did not correspond anymore to the people that inspired, for example,
Nestroy’s plays.
... des alten Volksstückes, das für uns junge Menschen mehr oder minder natürlich auch nur noch einen historischen Wert bedeutet, denn die Gestalten dieser Volksstücke, also die Träger der Handlung haben sich doch in den letzten zwei Jahrzenten ganz unglaublich verändert. ... Will man also das alte Volksstück heute fortsetzen, so wird man natürlich heutige Menschen aus dem
45
Volke–und zwar aus den maßgebenden, für unsere Zeit bezeichnenden Schichten des Volkes auf die Bühne bringen. (Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, p. 11)
The old Volksstück naturally is of little more than historical interest for us young people, since the characters of these plays, the protagonists, have changed out of all recognition in the last two decades. … Whoever wants today to continue the tradition of the old Volksstück must bring on stage today’s people–namely people from the most representative social layers of our time.
In his attempt to write Volksstücke, Horváth had to adapt the traditional genre to a changed world. The ‘new’ Volk that his plays depict and address is, as Horváth declared, “ninety per cent” composed of “either successful or frustrated petit bourgeois” (“Nun besteht aber Deutschland, wie alle übrigen europäischen Staaten zu neunzig Prozent aus vollendeten oder verhinderten Kleinbürgern, auf alle Fälle auf
Kleinbürgern” [1972, vol. 8, p. 662]).
When he uses the term “petit bourgeois”, Horváth refers to the representatives of the newly-formed middle-class in the wake of the global economic crisis and inflation after the First World War. Theodor Geiger, an early sociologist, attempted to create a “sociography” of the incompletely and unevenly industrialising society of the
Weimar Republic in his study Die soziale Schichtung des deutschen Volkes.
Soziographischer Versuch auf statistischer Grundlage (The Social Stratification of the
German People. A Sociographic Attempt on the Basis of Statistics), published in 1932.
Here he points out the highly heterogeneous character of the newly-formed middle- class (Geiger, 1932, p. 82). Like Geiger, Horváth noticed the “blurred boundaries” of this new class (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 664). However, as Horváth notes, it still represents “a proper class … not a transition, a class with its own ideology” (“Der
Mittelstand ist eine Klasse, eine eigene zwischen zwei anderen, heute. Seine Grenzen verwischen sich, aber es ist doch eine Klasse, kein Übergang, eine Klasse mit eigener 46
Ideologie” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 664]). The manuscript of Der Mittelstand offers an explicit image of Horváth’s understandings of the ‘new’ middle-class, born as a
“Phoenix out of the inflation” (“Phönix aus der Inflation = der neue Mittelstand”
[Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 648]).14 This new class is made up of examples of the ascendant proletariat, “survivors” from the ‘old’ middle-class (traders, merchants, officers, intellectuals, and students), relegated aristocrats (who lost the ‘von’ part of their names), and employees, who represent the “result of all forms of demotion”:
Die neuen (werdenden oder Übergangsformen) Formen des Mittelstandes. I. Überbleibsel aus der Schieberzeit II. Aufstieg aus dem Proletariat … III. Überbleibsel aus dem alten Mittelstand ... IV. Degradiert aus Bourgeoisie V. Degradiert aus Aristokratie ... Das verlorene “von” VI. Die Angestellten. (Das Produkt aus allem Degradierungen) (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, pp. 648-649)
This melting pot of different social types is held together by a common petit bourgeois ideology that finds expression in the generic behaviour of its representatives. The exposure of this ideology forms the main subject of Horváth’s Volksstücke.
In contrast to the traditional examples of the genre, the new Volksstücke are conceived in an artistic key that blends, as Horváth states, “seriousness and irony”
(“eine Synthese von Ernst und Ironie” [1972, vol. 1, p. 12]). They depict a petty bourgeois characterised by a lack of self-awareness, who is in thrall to a culture dominated by kitsch, receptive to a music that encourages sentimentality and illusion, and who speaks in Bildungsjargon, a hybrid language consisting of truisms, idiomatic
14 Horváth intended to write a novel entitled Der Mittelstand in 1929, as demonstrated by the four hand- written pages of the manuscript. The portrayal of the middle-class is the subject of another novel, Der ewige Spießer, published in 1930 by the Propyläen Publishing House, Berlin. 47 expressions, clichés, and misapplied quotations from the classics and popular culture of the time. The characters resort to this kind of artificial speech as part of the process of their deformation of consciousness they are suffering. The Bildungsjargon serves their attempts to sound educated, sophisticated, and, accordingly, special and distinctive and different from the general mass of ordinary people. It seems to be their guarantor of an elevated personal consciousness and the asserter of their individual identities.
However, this action has a contrary effect. By allowing his characters to speak the
Bildungsjargon, Horváth specifically indicates their loss of individuality and personality. They join the mass of people who are controlled by the ‘jargon of pseudo- cultivation’ that devalues thoughts. Karoline’s line (Kasimir und Karoline) is a clear expression of this effect: “I do not think anything, only say it” (“Karoline: Ich denke ja gar nichts, ich sage es ja nur” [Horváth, 2009, p. 483]). With the use of the
Bildungsjargon, the force and beauty of the words are lost. The spontaneity of language has been debased. Only platitudes abound, and vague concepts (e.g.,
“Menschen”, “Jugend”, “Leben”, etc.) are used without consistency and only for the purpose of impression-making. The unintentional repetition of words, such as
“natürlich” (Horváth, 2009, pp. 465, 470, 475, 485, 488) or “bestimmt” (Horváth, 2009, pp. 466, 469, 471, 482), do not express any certainty but rather reflect the characters’ uncertainty of any language command. Under the classical façade of the Volksstück,
Horváth conceals a bitter representation of reality. The comic plot is also absent, despite numerous humorous moments, as is the happy ending. When the recognition or final reconciliation scenes seem to occur in the style of the old Volksstück (for example in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald), they have only a satirical effect and announce further disastrous events.
48
In this context, Horváth’s choice of music is significant. The presence of popular music in Horváth’s Volksstücke draws these plays near the classical examples of the genre and, consequently, assists Horváth in manipulating the taken-for-granted expectations of his intended audience. In contrast to Brecht who uses music to create the effect of distantiation, Horváth employs music specifically for its ability to induce a familiar atmosphere. Horváth defines his Volkstück as “a play that addresses people’s problems in a very familiar way” (“eines Stückes, in dem Probleme auf eine möglichst volkstümliche Art behandelt und gestaltet werden ... Fragen des Volkes, seine einfachen Sorgen, [sind] durch die Augen des Volkes gesehen” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662]). The use of popular music and songs next to familiar characters, situations and language contributes greatly to the action’s localisation in known environments. It helps to describe a social-cultural milieu that is familiar to both characters and audience. In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, for example, waltzes and Viennese songs evoke the spirit of Gemütlichkeit and localise the play’s action in Vienna, while in Kasimir und Karoline folk songs and Oktoberfest music directly suggests Munich and Oktoberfest as the location of the play’s events. However, precisely this familiarity becomes a means of ironical as well as critical exposure. It misleads the audience into feeling comfortable with the represented events without calling eventually for cosiness or humorous burlesque as in the earlier Volksstücke, rather for discomfort and grotesque caricature. The members of the audience become familiar with a world that mirrors their own viciousness, their deformation of personality and character, their derangement of the will and the ability to feel, their lack of self-awareness and individual critical thinking. Thus, although familiar, the music does not produce pleasant emotional responses and a cosy mood. It contributes at a subconscious level to the listener’s feelings of dissatisfaction and disorder.
49
On the other hand, the sense of familiarity, promoted also by musical means, brings the myth of the Gemütlichkeit on stage (most exemplarily in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald) only in order to uncover a menacing face. It shows that the so much quoted ‘Gemütlichkeit’ fosters moral and spiritual obtuseness as well as an emotionalism that is merely shallow sentimentality. Horváth implicitly suggests that the people portrayed in the Volksstücke are predisposed to manipulation, due to their
“stupidity” and gullibility (“Nicht gibt so sehr das Gefühl der Unendlichkeit als wie die
Dummheit” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 705]). He indicates that popular music acts as a surrogate that provides an illusion of happiness and security and has a great impact on the masses.
In contrast to the authors of the traditional Volksstück, Horváth is consistently specific with regard to the musical fragments that should be heard, played or sung. Raimund, for example, asks merely for “appropriate music” (“passende
Musik”) in most of his Zauberstücke. Nestroy requires “folk” or “tempestuous music”
(“Ländler” or “Gewittermusik”) in Der böse Geist Lumpazivagabundus (1972, p. 14 and p. 67) and “suitable” or “joyful music” (“passende” or “fröhliche Musik”) in Einen
Jux will er sich machen (Nestroy, 2015, p. 56 and p. 73 and p. 85). Through the inclusion of specific musical pieces, Horváth refers the reader/spectator to a kind of thought or experience perceived as best conveyed through music or particularly associated with music. Moreover, Horváth’s employment of certain musical episodes illustrates his awareness of the explicit socio-historical convention they recall. In
Dramaturgie des Publikums (1976), Volker Klotz argues that the process of constructing theatrical meaning is dialectical and located within a specific historical framework. According to Klotz’s theory, the dramatist draws on a “system of common experience” (“allgemeiner Erfahrungsschatz”) to communicate with the members of his 50 intended audience (1976, p. 13). The insertion of specific musical themes represents
Horváth’s appeal to this “system of common experience” to provoke and then subvert the audience’s expectations.
Some other characteristics of Horváth’s use of music distinguish his
Volksstücke from the traditional examples of the genre. In most of the classical
Volksstücke, music’s relationship to a given plot is functional or simply decorative. In
Horváth’s Volksstücke, music is always intimately linked to the action, regardless of its position in the structure of the play. All the musical cues are part of the semantics of the play, as are the set or props. When the musical fragments compose individual scenes that act as interludes (for example, Kasimir und Karoline), they are connected to the plot through the message they convey. They announce the events of the next scene or echo the actions that have just ended. Thus, in Horváth’s Volksstücke, the musical insertions are neither incidental nor interchangeable. They are an essential part of a
Horváth dramatic text.
In the present study, the major discrepancies between Horváth and the authors of the ‘old’ Viennese Volksstück, in particular Raimund and Nestroy, with regard to the use of music are seen in Horváth’s intentional subversion of the Volksstück genre by musical means. I argue that music is part of Horváth’s attempt to reform the genre in order to create a new Volksstück that presents the predicaments of his contemporaries
“as seen through their eyes” (“weil mir so etwas wie eine Fortsetzung, Erneuerung des alten Volksstückes vorgeschwebt ist – also eines Stückes, in dem … Fragen des
Volkes, seine einfachen Sorgen, durch die Augen des Volkes gesehen” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662]).
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1.4. Theoretical perspectives
My analysis of Horváth’s choice of music and its role in each play of the Volksstücke cycle draws on theories from the field of music sociology. In the context of present study, the most significant is the theory that claims the social aspect of musical meaning. It represents an alternative to the empiricist or rationalist perspectives on musical meaning, which, according to Peter Martin’s study on sounds in society, correspond to a more general debate about the nature of meaning (1995, pp. 27-30).
The empiricist theory holds that the meaning of things is inherent in them and that this meaning becomes obvious to us due to our sensorial perception, which allows us to realise their properties and qualities. In a similar manner, it has been argued that meaning is inherent in music and that we can intuitively grasp it through our aural perception. On the other hand, the rationalist theory, which is based on Descartes’s philosophical principles, rejects the involvement of senses in the process of understanding and defining the external reality. Instead, this theory argues that the meaning of things is exclusively generated by our basic mental equipment. Following this perspective, musical meaning is rationally grasped by the human mind. However, from a sociological point of view, meanings are inherent neither in objects nor in the human mind; they are generated in the process of social interaction. In other words,
“socialisation leads us to interpret the music we hear in particular ways, and the ways that we invest it with meaning reflect our cultural conventions, rather than intuition or the decoding of its inherent message” (Martin, 1995, p. 64).
In the field of music sociology, Theodor Adorno’s works are influential.
Adorno suggests that music’s function has been altered in the modern era and that
52 music is regarded as a medium that reflects or otherwise parallels social structures.
Specifically, he argues that:
[Music] fulfils its social function more precisely when it presents social problems through its own material and according to its own formal laws– problems which music contains within itself in the innermost cells of its technique. The task of music as art thus enters into a parallel relationship to the task of social theory. (Adorno, 2002, p. 393)
From this perspective, Adorno disregarded popular music. He describes the ‘hits’ as tunes that respond to our most basic musical expectations. Characterised by simple structures, direct communication of contents, and a harmonic character, they are predictable and encourage mindless listening. “The hits”, says Adorno, “not only appeal to a ‘lonely crowd’ of the atomized; they reckon with the immature, with those who cannot express their emotions and experiences, who either never had the power of expression or were crippled by cultural taboos” (1988, pp. 26-27). Adorno implicitly refers to hits as important factors in the phenomenon of opinion or consciousness- moulding (Bewußtseinsmanipulation). They offer patterns of identification. Whoever whistles such a song to himself, argues Adorno, “bows to a ritual of socialization”
(1988, p. 27). What Adorno suggests is that the culture industry might work as a manipulative tool for controlling the vast majority of people: “the mass phenomenon of popular music undermines the autonomy and independence of judgment–qualities which a society of free men would require” (1988, p. 38). This theory found a practical counterpart in Horváth’s Volksstücke which provide demonstrations of the impact of popular media.
Adorno’s ideas influenced other sociologists interested in the social aspect of musical meaning. John Shepherd (1991 and 1977), for example, discusses music as a
53 social text. Shepherd’s work revolves around the idea that “any significance assigned to music must be ultimately and necessarily located in the commonly agreed meanings of the group or society in which the particular music is created” (1977, p. 7). Similar to
Adorno, Shepherd contends that the parameters and constraints of an established cultural context are defining elements in the processes of producing and receiving music. He implicitly suggests that the characteristics of music reflect, and are inextricably related to, the characteristics of the societies in which they are created.
Unlike Adorno, Shepherd does not disregard popular music but sees it as a source of
“human relatedness” in the context of alienated industrial societies (1977, p. 11).
Tia DeNora shares the idea that the perception and attribution of meanings to music is a social and active process. Her studies (e.g., “How is extra-musical meaning possible? Music as a place and space for ‘work’” [1986] and “After Adorno.
Rethinking music sociology” [2003]) put greater emphasis on the active role of the listener in music interpretation according to the rules, preconceptions and expectations the listener has previously experienced. Music is a “place and space for ‘work’”, writes
DeNora, that depends on the “interpretive procedures” of the listener (1986, p. 90).
Our understanding of music involves the process through which, both informally and via direct instruction, we learn the culturally appropriate ways to hear it. According to
DeNora, “culture represents a struggle over the definition of social reality and therefore the issue of meaning of objects is also an issue of who defines or appropriates them, where, when, how and for what purpose” (1986, p. 93). DeNora implicitly argues that the attachment of meaning to music occurs through the activities of individuals and groups as they seek to further their interests or defend them or as they try to impose their views on others.
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The present study draws on this theoretical framework when analysing the importance of music in Horváth’s Volksstücke. It specifically claims that the social aspect of musical meaning, as theorised by Adorno and his successors, such as
Shepherd and DeNora, is a determinant in Horváth’s choice of music. The musical material in the Volksstücke is to some extent popular and accomplishes the same function as a hit song. On the one hand, they deliver an “ersatz for feelings” in
Adorno’s terms (1988, p. 27). On the other hand, the musical pieces that Horváth inserts in the Volksstücke are already linked in the social consciousness of the masses with particular ideas, events or activities. They recall a specific socio-cultural convention and, consequently, stir particular expectations. The sociologist Howard
Becker (1982) argues that much of the response to an artistic work derives precisely from the artist’s ability to manipulate the taken-for-granted expectations of the intended audience. According to Becker, “only because artist and audience share knowledge and experience of the conventions invoked, does the artwork produce an emotional effect”
(1982, p. 30). Through musical means, Horváth stimulates the spectators’ emotional response for inducing and then subverting their expectations.
In Horváth’s Volksstücke, music manifests in two distinct forms. First, it is present in the stage directions which contain clear indications about various musical pieces that should be heard (off stage) or played (on stage). Then, music interferes with the dialogue in the form of songs that are sung by the plays’ characters. My study examines music’s occurrence in both of these forms in Horváth’s Volksstücke. The analysis of the role of music in each play of the cycle shows that music acts as a meaning-carrier. It conveys extra-textual messages to the receptors of Horváth’s work.
The modalities used to indicate it as such are discussed in the following chapters.
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CHAPTER TWO:
Music in Ödön von Horváth’s ‘political’ Volksstücke
This chapter discusses the role of music in Horváth’s Revolte auf Côte 3018 (1926),
Die Bergbahn (1927) and Italienische Nacht (1930). The political accents are more obvious in these first plays of the cycle and, as a consequence, I group them under the category of ‘political’ Volksstücke.
The first section of this chapter analyses Horváth’s use of music in Revolte auf Côte
3018 and Die Bergbahn. They represent two versions of the same play in that they are similar in essential aspects and show no differences in the way in which Horváth employs music. The discussion is centred on Die Bergbahn because Die Bergbahn is the revised, final version of this play.
The second section of this chapter deals with musical instances in Italienische Nacht.
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2.1. Die Bergbahn
Die Bergbahn is the first drama that Horváth calls ‘Volksstück’. Horváth explains that he deliberately uses this term as a subtitle of his play in order to make clear his intention to write a “contemporary Volksstück” for “today’s people”:
Ich bezeichnete die “Bergbahn” ... als ein Volksstück. Die Bezeichnung ‘Volksstück’ war bis dahin in der jungen dramatischen Produktion nicht gebräuchlich. Natürlich gebrauchte ich diese Bezeichnung nicht willkürlich, das heißt, nicht einfach nur deshalb, weil das Stück ein bayerisches Dialektstück ist, sondern weil mir so etwas Aehnliches, wie Fortsetzung des alten Volksstückes vorschwebte. ... Will man also das alte Volksstück heute fortsetzen, so wird man natürlich heutige Menschen aus dem Volke ... auf die Bühne bringen–also Kleinbürger und Proletarier. (Horváth Archive, ӦLA, 3/W225-3/W224, p. 5)
I called Die Bergbahn a Volksstück. The term ‘Volksstück’ was not used in recent dramatic production. Naturally I did not use this term arbitrarily, not simply because the play is in a Bavarian dialect, but because I envision something like a continuation of the old Volksstück. ... Whoever wants to continue the old Volksstück today will obviously bring on stage the contemporary people–so, the petty bourgeoisie and proletariat.
Die Bergbahn is based on the conflict between workers and employers during the construction of a cable railway. The workers’ lives are put in danger so that the railway will be ready on time. In writing this work, Horváth was inspired by actual events to which he also refers in his later novel, Der ewige Spiesser: “Both cable railways are definitely outstanding and masterful achievements in modern cable railway technology, and four dozen workers had lost their lives by mid-September 1929” (“Beide
Zugspitzbahnen sind unstreitbar grandiose Spitzenleistungen moderner
Bergbahntechnik, und es sind dabei bis Mitte September 1929 schon rund vier Dutzend 57
Arbeiter tödlich verunglückt” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 5, pp. 175-176]). Schultz, one of the workers in the play, is the first victim. Schultz’s death is followed by the workers’ revolt, which ends with more losses. The engineer shoots two other workers, Oberle and Moser, but he falls to his death as well.
Although some critics consider this play a “minor early work”,15 it occupies a special position in Horváth’s Volksstücke. Die Bergbahn is the most atypical
Volksstück of the cycle. It still employs a traditional act structure and relies more extensively on a conventional naturalistic illusion than Horváth’s later Volksstücke.
Die Bergbahn is the only play in which the characters are grouped in protagonists and antagonists, represented by workers and employers respectively. This arrangement still reminds one of the distinction between good and evil forces in the traditional
Volksstück. Moreover, only here does Horváth make intentional use of dialect for characterising the members of the workforce. However, Die Bergbahn is the first play that clearly illustrates Horváth’s concept of the Volksstück as a dramatic text about and for “today’s people”. While the urban setting is not present yet and the action takes place among mountain peaks at an altitude of 3018 metres, the country-idyll atmosphere, which was common to most of the traditional Volksstücke, is destroyed in
Die Bergbahn. Horváth intentionally passes over the peasantry because, as he argues, it is disintegrated into “petty bourgeoisie and proletariat” (“Ich übergehe hier absichtlich den Bauernstand, denn auch der Bauernstand zerfällt ja in Kleinbürger und
Proletarier” [Horváth Archive, ӦLA, 3/W225-3/W224, p. 5]). Thus, Die Bergbahn illustrates the change in the constitution of the Volk that Horváth noticed and brings to attention a social category that has never been the subject of a Volksstück before: the
15 See, for example, Kurt Kahl (1966, p. 35) or Stuart Parkes (1977, p. 122). 58 working class; it deals with “the struggle between capital and work force”, as Horváth asserts (Horváth Archive, ӦLA, 3/W225-3/W224, p. 5).
In Die Bergbahn, the director of the construction company and the engineer, who occupy “the position of the so-called intelligentsia within the process of production” (Horváth Archive, ӦLA, 3/W225-3/W224, p. 5), are portrayed as insensitive, selfish, and hypocritical individuals who are oblivious to the loss of human life. Horváth apparently sympathises with the class-conscious workers and has them speak up against capitalism in his play. It is implicitly suggested that the audience shares the same perspective as the segment of people who represent the play’s main concern. Die Bergbahn presents the workers’ fears, sufferings and frustrations. A few figures are more distinctively portrayed as representative of their group. Maurer, next to Moser or Simon, embodies revolutionary ideas. On the other side, Oberle is the pacifist who considers that a non-violent solution might be found for defeating the capitalist system. However, he is one of the victims of the confrontation that eventually takes place. Horváth’s scepticism with regard to a peaceful solution is therefore apparent. Die Bergbahn illustrates Horváth’s militant political beginnings.
Here his criticism against a system that makes a callous use of the “technological miracle” (“die Wunder der Technik”) is obvious (Horváth, 2001, p. 102), as well as his hope in the changeability of social conditions. The play ends with the words of one of the workers (Simon): “All weather changes one day, no worries!” (“Einmal schlagt jeds
Wetter um. Nur kane Angst!” [Horváth, 2001, p. 132]). Die Bergbahn is Horváth’s only Volksstück with a trace of hope for a different and better world. However,
Simon’s words are ironically counterpointed by the Director’s which state that he has nothing to be worried about; ‘order’ has been re-established at the work station, at least for the moment (Horváth, 2001, p. 132).
59
In Die Bergbahn, Horváth’s technique for presenting contemporary issues on the stage does not rely extensively on music, as in the later plays of the cycle. The reason for this exemption is obvious. In this Volksstück, the stronger call for a conventional naturalistic illusion implies a more reduced employment of musical allusions in comparison to acoustic signals, such as the telephone ringing, the sound of dynamiting, and the sound of wind and thunder, that are frequently used for the purpose of illustration. However, the play does include two songs, and the analysis of their function is relevant for tracing Horváth’s technique with regard to the use of musical elements in his first Volksstück.
Both songs accompany a moment of climax in the flow of the events that announces the imminent and tragic discharge of human tensions. Before a snowstorm, during a work break, Maurer and Simon improvise a funny song for enhancing the good spirits of their comrades. Baumgartner identifies this piece of folk music as a
“Schnaderhüpferl” (1988, p. 156). In the Bavarian dialect, the term defines a humorous song, which is based on improvisation and repetition of the same musical pattern. The song, which contains sexual allusions addressed to Veronika, the cook and the only woman at the work station on Côte 3018, provokes “peals of laughter”:
Guten Morgen, Herr Pfarrer Good morning, Pastor Wo is der Kaplan? Where is the chaplain? Er liegt auf der Köchin He lies on the cook Und kraht wie a Hahn! And crows like a rooster! Schallendes Gelächter. ... Peals of laughter. ... Und Keiner ist so eigen And none is so special Und Keiner so verschmitzt And none so mischievous Als wie der, der ins Bett macht As the one who wets the bed Und sagt, er hätt geschwitzt– And says that he has sweated– (Horváth, 2001, p. 99) 60
In a moment of cheerfulness and hope, the workers enjoy themselves singing a comical folk song that reminds of the traditional couplets from the ‘old’ Volksstück. Deriving from the peasant environment, the Schnaderhüpferl shows the folk culture as still vital and functioning. It promotes the spirit of popular art, spontaneous, anti-clerical and anti-authority. However, the song is suddenly interrupted by the telephone ringing.
After she answers the phone call, Veronika announces that the engineer will come. The intrusion of technology as a modern expression of society disturbs the moment of authentic folk culture. The ‘old’ Volksstück atmosphere, which was evoked by the characters singing the Schnaderhüpferl, is also inhibited. The ostensibly cheerful atmosphere is replaced by a general melancholic mood. A “sentimental song” takes the place of the Schnaderhüpferl (“Sliwinski spielt nun ein sentimentales Stück” [Horváth,
2001, p. 100]). First Xaver and Hannes, and then all of the workers start humming a modified fragment from the König Ludwig-Lied, a traditional musical piece, known also as the Neuschwanstein-Lied:
Gesumm. Humming. Denn auf den Bergen For in the mountains Da wohnt die Freiheit There is the freedom Ja, auf den Bergen Yes, in the mountains Da, is es scheen– There is beauty– Einzelne summen mit. They hum along. Da is es scheen– There is beauty– (Horváth, 2001, p. 100) 16
The new song is set in contradiction with the message and semantic value of the
Schnaderhüpferl. It manifests as a fake folksong that promotes false sentimentality and a conservative longing for old monarchy in a pseudo-romantic vein. The change from
16 The song commemorates the figure of the Bavarian King Ludwig II. 61
Schnaderhüpferl to Neuschwanstein-Lied marks the caesura between the ‘old’
Volksstück and the ‘new’ Volksstück that Horváth intended. In Die Bergbahn, not only the songs but especially their linkage is responsible for achieving a dramatic effect.
The songs are connected using the principle of contrast, which enhances their immediate effect and makes more apparent their subtextual message. The verses and the sentimental music itself convey subtextual messages that uncover the workers’ real feelings and situation. The workers’ sympathetic listening and humming of this song clearly articulate their longing to be free in the mountains without the capitalist work stress. Horváth makes clear the hypocrisy of the lyrics when he lets the Director comment cynically: “Despite all their strenuous labour, I still envy our workers.
Always in wonderful mountain air, always amid sublime nature!” (“Trotz aller
Anstrengungen beneide ich selbst unseren letzten Arbeiter. Immer in herrlicher
Höhenluft, inmitten gewaltiger Natur!” [Horváth, 2001, pp. 113-114]). The linkage of these opposing songs, which ends in installing a melancholic mood, induces a sense of tragic inevitability as well. It will become dominant in the subsequent scenes that lead to acts of violence between the engineer and the workforce.
Thus, on the one hand, the lack of musical illustration in Die Bergbahn suggests that Horváth does not regard music as a simple device for accompanying stage events.
On the other hand, the way in which the songs are employed clearly indicates
Horváth’s predisposition towards the musical artifice which will be masterfully developed in his subsequent Volksstücke.
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2.2. Italienische Nacht
While in Die Bergbahn the political criticism is indirectly expressed, Horváth’s second
Volksstück, Italienische Nacht, develops an explicit political topic. Horváth indicates the time of the action as “1930-?” (Horváth, 2003, p. 8). The play reflects the real- world situation in Germany around 1930, when the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche
Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP) was gaining political power. At the elections organized in
September of that year, the NSDAP became the second largest political party in
Germany after the Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (SPD), followed by the
Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands (KPD). The political movements, which were most influential in the last years of the Weimar Republic, and specifically their naive commentators, the “politicizers” as Horváth calls them, represent the target of
Horváth’s criticism in this play.17
Concealed behind the title, which elicits the expectation of a comic operatic scene, is the republican tradition of organizing a festivity, the so-called ‘Italian night’.
While the republican leaders of a small community, who also represent the “Republican
Protective Association”, are busy drinking beer, playing cards, and organizing a kitschy entertaining event, the fascists are busy preparing a military confrontation and threaten to ruin the republican celebration. Martin, who represents the extremist Marxist fraction of the left, seems to be the only one aware of the danger. However, he fails to shatter the inertia of the older party members, who are merely preoccupied with the preservation of their personal interests and habits. When the fascists break up the republican gathering, only the mayor’s wife has the courage to challenge them.
Martin’s and his comrades’ intervention eventually saves the situation, allowing the
17 Horváth quoted in Traugott Krischke (1980, p. 101). 63 republicans to elude physical violence. After all the events which unmask the republicans’ egocentricity, carelessness, and political naivety vis-a-vis the fascists’ imminent menace, the play ends ironically as it started with the assurance given by the mayor that “there can be no talk about an acute threat to the democratic republic”
(“Von einer akuten Bedrohnung der demokratischen Republik kann natürlich keineswegs gesprochen werden” [Horváth, 2003, p. 9]). According to the mayor, the republic “can sleep peacefully” as long as there is a “Republican Protective
Association” and as long as he has the honour of chairing the local committee:
Von einer akuten Bedrohnung der demokratischen Republik kann natürlich keineswegs gesprochen werden. ... Solange es einen republikanischen Schutzverband gibt–und solange ich hier die Ehre habe, Vorsitzender der hiesigen Ortsgruppe zu sein, solange kann die Republik ruhig schlafen! (Horváth, 2003, pp. 65-66)
There can be no talk about an acute threat to the democratic republic. … As long as there is a Republican Protective Association–and as long as I have the honour to be the chairman of its local group, the Republic can sleep peacefully!
Thus, in the end nothing has changed. The republicans, blinded by complacency, continue to ignore the threat from anti-republican forces. Horváth’s irony is even more apparent in the play’s closing line where Martin wishes republicans “good night”
(“Martin: Gute Nacht!” [Horváth, 2003, p. 66]). In other words, as the literary critic
Franz Norbert Mennemeier explains, “since the Democrats were asleep, Hitler could come to power” (1980, p. 26).
Horváth apparently does not take sides and critically portrays all the political groups involved in the confrontation. On the one hand, he points to the republicans’ lack of awareness regarding their real situation as well as the permanent discrepancy between their theories and actual behaviour. Through Martin’s rigidity and fanaticism, 64 the extremist fraction of the left is not presented as a viable political alternative either.
On the other hand, the fascists are intentionally left unnamed since Horváth considers them as a mass of weak and brutal people. Although Horváth ostensibly acts as a distanced critic in this play, he clearly suggests that the republicans’ political ineffectualness allows for the strengthening of the fascists’ position. Therefore, in
1930, Horváth, a keen observer of the changes in the social and political climate of his time, already recognized the danger of Nazism. He actually warns in this play about the new middle-class’ increased susceptibility to political propaganda. As Horváth asserts, Italienische Nacht is not a play “against politics but against the masses of politicizers” and “against the overwhelming use of political slogans, especially in
Germany” (“[Es richtet sich] nicht gegen die Politik, aber gegen dies Masse der
Politisierenden, gegen die vor allem in Deutschland sichtbare Versumpfung, den
Gebrauch politischer Schlagworte” [Krischke, 1970, p. 186]).
With the Italienische Nacht, Horváth’s concept of the Volksstück becomes clearer. In his subversion of the genre, Horváth depicts here an urban setting and focuses on a critical contemporary issue: the lack of self-awareness among the middle strata of a “small south German town” (“Ort: Süddeutsche Kleinstadt” [Horváth, 2003, p. 8]). In this Volksstück, Horváth abandons the traditional act structure and divides the text into seven scenes. The change in the play’s format corresponds, according to critic
Robert Alexander Herschbach, to the “dissolution of plot”: “it is difficult to decide whether the primary plot line here consists of the romantic encounters, the political confrontations, or the ‘italienische Nacht’ itself as a social phenomenon” (1976, p. 81).
Moreover, in contrast with Die Bergbahn, there are no protagonists and antagonists in the traditional sense. It could be noticed that there is also a proliferation of musical references in this play. Music is here an important dramaturgical means used to 65 support Horváth’s conception of the Volksstück. It assists the conveyance of the play’s major ideas as being an active element of its symbolism. On the one hand, the musical references serve as depiction of petty-bourgeois forms of consciousness and behaviour, which transform the Mittelstand into an easy prey for manipulation. On the other hand, they illustrate how the emotional impact of music might be used as a form of manipulation by the political demagogues.
In Italienische Nacht, Horváth’s use of music is directly linked to the suggestion of deformations in petty-bourgeois forms of consciousness. The characters’ emotional instability and vulnerability are displayed in their discussions about music. For instance, Leni confesses in Ein Wochenendspiel, the initial version of the play, that
“whenever I am sad, I would like to sing” (“Immer wenn ich traurig bin, möcht ich singen–”).18 Through Leni’s confession, Horváth draws attention not only to music’s power to channel and influence emotions but also to the increased susceptibility to music of those who are emotionally immature. He implicitly suggests that these people might be easily attracted by the propagandistic melodies. Furthermore, Horváth uses the reference to music in order to reveal the “false consciousness” of the republicans.
In Ein Wochenendspiel, an exponent of the republican group declares that the hearing of a waltz makes him always sad (“Wenn ich diesen Walzer hör ... dann werd ich immer traurig!”).19 The waltz stirs up nostalgias because it is associated with memories of better times before the war. On the one hand, Horváth demonstrates the character’s predisposition towards contrived emotionalism. On the other hand, he points towards the confused non-contemporaneous outlook of the middle-class representatives. They
18 According to Horváth Archive, ÖLA 3/90–Gruppe 1.1.2., BS 12c, ÖLA 3/W2. This example is considered valid here because the original version of the play (Ein Wochenendspiel) is ninety percent identical to the final version (Italienische Nacht) and because there is no significant change in the evolution of this character in both versions.
19 According to Horváth Archive, ÖLA 3/90–Gruppe 1.1.2., BS 12c, ÖLA 3/W2. 66 develop what philosopher Ernst Bloch calls a “nonsynchronous” consciousness,
“derived from deprivations in contemporary life, with a longing for a vague ‘other’”
(“Die anfällige Lage der Bauern und Angestellten hat hier ihren verschiedenen Reflex, und zwar nicht bloß einen der Zurückgebliebenheit, sondern zuweilen einen echter
‘Ungleichzeitigkeit’ dazu, nähmlich eines wirtschaftlich-ideologischen Restseins aus früheren Zeiten” ... “mit Vermissungen am gegenwärtigen Leben, mit Sehnsucht nach einem unklar anderen” [1962, p. 16]).
Horváth describes the petits bourgeois as morally and socially displaced persons who seek salvation in a romanticized image of the past and struggle to maintain a false image of themselves. They cherish their supposed ‘artistic’ or ‘musical’ nature as an important link to the glorious memories of the past and as a justification of their exhibited arrogance. Karl clearly voices this attitude when he tries to explain to the communist Martin the irreconcilable differences between them, taking as a main argument his “artistic nature” as a “musician”:
KARL Mein lieber Martin, das verstehst du nicht. Wir zwei beide sind aufrechte Republikaner, aber wir haben dabei einen Unterschied. Du bist nämlich Arbeiter und ich Musiker. Du stehst gewissermaßen am laufenden Band und ich spiel in einem Konzertcafé meinen Mozart und meinen Kalman–daher bin ich natürlich der größere Individualist, schon weil ich halt eine Künstlernatur bin. Ich hab die stärkeren privaten Interessen, aber nur scheinbar, weil sich bei mir alles gleich ins Künstlerische umsetzt. (Horváth, 2003, p. 18)
KARL My dear Martin, you do not understand. We are both honourable Republicans, but there is a difference between us. To be precise, you are a worker and I am a musician. You churn up continuously and I play my Mozart and Kalman in a concert café–therefore, I am obviously more individualistic, only because I have an artistic nature. However, I
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have only apparently stronger private interests, because all things are alike from my artistic point of view.
A discussion about music becomes the republicans’ opportunity to display their supposed cultural background and their elitist ‘artistic’ aspirations. However, their attractiveness towards kitschy entertaining numbers, such as the ballet moment performed by the twin little girls and suggestively entitled “Flower and Butterfly”
(“Blume und Schmetterling” [Horváth, 2003, p. 42]), reveals their kitschy aesthetic taste.
The representatives of the republican group also try to ‘synchronise’ their actual experience with their nostalgias about past glories by dancing waltzes and a
“Française”, a group dance famous in ballrooms during the nineteenth century
(Horváth, 2003, p. 35). Moreover, as part of the ‘Italian Night’ programme, they perform traditional songs that remind them of heroic times of their former monarchs, such as the ballad Heinrich der Vogler (Horváth, 2003, p. 40) . The wife of one of the republicans, Frau Hinterberger, sings Karl Löwe’s popular and sentimental song that glorifies the figure of Heinrich I, known as ‘the Fowler’ and considered the first king of the Germans in the medieval era. The ballad evokes the moment of Heinrich der
Vogler’s coronation amid nature and promotes a romanticized image of the German
Volk as well as the utopia of a völkisch community in nature. Through the insertion of this song’s reference, Horváth emphasises once again the discrepancy between the aspirations of his bourgeois characters and their actual experience. Ernst Bloch describes this gap in the petit bourgeois’s consciousness as “an alogical space … that gives birth to wishes, romanticisms, impulses and myths” (“ein alogischer Raum … worin Wünsche und Romantizismen, Urtriebe und Mythizismen rezent werden” [1967,
68 p. 186]). Horváth actually suggests that the fantasies of this irrational mental ‘space’ and populist politics go hand in hand.
Therefore, musical references serve Horváth’s intention to display the republicans’ inability to realise and accept their real situation, emotions, and feelings, to make connections between individual experiences and social reality as well as between their discourse and actions. All in all, music takes part in the republicans’ portrayal, but it also helps illustrate their susceptibility to the messages that music might convey. This susceptibility invites manipulation, because, as the music sociologist Tia DeNora argues, the attachment of meaning to music occurs also through the activities of individuals and groups that seek to impose their views on others (1986, p. 93). While in the Italienische Nacht the republicans’ music primarily underlines their inauthentic spiritual and emotional states, the fascists’ music echoes their political slogans.
According to Horváth’s stage directions, music accompanies most of the fascists’ actions. The fact that Horváth signals the fascists’ presence by musical means shows his awareness of music’s role in fascism’s intentional appeal to the senses witnessed also in parades of colours, flags, and uniforms. Horváth implicitly warns about the “power” of music which manifests, as DeNora argues, in music’s involvement in “persuasion, healing, corruption, and many other transformational matters” (2003, p. 1). It acts against the normative claims of reasons and, consequently, is especially influential on those who are emotionally insecure, as
Adorno stresses:
Since it would be impossible for fascism to win the masses through rational arguments, its propaganda must necessarily be deflected from discursive thinking; it must be oriented psychologically, and has to mobilize irrational, 69
unconscious, regressive processes. This task is facilitated by the frame of mind of all those strata of the population who suffer from senseless frustrations and therefore develop a stunted, irrational mentality. It may well be the secret of fascist propaganda that it simply takes men for what they are: the true children of today’s standardized mass culture, largely robbed of autonomy and spontaneity. (2005, p. 149).
In Italienische Nacht, the fascists are described by one of the characters as the “men in uniform ..., who look all so blandly alike” (“Herren in Uniform ... Die sehn sich alle so fad gleich” [Horváth, 2003, p. 16]). Their presence is predominantly announced by marches or songs from their movement, such as the Hakenkreuzlied, which should be played on stage or heard offstage. These melodies, usually simple and with a repetitive structure, easily canalize the streams of subconsciousness towards the aims of propaganda. Their simplicity, standardization, and compulsive repetition fall in line with the stereotypical thinking, which is, as Adorno writes, an attribute of “those susceptible to propaganda” who develop an “infantile wish for endless, unaltered repetition” (2005, p. 148). On the one hand, Horváth’s use of marches and military songs serves as an ironical commentary on the association between this type of music and the illusion of revolution, as promoted by fascist propaganda. On the other hand, it suggests that the fascists’ emotional stereotype merely responds to the standardized tempo of marches. The question addressed to Anna by one of the fascists is illustrative in this sense: “Do you also have the military music in your blood?” (“Haben Sie auch
Militärmusik im Blut?” [Horváth, 2003, p. 29]).
In satirising the representatives of the fascist group, Horváth makes use of two sentimental songs, sung in the fifth scene as part of the ‘beer night’ organized by the group. The first one is an excerpt from Heinrich Heine’s Loreley, a very popular poem:
Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten, I wonder what it presages– 70
Daß ich so traurig bin, I am so sad at heart; Ein Märchen aus uralten Zeiten, A legend of bygone ages Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn. Haunts me and will not depart Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt, The air is cool, and it darkles, Und ruhig fließet der Rhein– And calmly courses the Rhine. (Horváth, 2003, p. 32) (Heine, 1995, p. 41)
By using this song, Horváth explicitly points to the fascists’ exploitation of German cultural items that stir patriotic sentiments in order to appeal to the large masses. In so doing, he exposes fascist demagoguery. The verses and especially the last line of the fragment, which refers to the Rhine, an iconic German symbol, provoke excitement among the fascists. Under this influence, they start repeating automatically: “To the
Rhine, to the Rhine, the German Rhine” (“Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen
Rhein–” [Horváth, 2003, p. 32]). The propagandistic effect is therefore achieved and the fascists’ stereotypical reaction clearly shows their susceptibility to political slogans.
Because of the general excitement, they begin singing the refrain of a militarist, patriotic song: Die Wacht am Rhein.20
Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein, Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein, Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein! (Horváth, 2003, p. 32)
Dear fatherland, you can be assured, Dear fatherland, you can be assured Firmly stands and loyal the guard, the guard on the Rhine, Firmly stands, and loyal, the guard, the guard on the Rhine!
20 Max Schneckenburger (1819-1849) wrote the poem Die Wacht am Rhein, which was first set to music by J. Mandel. However, the song became famous in the musical version signed by Karl Wilhelm (1815- 1873). 71
The refrain involves the obsessive recurrence of the syntagms “dear fatherland” and
“the guard on Rhine” which reflect key-concepts used by the Nazis in support of the
Aryan myth and of their appeal to Blut and Boden. Used in this particular context, this stanza also serves as an example of how the persuasive repetition might anesthetize the senses and block the cognitive processes in favour of uncritical acceptance, which is the basis of political propaganda. In 1933, during a meeting of the national directors of broadcasting, Joseph Goebbels affirmed that music had “to hammer and chisel away at people for long enough until we have captured them”.21 The musical sequence culminates with the march Stolz weht die Flagge Schwarz-Weiß-Rot played from off stage, a patriotic hymn also known as Flaggenlied or Unsere Marine, which was included in the official list of German army marches after the Nazis came to power in
1933.22 Horváth’s ridicule of fascists’ fanaticism and their demagogical appeal to emotions is evident also in his insertion of the Bavarian Präsentiermarsch, a famous march that musically recalls the days of monarchy, as background music for the fascists’ group departure at the end of their ‘entertaining beer night’ (Horváth, 2003, p.
34). The same march, sung by the fascists, ironically accompanies the communists’ spoiling of the former sovereign’s monument in the fourth scene of the play (Horváth,
2003, p. 28). Therefore, specific musical quotations are used in Horváth’s contemptuous depiction of the fascists’ group. They do not simply accompany the fascists’ actions but also comment on them. Horváth imbues musical quotations with symbolic functions and use them to convey subtextual messages.
21 Tonaufnahmen zur Deutschen Rundfunkgeschichte 1924—1945, Deutsches Rundfunkarchiv, Irmgard von Broich-Oppert, Walter Roller, Hans-Joachim Schauss (Frankfurt/Main: Deutsches Rundfunkarchiv, 1972), p. 10. 22 The march is composed by Richard Thiele (1847-1903) on a text signed by Robert Linderer (1824- 1886). 72
Italienische Nacht proves to be a refinement in Horváth’s use of musical elements. Employed more extensively than in the first plays of the cycle, music is never an arbitrary choice. It is attentively chosen for how best it can serve the ironical portrayal of the political groups involved in the ‘Italian night’s confrontation’.
Moreover, in this play, written mainly against the mindless use of political catchphrases, Horváth draws attention, again by musical means, to the contagious effect of political slogans. However, this play was largely received as “entertaining and unpolitical” at its premieres in Berlin (1930) and Vienna (1931) according to Bruns
(1979, p. 133). Nevertheless, the fascists were well aware of Horváth’s literary attacks as expressed in Italienische Nacht and in his subsequent Volksstücke, written between
1930 and 1933. Consequently, he was considered ‘undesirable’ and banned after the fascist takeover in 1933.
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CHAPTER THREE:
Music in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald
In his last Volksstücke, Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (1930) and Kasimir und
Karoline (1931), Horváth apparently renounces overt political allusions and concentrates on the realistic depiction of the process of moral disintegration which he noticed occurring within the petite bourgeoisie of his time. However, by revealing the weak and perverted consciousness of representatives of the middle-class, Horváth actually warns against their susceptibility to political manipulation.
This chapter focuses on Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and examines the role of music in this play. It begins with an overview of the characters to emphasise the turn towards a socially critical theme. The chapter then presents an overview of the musical elements before pursuing an examination of their implications at the semantic and structural levels of the play. The instances of music in Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald are grouped into three major categories: waltz music, with particular emphasis on
Johann Strauss’s waltzes; Wienerlieder; and military music.
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3.1. Overview of the play’s characters
Completed in 1930, Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald describes “our times” (“Das
Stück spielt in unseren Tagen, und zwar in Wien, im Wiener Wald und draußen in der
Wachau” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 704]).23 Horváth clearly refers to the severe economic crisis that marked the end of the Golden Years of Weimar (1924-1928/9) as the background of the play’s action. In a time of general deprivation, the relative economic security and independence as well as the social prestige of the petty bourgeoisie were threatened. The quest for a safe existence becomes therefore crucial for the representatives of the middle-class who were anxious to preserve their achievements and were ready to defend their way of life by all means.
The play is set in and around Vienna, the ‘heart’ of the recently dismembered
Austro-Hungarian Empire, which Horváth critically regards as the former ‘home’ of
“two dozen nations, with their narrow-minded local patriotism and resigned self-irony”
(“Jene Vorkriegsdoppelmonarchie, mit ihren zweidutzend Nationen, mit borniertestem
Lokalpatriotismus neben resignierter Selbstironie” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 5, pp. 9-10]).
Horváth follows the ‘sociogram’ of a small petit bourgeois community, which develops in the neighbourhood of a “quiet street” in the Viennese “eighth district” (Horváth,
2015, vol. 2, p. 709). Placing the action in “the eighth district”, Horváth designates the outskirts as the characteristic milieu of the ‘new’ middle-class. Moreover, by bringing into focus ‘the neighbourhood’, Horváth points out a significant feature of the petty bourgeoisie, which was clearly articulated in his novels (Der Mittelstand and Der ewige
Spießer): “there is no other class that is founded on the idea of family as the middle- class” or, more explicitly, “the middle-class is almost the same as the family culture”
23 Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald was published by the Propyläen Publishing House, Berlin, in 1931. 75
(“Es gibt wohl keine Klasse, die derart auf der Idee der Familie gründet, wie der
Mittelstand” or “Der Mittelstand ist fast gleich mit der Familienkultur” [1972, vol. 8, p.
731 and p. 646]). Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald is Horváth’s first Volksstück that calls attention to the family as a social institution as well as to the rigid societal organisation of the middle-class, where economic principles are determinant.
Exploitation determines many of the character groupings in Horváth’s play. The words of one of the characters: “a genuine human relationship is possible only if one gets something from the other” (“eine rein menschliche Beziehung wird erst dann echt, wenn man was voneinander hat”) are representative of all the relationships in the play
(Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 708).
The protagonists of Horváth’s ‘tales from Vienna Woods’ partially correspond to the inventory of the middle-class that is comprised in the sketch of his novel Der
Mittelstand. Horváth brings into the foreground of the play the “remnants of the old middle-class” (“die Überbleibsel aus dem alten Mittelstand”), the entrepreneurs of small local businesses (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 648). There are three shops in the eighth district’s “quiet street”, and their presentation gives clues regarding various aspects of petty-bourgeois life and their owners’ characters.
Von links nach rechts: Oskars gediegene Fleischhauerei mit halben Rindern und Kälbern, Würsten, Schinken und Schweinsköpfen in der Auslage. Daneben eine Puppenklinik mit Firmenschild ‘Zum Zauberkönig’–mit Scherzartikeln, Totenköpfen, Puppen, Spielwaren, Raketen, Zinnsoldaten und einem Skelett im Fenster. Endlich: eine kleine Tabak-Trafik mit Zeitungen, Zeitschriften und Ansichtspostkarten vor der Tür. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 709)
From left to right: Oscar’s respectable butcher’s shop, with half cows and calves, sausages, ham and pork heads on display. Next, a toy repair shop with a signboard ‘to the Zauberkönig’–with joke articles, skulls, dolls, toys, rockets,
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tin soldiers, and a skeleton in the window. Finally, a small tobacco shop, with newspapers, magazines, and postcards in front of the door.
With a name that ironically reminds one of the powerful magician figure of the nineteenth-century Zauberstücke (e.g., the barometer-maker from Raimund’s
Barometermacher auf der Zauberinsel), Horváth’s Zauberkönig (King of Magic) embodies most clearly the characteristic features as well as the contradictions of the
‘old’ middle-class. Zauberkönig runs a puppet and novelty shop with the help of his daughter, Marianne. Although “the first and oldest specialty store in the whole county”
(“das erste und älteste Spezialgeschäft im ganzen Bezirk” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p.
711]), the shop does not do well anymore. The depreciation of purchasing power in the economic crisis, which particularly affects the merchants of superfluous goods, makes him pessimistic with regard to the future: “people will always smoke and eat–but make magic?” (“rauchen und fressen warden die Leut immer–aber zaubern?” [2015, vol. 2, p.
721]). Zauberkönig’s world is shaking: “With or without fantasy–today’s world is wrong! ... Everything shakes, nothing is certain... ” (“Mit oder ohne Phantasie–diese heutige Zeit ist eine verkehrte Welt! ... Alles wackelt, nichts steht mehr fest...” [2015, vol. 2, p. 720]). Consequently, he aims to secure his situation by marrying his daughter to Oskar, the butcher. Described by one of the characters as “a rare man, modest and decent, the real citizen of the old time”, one of a type that “is dying out” (“ist er ja ein seltener Mensch, bescheiden und anständig, der echte Bürger vom alten Schlag. Diese
Sorte stirbt nämlich aus” [2015, vol. 2, p. 747]), Zauberkönig is in fact a Spießer.
Horváth uses the term ‘Spießer’ to define “a hypochondriac egoist, who cowardly strives to adapt everywhere and who distorts any formulation of a new idea by appropriating it” (“Der Spießer ist bekanntlich ein hypochondrischer Egoist, und so trachtet er danach, sich überall feige anzupassen und jede neue Formulierung der Idee
77 zu verfälschen, indem er sie sich aneignet” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 5, p. 147]). A hypocrite, Zauberkönig exploits Marianne and shows no interest in her feelings, education, and emancipation.
Marianne, his daughter, is the central character of the play. All the other figures, particularly the men, orbit around her describing a circle of exploitation. She lives in a man’s world and was taught that women’s emancipation does not bring any good: “Dad always says that the woman’s financial independence is the last step to
Bolshevism” (“Papa sagt immer, die finanzielle Unabhängigkeit der Frau vom Mann ist der letzte Schritt zum Bolschewismus” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 716]). Educated only for marriage, she is used by her father as an unpaid house and shop worker. Moreover, her intended marriage to Oskar was supposed to provide Zauberkönig with the economic security he was looking for. The obedient but still idealistic Marianne nurtures dreams of a romantic encounter and escape from her heteronomous existence.
She is not only a victim of men’s exploitation but also of her self-delusion. She falls for the gigolo Alfred who eventually abandons her and their baby.
Oskar, the butcher, owns a “still solid” business, as Zauberkönig emphasises
(Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 721). His relatively stable economic situation gives him power and the confidence that the future can hold no surprises for him. Oskar regards love also in terms of control and possession; he repeatedly tells Marianne: “you will not escape my love” (“du wirst meiner Liebe nicht entgehn” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 725 and p. 762]). Financially safe, he is now tempted by the prospect of the social advancement that might be occasioned by his marriage with Zauberkönig’s daughter.
Horváth’s play points to the concern for social prestige as indicative of the new middle- class’s behaviour.
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The tobacco shop belongs to Valerie, the middle-aged widow of a civil servant.
Her secure financial situation allows her to develop “amicable-business relationships”
(“freundschaftlich-geschäftlichen Beziehungen”) with younger men, such as Alfred and
Erich (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 708). She sponsors Alfred’s bets on horses and offers
Erich free bed and board in return for their sexual favours. Emotionally empty, guided by self-interest and the opportunity of exploiting others, Valerie does not hesitate to
‘buy’ a deceptive emotional stability.
There are two other characters who belong to the group of the “remnants of the old middle-class” (“Überbleibsel aus dem alten Mittelstand”): student Erich and the
Captain (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 648). Erich, a young pro-fascist, is arrogant and aggressive in his anti-Semitic discourses. He dreams of ascending to the bourgeoisie and becoming a business agent in the industrial field. On the other hand, the figure of the Captain mirrors the demotion suffered by the pre-war bourgeoisie. A member of the old Viennese military elite, he lives on his pension and longs for the restoration of the monarchy. His constant preoccupation with the lottery, which he never wins, shows his dependency on luck and fate and acts as an indicator of his refusal to accept reality.
In accordance with Horváth’s inventory of the social categories that make up the new middle-class (as expressed in the sketch of his novel Der Mittelstand), the
Baroness represents the relegated aristocrats. However, her opportunism helps her to adapt quickly and eases her integration into a new regime. The Baroness still possesses a salon with a spinet and retains a servant, but her ‘international connections’ are used now to conduct a ‘business’ that involves trafficking girls. She will ‘place’ Marianne in a night club to perform nude dances.
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This range of characters is completed by the figure of Alfred, an unemployed former bank employee, who lives on gambling and exploiting others. He personifies the ‘spirit’ of the time: “Work in the old sense is no longer profitable. Anyone who wants to advance these days must work with the work of others. I am self-employed.
Financial transactions and other things” (“Die Arbeit im alten Sinne rentiert sich nicht mehr. Wer heutzutag vorwärtskommen will, muß mit der Arbeit der anderen arbeiten.
Ich hab mich selbständig gemacht. Finanzierungsgeschäfte und so” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 706]).
Alfred’s mother and grandmother administer a public tourist attraction in
Wachau, a ruined castle and an old tower. “The ruin against which Alfred’s mother’s cottage nestles suggests,” as Krishna Winston argues, “the glorious tradition, now in ruins, on which Austrians still depend for emotional sustenance” (1977, p. 161). Both the mother and grandmother are parts of the exploitation circle that develops within the familial environment in Horváth’s play (another example is Zauberkönig and
Marianne). The grandmother tyrannises her daughter and is in turn used financially by
Alfred. The forms of exploitation that take place within a family mirror the principle of exploitation that governs the new middle-class society depicted in Horváth’s play. The grandmother and Zauberkönig remind of figures from the traditional Volksstück, but here they are presented as malicious and oppressive. The grandmother is actually the most malevolent character, a person capable of murder.
There is another character that deserves special attention. “Mister” is a
Viennese expatriate who, after twenty years spent in America, returns to his home town. This figure incorporates all the major characteristics of the petits bourgeois depicted in Horváth’s play. On the one hand, he is representative of their emotional and spiritual vacuity. In a moment of self-revelation he confesses: “I am dead inside. I 80 can only do it with the prostitutes” (“Ich bin nämlich innerlich tot. Ich kann halt nur mehr mit den Prostituierten was anfangen” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 747]). On the other hand, he turns out to be the ‘voicer’ of a self-induced enthusiasm confounded by
Horváth’s characters with a local patriotism and occasioned by the invocation of readymade Viennese clichés of the pre-war period. Horváth points to his characters’ mindless and dangerous appropriation of the spirit of the Gemütlichkeit and, implicitly, he unmasks its self-pity, its smugness, and sham fellowship.
DER MISTER Amerika! New York! Chicago und Sing-Sing! Äußerlich ja, aber da drinnen klopft noch das alte biedere treue goldene Wiener Herz, das ewige Wien–und die Wachau–und die Burgen an der blauen Donau. Er summt mit der Musik. Donau so blau, so blau, so blau– Alle summen mit und wiegen sich auf den Sitzgelegenheiten. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 744)
MISTER America! New York! Chicago and Sing-Sing! On the outside yes, but inside still beats the old honest golden Viennese heart, the eternal Vienna–and Wachau–and the castles on the blue Danube. He hums the music. Danube so blue, so blue, so blue–All hum along while swaying in their seats.
The male figures are predominant in Horváth’s play. Even among the female figures, the Baroness and Alfred’s grandmother are shown to be as brutal and oppressive as the male characters. However, the figure of Mister sums up the worst qualities of all the male characters in the play; he is vicious, exploitative, hypocritical and cunning.
As this overview of characters has emphasised, the Viennese middle-class depicted in Horváth’s play represents a mass of cruel, vicious, and, at the same time, vulnerable people. It is made up of individuals who, at a time of crisis, are in search of socioeconomic security, emotional stability, and love. Thus, Horváth provides a series
81 of psychological case studies in this play, concentrating on what he believes to be the dominant traits in the philistinism of his middle-class characters.
3.2. Overview of the musical elements
Set in Vienna and Wachau and targeting representatives of the Viennese middle-class,
Horváth’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald displays the appearance of a Lokalstück.
This impression is sustained also by the title of the play, which, as in the case of
Italienische Nacht, is deliberately misleading. It acts as a reminder of the fantasy world of the Viennese operetta and induces the expectations of a cosy Viennese atmosphere.
Horváth’s use of music with a pregnant Viennese flavour emphasises this effect. Most of the musical elements which are present in Horváth’s play belong to the waltz genre.
Johann Strauss’s waltzes are preponderant, to which Horváth adds other popular waltzes, such as Über den Wellen (composer: Juventino Rosas) or In lauschiger Nacht
(composer: Carl Michael Ziehrer). The stage directions refer also to a number of traditional Viennese songs: Wien, du Stadt meiner Träume (composer: Rudolf
Sieczyński), Vindobona, du herrliche Stadt (composer: Josef Schrammel) and Das Lied von der Wachau (composer: Arnold Ernst). However, Horváth relies on these musical elements for both evoking and subverting the genre’s expectations. On the one hand, the waltzes and Wienerlieder maintain the comfortable myth of a sentimental Vienna, and, on the other hand, they ironically offer the backdrop for the banal but horror pictures of middle-class life of the interwar period depicted in Horváth’s play. From this perspective, Horváth’s play might be regarded precisely as an Anti-Lokalstück. It contains the satirisation and ultimately the destruction of a ‘local’ myth: Vienna, known as the ‘city of dreams’.
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The musical effects are applied more consistently and effectively here than in any of the preceding plays of the cycle. Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald abounds in musical insertions (twelve in the first part, seven in the second, and over twenty in the last part), which are played on stage or heard from off stage and often sung or hummed by the characters. The military music and marches represent a special category of musical interventions in Horváth’s play: Radetzky Marsch (composer: Johann Strauss
Sr.), Hoch-und Deutschmeistermarsch (composer: Wilhelm August Jurek),
Doppeladlermarsch (composer: Josef Franz Wagner), and Fridericus Rex
Grenadiermarsch (composer: Ferdinand Radeck). Linked to the memories of the lost monarchy, they act as a musical intrusion of the past into the present, as well as an indicator of characters’ obsessive focus on the past, of their desire to capture time and hold it fast. The Deutschlandlied, based upon Haydn’s tune (Emperor or Kaiserhymne) for the Austrian national anthem, known as the 1848 revolutionary anthem but better known as the song that became the German national anthem in 1922, falls into the same category of military, nationalistic music.
There are also a few classical music pieces that Horváth inserts. He uses fragments from Puccini’s opera La Bohème, Schumann’s Träumerei, and Chopin’s
Funeral March. They are always used in an ironical contrapuntal position with the immediate moment of action, implicitly drawing attention to the reverse side of the presented situation. For example, “Wie eiskalt ist dies Händchen” from Puccini’s opera La Bohème is played by a travel phonograph at Oskar’s and Marianne’s engagement celebration (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 716). As signalled by the musical theme, their union turns out to be unhappy and is followed by tragic events (the death of Marianne’s and Alfred’s child). Träumerei, the seventh piece of Schumann’s
Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood), accompanies Marianne’s nude dancing in the
83 night club (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748). Marianne’s childhood dreams are broken, and her ‘passion’ for rhythmic gymnastics ends in the actual performance of trivial cabaret numbers. Therefore, in the night club scene, the musical invitation to ‘reverie’ serves as an ironic accompaniment to Marianne’s vain dreams of happiness. Valerie hums Chopin’s Funeral March as she refreshes her make-up that is meant to conceal her ageing face (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 708). As Winston (1977) notices, “to Valerie the Funeral March is merely a pleasantly melancholy tune which allows her to indulge in controlled and acceptable feelings of wistfulness” (p. 160). In this case, Chopin’s music comments on Valerie’s ridiculous situation and on her pitiful behaviour.
Moreover, references to classical music are also present in the characters’ conversation. Horváth lets his characters discuss music specifically to illustrate their veneer of culture. One could think of music or musical references as a kind of
Bildungsjargon too. Music as well as literature is traded by the characters as if they were commodities, for besides the name dropping of authors, composers, and titles of their works, the characters have no other insights.
ERICH lauscht Bohème. Göttlicher Puccini! MARIANNE nun neben Alfred; sie lauscht Wie eiskalt ist dies Händchen– ALFRED Das ist Bohème. MARIANNE Puccini. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 716)
ERICH listens Bohème. Divine Puccini! MARIANNE now besides Alfred; she listens How cold your little hand is– ALFRED This is Bohème. MARIANNE Puccini.
The discussions about music represent the characters’ opportunity to display their supposed cultural background and high education and contribute to the creation of the
84 false image they cherish about themselves. However, while the figures in the internal communication system are involved in superficial discussions about music, striving to show their supposed Bildung, the members of the audience, who are already informed about the real cultural and educational horizon of the figures by the previous scenes, can see the discrepancy between characters’ subjective self-assessment and their actual level of education.
This overview aims to stress the presence of four major categories of music in
Horváth’s play: waltzes and operetta excerpts, Wienerlieder, military music, and classical music. Of all these categories, classical music has a more incidental character, while the obssesive recurrence of waltzes makes them the defining musical theme of the play. The waltzes accompany the flux of the action, being a constant presence from the beginning until the end of Horváth’s play. The other musical insertions (Wienerlieder and military music) are mainly concentrated in the first scene of the play’s last part, which takes place at Heuriger and at the night-club ‘Maxim’s’.
The particular significance of all these musical insertions is further discussed in this chapter.
3.3. Johann Strauss’s waltzes
The significance of music in Horváth’s revision of the Volksstück genre is more apparent in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald than in the previous plays of the cycle.
In this context, Johann Strauss’s waltzes occupy a special position. The title of the play already discloses Horváth’s strategy to use music for raising specific expectations among his intended audience. It contains an allusion to the homonymous musical piece composed by Johann Strauss II in 1868: Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Tales
85 from Vienna Woods). The allusion becomes explicit in the text’s opening lines, where the first musical stage direction reads: “There are sounds and singing in the air, as somewhere the waltz ‘Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald’ by Johann Strauss would repeatedly fade away” (“In der Luft ist ein Klingen und Singen–als verklänge irgendwo immer wieder der Walzer ‘Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald’ von Johann Strauß”
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 705]). Strauss’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald also introduces the second part of Horváth’s play and accompanies the play’s final scene
(Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 726 and p. 762). Next to this particular waltz, Horváth’s stage directions refer to other famous Strauss’s waltzes, such as An der schönen blauen
Donau (The Blue Danube [p. 720 and p. 748]), Frühlingsstimmen (Voices of Spring
[pp. 723, 736]) or Wiener Blut (Viennese Blood [p. 746]). Moreover, Horváth uses unspecified waltzes by Johann Strauss, implicitly suggesting that any of Strauss’s waltzes might be appropriate: “Now the schoolgirl from the second floor plays a waltz by Johann Strauss” (“Jetzt spielt die Realschülerin im zweiten Stock einen Walzer von
Johann Strauß” [2015, vol. 2, p. 754]). The recurrent interpolation of these waltzes into the text indicates Strauss’s music as the play’s leitmotif. The ways in which Horváth employed music in his previous Volksstücke has already demonstrated his awareness regarding the association between a specific song or a given musical style and certain ideas that it might carry, as a result of the ‘socialisation’ process. Consequently, in
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Horváth’s continual reference to Strauss’s waltzes is not accidental. He deliberately uses them to invoke specific conventions that they connote. Which are these conventions and what exactly made Strauss’s music so appealing to Horváth? Camille Crittenden’s study on Strauss (2000) offers some answers and provides interpretations of Strauss’s music from a sociological perspective.
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In terms of the evoked conventions, Strauss’s name is generally associated with
Austria and Vienna. According to Crittenden, after the immense success of the waltz
An der schönen blauen Donau at the World Exhibition in Paris in 1876, Strauss was internationally recognised as a “symbol of Austria” (2000, p. 92). His music, composed in the second half of the nineteenth century, when Austria was still a vast conglomerate empire with a capital city that flourished with its cosmopolitan and artistic atmosphere, promotes an idyllic pre-modern image of Austria as well as an idealised vision of Vienna. It preserves the image of a happy, united Volk. In addition to specific references to earlier periods, the idealised image of Austria and Vienna is also sustained, as Crittenden’s study argues, by a particular sound of Strauss’s waltzes that induces a sense of nostalgia: “His music avoids perfect authentic cadences and relies on long, sometimes unresolved appoggiaturas, techniques associated in his music with a sentimental, unrealizable longing” (Crittenden, 2000, p. 127). These features of
Strauss’s music made it into a source of identity and comfort in the context of the economically depressed period after the First World War. “Although Austria had recently lost her empire,” writes Crittenden, “the figure of this musician evoked the feeling of peaceful rule over a happy, unified population, a utopia he created repeatedly through his dance music” (2000, p. 105).
Thus, Horváth’s persistent use of Strauss’s waltzes not only locates the play’s action in and around the Austrian capital but also invokes a romanticised image of
Vienna and its surroundings. From the audience’s perspective, Horváth’s use of
Strauss’s music deceptively assists them into feeling comfortable and familiar with the represented events. It provides them with the musical equivalent to their predisposition towards romanticism as well as to their constant need of reassurance. To achieve an even greater effect, Horváth consistently employs very popular Wienerlieder among the
87 audience in the interwar period. The lilting and wistful waltz-like tunes as well as the sentimental lyrics of these songs recall the myth of the gemütlich (cosy) Vienna.
Strauss’s name is also linked to the ‘golden age’ of the Viennese operetta. This connection is clearly emphasised by Richard Traubner in his theatrical history of operetta:
No one wrote waltzes like Strauss, and no one would write waltz-operettas like Strauss, though legions tried. Since Die Fledermaus, no self-respecting Viennese operetta could get away from the fact that the waltz was the Wiener Blut (Viennese Blood) running through its veins, its life-force. (Traubner, 2003, p. 98)
By using Strauss’s waltzes as the central musical theme of his play, Horváth makes an appeal to the spectators’ familiarity with the conventions of Strauss’s stage works. As in the case of Strauss’s operettas, Horváth’s audience would expect to be entertained with joyous feel-good-stories, to hear attractive melodies and see exciting dance and chorus numbers. All in all, the immediate effect of Strauss’s melodies in Horváth’s play consists in raising the audience’s expectations of a Lokalstück conceived in the
‘modern’ dramatic style of operetta: an entertaining play, with popular music, local appeal, and a requisite happy ending.
However, the musical references to Strauss’s waltzes in Horváth’s play support precisely the subversion of the audience’s expectations. Far from being entertaining,
Horváth’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald dismantles the Viennese myth of
Gemütlichkeit by depicting sordid aspects of the failing middle-class life in the early
1930s. The play denounces the opportunistic principles that govern the world of the petite bourgeoisie and result in exploitation, sadism, and eventually crime. It also points to the petite bourgeoisie’s fundamental features that allow these principles to
88 develop, such as the absence of good will and concern for others, the derangement of the capacity to feel, the lack of self-awareness and individual critical thinking. In support of these ideas, a summary of the play’s action is presented below together with the musical material that frames it.
Apparently following the pattern of the traditional Volksstück, the play starts with music in an idyllic setting: Strauss’s “sounds and singing” (“Klingen und Singen”) echoing in the air of Wachau’s valley (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 705). Nevertheless, as indicated in the stage directions, a deep silence falls before the first line of dialogue.
This interruption of music through silence acts as a warning that what the audience is going to see and hear will not be in accordance with the carefree and cheerful atmosphere evoked by the introductory musical moment. The discussions between
Alfred and his mother, grandmother, and former lover (Valerie), which take place in the first scene of the play, indeed signal a decadent world where human relations are severely degraded. Strauss’s waltz is then resumed in the second scene of the play. It introduces the petit bourgeois milieu of the Viennese eighth district and the planned engagement between Zauberkönig’s daughter, Marianne, and Oskar, the butcher. From now on, Strauss’s music and the circular movements of the waltz dance will accompany the carousel of relationships that develops in Horváth’s play.
Marianne breaks off the engagement to Oskar and runs away with Alfred, who eventually abandons her and their child. Alone, disowned by her father, and rejected by the community, Marianne finds a job in a night club, where she performs nude dances to provide for herself and the baby. Her father finds her there but, contrary to the traditional Volksstück, the reconciliation does not follow the recognition scene.
Zauberkönig disowns Marianne for a second time. Nevertheless, the play’s end seems to provide a return to the “familiar social order”, which was considered to be in 89
Strauss’s operettas a release into the ‘happy ending’ with a woman returning home or getting married (e.g., Indigo and Carneval in Rom, see Crittenden [2000, p. 37]).
Zauberkönig is finally willing to forgive Marianne, and Oskar is ready to marry her.
But Horváth does not accept such delusion in his Volksstück. Here, the finally attained reconciliation does not bring relief and a happy ending. Marianne discovers that
Alfred’s grandmother had let her child catch pneumonia and die. Thus, Marianne’s return to “the social order” is tragically undermined. Her total collapse is accompanied at the end of the play by the sound of a zither, on which Alfred’s grandmother plays a fragment from the title waltz. Her playing demonstrates Horváth’s attentiveness to details. In Strauss’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald the zither is the only instrument that plays the waltz’s motif solo and intervenes also towards the end of the musical piece. Besides the evident similarity between the structure of Horváth’s drama and Strauss’s waltz, by allowing the grandmother to play on a zither, Horváth clearly indicates her to be a ‘solo’, as the harshest character of all, whose maliciousness leads to crime.
The zither moment is followed by “sounds and singing in the air, as a heavenly string orchestra would play the ‘Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald’ by Johann
Strauss” (“in der Luft ist ein Klingen und Singen, als spielte ein himmlisches
Streichorchester die ‘Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald’ von Johann Strauß”
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 762]). The play ends, thus, as it started, with a fragment from
Strauss’s waltz. Its use is overtly ironic now, as the image of gemütlich Vienna, which the waltz usually recalls, was not supported by the play’s events. Moreover, the presence of the same musical quotation at the beginning and the end of the play stresses that no conscious change took place within the characters’ behavioural and thinking patterns. The characters are inescapably trapped in their situation and limited
90 perceptions: “nothing gives as strong an impression of infinity as stupidity” (“Nicht gibt so sehr das Gefühl der Unendlichkeit als wie die Dummheit”), says the play’s motto (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 705). Furthermore, the stage directions, which introduce Strauss’s excerpt at the end of the play, contain an indication that substantially alters the initial significance of the musical fragment. As Horváth specifies, Strauss’s waltz sounds as if it is being played by “a heavenly string orchestra” (2015, vol. 2, p. 762). Horváth explicitly connects the final rendition of
Strauss’s waltz with the “heavenly music”, which, according to one of the characters, marks one person’s closeness to death (2015, vol. 2, p. 638).
RITTMEISTER Was verstehen Sie unter Sphärenmusik? VALERIE Wenn einer knapp vor dem Tode ist, dann fängt die arme Seel bereits an, den Körper zu verlassen–aber nur die halbe Seel–und die fliegt dann schon hoch hinauf und immer höher und dort droben gibts eine sonderbare Melodie, das ist die Musik der Sphären– (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 638)
THE CAPTAIN What do you understand by heavenly music? VALERIE When someone is just before death, the poor soul starts to leave the body–but only half of the soul–which flies up high and then higher and higher and then up there above is a strange melody that is the heavenly music–
Accordingly, at the end of the play, Strauss’s music acts as an indicator of Marianne’s broken spirit, and emphasises the effect of her final words: “I can no more. Now I can no more–” (“Ich kann nicht mehr. Jetzt kann ich nicht mehr–” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 762]). The socialisation, which ends happily in Strauss’s operettas, is demonstrated to be for Marianne a condemnation to unhappiness and confinement. Marianne’s
‘homecoming’ implies the successful restoration of the rigid rules of a patriarchal
91 society. There is no development in the world of Horváth’s characters, as well as no escape.
Thus, Strauss’s waltzes, and especially Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, which frames the entire play, incite the audience’s expectations only to mock them.
Their sound is disturbing when interpreted at a weary old piano by an unseen schoolgirl during the stage events (according to Horváth’s stage directions [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 709]). However, their discordant sound resonates with the represented image of a world in decay. Horváth tells different stories from Vienna Woods than Strauss. His
“eighth district” of Vienna is the place of a profound social malaise, and Wachau the crime scene of an infanticide. Used in this context, Strauss’s music is no longer called to build a myth but rather to assist in its destruction.
3.4. Further aspects of Horváth’s use of waltz music
Apart from Horváth’s intentional reference to the connotations that Strauss’s melodies accrue in the collective social consciousness for both continuing and destroying the
Volksstück atmosphere in the audience, Horváth’s use of waltz music acquires profound implications at the compositional level of his new Volksstück. The waltzes accomplish a twofold effect in Horváth’s play. On the one hand, they function structurally and, on the other hand, they take part in the process of building meaning, supporting Horváth’s claim to have destroyed the traditional Volksstück, “both in its form and in its ethos”
(“Mit vollem Bewußtsein zerstöre ich nun das alte Volksstück, formal und ethisch”
[1972, vol. 8, p. 663]). The subsequent discussion focuses on Horváth’s use of waltzes as a structural and semantic element.
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I agree with Wilhelm Martin Baumgartner that “the dance form of the waltz prescribes the circular motion as a compositional structure of this Volksstück” (1988, p.
163). The most obvious element that supports the theory of the circular structure of the play is Horváth’s use of the same musical quotation at the beginning and the end.
There are other elements that also underpin this theory. The play begins in Wachau and ends there; it starts in spring and ends in the same season; and the original couples are eventually reunited: Alfred with Valerie and Oskar with Marianne. Moreover, the influence of the waltz at the structural level of the play is mirrored in the characters’ configuration, which seems to follow the basic three steps of the waltz dance. There are always three persons involved in a relationship, for example, Alfred-Marianne-
Oskar, Alfred-Valerie-Erich, Alfred’s mother-Alfred-Alfred’s grandmother, etc. Thus, as Baumgartner has already emphasised, a parallelism is established between the dance music of waltz and the organisation of the dramatic material in Horváth’s play.
However, there is a more profound aspect of this parallelism that should be particularly emphasised. The dance music of Viennese waltz, which implies permanent rotary movements that are then linked together in order to describe a larger circle, reflects as well as stresses the play’s loose and fragmentary structure. Although the action might be fairly easily summarised and the play’s division into three parts apparently suggests a greater concentration of the dramatic material than in Italienische
Nacht, Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald does not follow one consistently progressive plot that ends in a clear resolution as the traditional examples of the Volksstück genre.
It rather consists in subplots, which are not progressively developed and not provided with real solutions in the end. Marianne’s return to Oskar or Alfred’s reconciliation with Valerie, for example, brings eventually the action to the starting point of the play, as in the waltz dance. Unlike the nineteenth-century Volksstück, Horváth’s play is
93 governed by a static principle and the choice of waltzes as ‘musical commentary’ on the stage events only amplifies further the general impression of stagnation.
The static and fragmented structure of the play is also emphasised by frequent interruptions of music. As indicated in the stage directions, the waltzes are often stopped, usually in the middle of the beat. These interruptions generate the effect of musical discontinuity which reflects as well as parallels the discontinuity of the action.
Thus, it might be argued that music’s frequent disruptions punctuate the ostensible structural segmentation of the play. However, its constant restarts help Horváth to organise the divergent material in such a way that it, nevertheless, holds together.
Horváth uses the starts and stops of the music also to draw attention to certain units of action and dialogue. With its interruptions, music serves as a reception signal too. The entrance of a new figure is always accompanied by such a musical effect. The
Captain’s appearance in the play’s second scene, for example, is marked by the interruption of music (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 709). The waltz restarts at Valerie’s entrance only to be disrupted again at her first verbal intervention (p. 710).
In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald the two main functions of waltz music, as a structure building and meaning building element, are interrelated. When music acts as a structural element, it also facilitates the understanding of the subtextual messages of the text. Horváth uses the recurrent intervention of waltz music, with its strict tempo and frequent sudden interruptions, to suggest that the characters’ lives are governed by a kind of strict ‘metre’ that restricts any type of development. Music splits the scenes into units of dialogue and action that are recombined and varied to emphasise eventually the closed and ritualistic world described in the play.
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At the semantic level, waltz music also contributes to the characters’ portrayal.
By deliberately imbuing the play with popular waltzes, Horváth alludes to his characters’ non-contemporaneous outlook. He suggests a connection between the characters’ susceptibility to this musical style and their longing for now imaginary, bygone days. This idea is made explicit in the ‘night club’ scene, for instance, where the first artistic number of the evening, consisting of a waltz (Strauss’s Wiener Blut), performed by numbers of girls in traditional Viennese costumes, stirs the “frantic enthusiasm” of those who attend the show (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 746). The waltz and the traditional costumes evoke conventions that belong to a past era and are, consequently, occasions for comforting, nostalgic memories. The characters’ longing for a return to the past is clearly illustrated in the text by their continual references to previous moments in time or by their use of the expression “if only”, as in the following example.
RITTMEISTER Wenn der Krieg nur vierzehn Tage länger gedauert hätt, dann hätt ich heut meine Majorspension. VALERIE Wenn der Krieg vierzehn Tag länger gedauert hätt, dann hätten wir gesiegt. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 710)
THE CAPTAIN If the war had lasted only fourteen days longer, then I would have my Major’s pension today. VALERIE If the war had lasted only fourteen days longer, then we would have won.
The lines exchanged between the Captain and Valerie explicitly express their nostalgia for the days of the lost monarchy as well as their wish for its restoration. Not only the waltz’s continual references to earlier eras and its association with the bourgeois’ ideals but also its compelling rhythm and its repetitive structure nourish the continual
95 reference to the past, which permeates the petty bourgeois’ consciousness and actions in Horváth’s play.
Moreover, the simple, sentimental, and sugar-coated quality of the waltz melodies, which offer the musical ‘backdrop’ of Horváth’s drama, points to characters’ predisposition towards sentimentalism and false romanticism, as well as to their tendency to develop a self-deceptive outlook. Horváth exposes the characters’ susceptibility to such music by showing how they hum and sing along with the songs:
“Emma: Music is something beautiful, isn’t it? ... Emma hums the waltz quietly”
(“Emma: Musik ist doch etwas Schönes, nicht? ... Emma summt leise den Walzer mit”
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 726]), or how they appreciatively listen to the songs:
Marianne ab in die Puppenklinik–und jetzt wird der Walzer “Über den Wellen” wieder weitergespielt. Zauberkönig lauscht. RITTMEISTER Wer spielt denn da? ZAUBERKÖNIG Das ist eine Realschülerin im zweiten Stock–ein talentiertes Kind ist das. RITTMEISTER Ein musikalisches. ZAUBERKÖNIG Ein frühentwickeltes–Er summt mit, riecht an den Blumen und genießt ihren Duft. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 712)
Marianne enters the puppet store–now the waltz “Über den Wellen” is played again. Zauberkönig listens. THE CAPTAIN Who plays there? ZAUBERKÖNIG There is a schoolgirl on the second floor–a gifted child. THE CAPTAIN A musical one. ZAUBERKÖNIG A precocious one–He hums the song, smells the flowers and enjoys their fragrance.
Horváth’s characters need something from outside to help them ‘escape’, because they lack energy, vision, or anything meaningful and reliable enough to enable them to
96 develop some sort of coherent action that could change their situation. Marianne, for example, like Leni in Ein Wochenendspiel, confesses that whenever she is sad, she would like to sing: “Immer wenn ich traurig bin, möcht ich singen–” (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 723). Emotionally immature, incapable of thinking for themselves, and unable to express their thoughts and feelings, Horváth’s characters appeal to the surrogate emotions that popular music conveys. In this context, the waltzes and operetta music play a significant role.
In Bürgerliches Lachtheater, Volker Klotz (2007) argues that the magical power that operetta wields over the audience might be explained by its constant
‘playing’ with the audience’s innate desire for happiness. According to Klotz, operetta’s characteristic feature consists in the permanent tension it creates between an ostensibly available happiness and its actual inaccessibility. He calls it “the tension between the empty presence and the full absence” (“Die Spannung zwischen unerfüllter
Présence und erfüllter Absence” [Klotz, 2007, p. 284]). This tension relies extensively on the compelling effect of music: “it can exhilarate any subjects and stupid texts, as long as it is continuously recharged by a compulsory gestural music” (“Diese Spannung kann selbst beliebige Sujets und alberne Texte beschwingen, solang sie nur durch eine zwingend gestische Musik wieder und wieder aufgeladen werden” [Klotz, 2007, p.
284]). Thus, through its music and its melange of singing and dancing, the operetta acts as the provider of a promise of happiness fulfilled. Under the influence of such music, Horváth’s characters are encouraged to surrender to dreams of happiness. They become enraptured with the idealised projection of reality, which is promoted by the fantasy world of operetta that the waltzes evoke. Consequently, Horváth’s characters develop the tendency of repressing reality in order to replace it with its romanticised image. They eventually create their own self-deceptive world.
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In Horváth’s play, the popular waltzes act as both a vehicle and symptom of the characters’ fall into the trap of self-delusion. Marianne, for example, is musically
‘identified’ with Das Lied von der Wachau. She performs this waltz as part of her
‘audition’ with the Baroness, a person who was supposed to find Marianne a job in the world of ‘artistic’ entertainment that turned out to be a nightclub featuring nude dancers
(Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 731). The fragment of the popular waltz of the 1920s that she sings evokes the romantic feelings of a young man who falls in love with a girl with
“shining eyes” and “lips red as blood” in the picturesque Wachau. 24
Es kam einst gezogen ein Bursch ganz allein Und wanderte froh in den Abend hinein. Da flog ein Lächeln ihm zu und ein Blick. Er dachte noch lange daran zurück. Ein rosiges Antlitz, ein goldener Schopf, Zwei leuchtende Augen, ein Mädchenkopf. Das Mädel, das ging ihm nicht mehr aus dem Sinn, Und oft sang er vor sich hin: Da draußen in der Wachau Die Donau fließt so blau, Steht einsam ein Winzerhaus, Da schaut mein Mädel heraus. Hat Lippen rot wie Blut Und küssen kanns so gut Die Augen sind veilchenblau Vom Mädel in der Wachau. (Horváth, 2015, pp. 733-734)
There was once a lonely boy Who gladly wandered in the evening When a smile and a look flew to him. He thought long back on them.
24 Das Lied von der Wachau is composed by Arnold Ernst (1892-1962) on the text of Erwin Weill (1885- 1942). 98
A rosy face, golden hair, Two shinning eyes, one girl’s head The girl who has never gone out of his mind, And he often sang to himself: Out there in the Wachau Where the Danube flows so blue, There is a winery house, From where my girl is looking out. She has lips red as blood, And knows kissing so well; The eyes are violet-blue Of the girl in Wachau.
The emotionalism of the lyrics, enhanced by the charming melody, recalls a fairy-tale world of simple rural folk that contrasts ironically with the stage events. Horváth lets the newly betrayed and abandoned Marianne perform this song to emphasise the discrepancy between her real and imagined existence.
The waltz In lauschiger Nacht from Carl Michael Ziehrer’s operetta Die
Landstreicher, is employed by Horváth in a similar manner, to illustrate one of the characters’ lack of self-awareness and his refusal to face the truth.25 While his fiancée openly flirts with Alfred, Oskar sings, accompanied by the lute, a fragment from this popular waltz about love and happy marriage.
OSKAR singt zur Laute Sei gepriesen, du lauschige Nacht, Hast zwei Herzen so glücklich gemacht. Und die Rosen im folgenden Jahr Sahn ein Paar am Altar! Auch der Klapperstorch blieb nicht lang aus,
25 Die Landstreicher (1899), composer: Carl Michael Ziehrer (1843-1922). The libretto is signed by Leopold Krenn (1850-1930) and Carl Lindau (1853-1934). 99
Brachte klappernd den Segen ins Haus. Und entschwand auch der liebliche Mai, In der Jugend erblüht er neu! (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 718)
OSKAR plays on the lute Be praised you cosy night, Two hearts have been made so happy. The following year’s roses Will join a couple at the altar! Even the stork did not miss too long And brought clattering the blessing into the house. When the lovely May vanishes, In youth it blossoms anew!
Through the insertion of this song, Horváth points out Oskar’s incapacity to develop and express adequate personal feelings and his consequent appeal to the surrogate emotions and expressions provided by the sentimental song he sings. The ridiculous circumstance of the song’s occurrence mocks Oskar’s compliance with the prefabricated emotions and situations that he assumes to be real and his own. The other participants, at what is supposed to be Oskar’s and Marianne’s engagement celebration, join in a chorus and start humming the song along with Oskar: “He [Oscar] plays the song again, but this time he just hums it; the others hum too, with the exception of
Alfred and Marianne” (“Er [Oskar] spielt das Lied nochmal, singt aber nicht mehr, sondern summt nur; auch alle anderen summen mit, außer Alfred und Marianne”
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 718]). Horváth uses musical means for singling out the members of the group succumbing to self-deception. Alfred’s and Marianne’s silence only anticipates the subsequent conflictual situations. Horváth also draws the attention to the hypnotic effect of the song, which triggers automatic responses.
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In Horváth’s play, music also assists the depiction of stereotypes. Using the constant and provocative recurrence of the same musical pattern, the waltz tune,
Horváth alludes to his characters’ predisposition towards standardisation. They act as what Adorno calls “regressive listeners”, who, characterised by “a neurotic mechanism of stupidity in listening”, respond to the superficial, simple, and uncomplicated
(Adorno, 2005, p. 51). However, Horváth’s characters, again as Adorno’s “regressive listeners”, are not only attracted to the simple melodic lines but also addicted to repetitiveness of musical routines. In the Heuriger scene, for example, under the enthusiastic effect of Wienerlieder, which nourish the characters’ predisposition towards sentimentality and provide them with the prefabricated emotions and deceived ideas about an idealised ‘old Austrian’ past that they cherish, Zauberkönig, for example, exclaims: “Bravo, bravissimo! Today I am the old one again! Da capo! Da capo!” (“Bravo, bravissimo! Heut bin ich wieder der alte! Da capo, da capo!” [Horváth,
2015, vol. 2, p. 742]). The repetition produces uncritical, mindless acceptance and the adaptation takes the place of awareness of the conscious development of thoughts and emotions; it favours the formation of stereotypes. In another example, at the end of a choral musical sequence, Horváth’s characters, united in a single, stereotyped voice, utter their imperative desire for repetition: “So, let’s do this again, let’s repeat it once again!” (“So tun wir noch mal repetieren, aber noch mal repetieren!” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 746]). Horváth’s recurrent use of the same waltz melodies, such as
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, pp. 705, 709, 726, 762), An der schönen blauen Donau (pp. 720, 748), Über den Wellen (pp. 710, 712, 738, 739) and Frühlingsstimmen (pp. 723, 736), only stresses this idea further.
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Therefore, at the semantic level, the waltz music that Horváth’s characters listen to, hum, sing or talk about contributes to their characterisation. It serves the portrayal of uncertain and disoriented persons, vulnerable and susceptible to manipulation.
3.5. Wienerlieder
Another significant aspect of Horváth’s use of music in Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald is the presence of group singing, which is particularly associated in this play with the rendition of the Wienerlieder. Types of vocal music, including chorus, were characteristic of traditional Volksstücke, where they played, however, a rather subsidiary, ornamental role in the order of a divertissement. With this Volksstück,
Horváth starts refashioning the ‘choral’ element in a way that allows reflection upon its complex meaning within the ‘new’ form of ‘popular’ theatre that Horváth envisaged.
The moments of group singing are concentrated in the first scene of the play’s last part, where a few representatives of Horváth’s Kleinbürgertum (Zauberkönig,
Valerie, Erich, und the Captain) revel at a Heuriger café “with Schrammelmusik” in a
“great maudlin mood” (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 742). The term “Heuriger” defines popular drinking spots in the suburban areas around Vienna, according to Paula Sutter
Fichtner’s Historical Dictionary of Austria.
A Heuriger is a garden site where such wine [the most recent (Germ.: heur=this year) available vintage of the local wine] is both sold and consumed, particularly in Vienna’s outlying districts, where productive vineyards still operate. ... Heuriger can be exceedingly modest, with only a few picnic tables and benches .... They can also be quite elaborate, offering among other attractions Schrammel music. ... These are popular tunes played by a characteristically Austrian ensemble of guitars, violins, and accordion. ... Single
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entertainers who sing Wiener Lieder (Viennese songs) often perform in these places, too. (Fichtner, 2009, p. 146)
As Fichtner emphasises, the depiction of a Heuriger atmosphere is necessarily linked to musical allusions. Consequently, the singing of traditional drinking songs, almost all of which have a distinct Viennese flavour, becomes an intrinsic part of the very fabric of
Horváth’s Heuriger scene, helping to recreate the Viennese atmosphere of a wine tavern of the interwar period. However, the communal singing in Horváth’s Volksstück is not confined to such a decorative role. It constitutes an integrated whole with the plot and occasions the affirmation of the subtext’s major critical ideas.
The singing sequence opens with the refrain of the famous Viennese song Das
Lied von der Wachau. From a structural perspective, the song connects this scene with the previous one which featured Marianne’s rendition of Wachau’s Lied to the
Baroness. Its repetition here recalls past events and anticipates what follows: Marianne will be found in a night club performing nude dances, the job ‘secured’ by her interview with the Baroness. Marianne’s further tragedy and the infanticide are signalled by the next song: Es wird ein Wein sein26, which contains, as the Viennese writer Peter Altenberg declared in 1908, “the whole sweet, hearty, careless joie de vivre of the Viennese people but, at the same time, their deep despair that sometime they have to ‘croak’” (“Es liegt darin die ganze süße, herzige, leichtsinnige Lebensfreude des Wieners und zugleich die tiefe Verzweiflung, dennoch einmal ‘abkratzen’ zu müssen” [Fritz, 2006, p. 295]). The fragment of this song that Horváth inserts in the play clearly brings closer the perspective of death.
Es wird ein Wein sein, There will be wine, Und wir werden nimmer sein. And we will never be.
26 Es wird ein Wein sein, composer: Ludwig Gruber (1874-1964) on the text of Josef Hornig (1861- 1911). 103
Es wird schöne Madeln geben, There will be beautiful girls, Und wir werden nimmer leben– And we will live no more– (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 742)
At the semantic level, the group performance of these songs enables Horváth to indicate both the hypnotic and narcotic effect that popular music exerts. The songs act as automatic responses of the characters’ unconscious states. They give expression to their subliminal impulses and fears. They also reflect the characters’ refusal to acquire self-awareness. Horváth’s characters indulge in the music of ‘their’ Vienna, singing it with narcissistic arrogance and sentimentality. However, the musical sequence is interrupted by a moment of “deathlike silence” (“Jetzt wirds einen Augenblick totenstill beim Heurigen–aber dann singt wieder alles mit verdreifachter Kraft” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 742]). In this moment of pause, the characters’ unconscious weaknesses are not only faced but also converted into an exaggerated lust for life. After the break, they start singing “again with triple strength” a fragment from a popular Wienerlied:
Drum gehn wir gern nach Nußdorf naus, Da gibt a Hetz, a Gstanz, Da hörn wir ferne Tanz, Da laß ma fesche Jodler naus Und gengan in der Fruah Mitn Schwomma z’Haus, mitn Schwomma z’Haus! 27 (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 742)
That’s why we like to go to Nußdorf, The place where everybody wants to go, There we hear distant dances, People sing dashing yodels And go late in the night Stumbling home, stumbling home!
27 Mir gengan heut nach Nußdorf h’naus by Carl Lorens (1851-1909). 104
Growing out of silence, the characters’ song brings again the individuals from solitude into chorus.
Horváth lets his characters join in the act of singing to stress precisely their deficient individualities. According to Adorno, music helps to displace problems and represents for weak and lonely individuals a way out of isolation. The songs that
Horváth’s characters sing together are expressions of their quest for an alternative, passionate collective identity that might compensate for the absence of their individual identity. On the other hand, Horváth uses the communal singing of songs to draw attention to the precarious forms of group identification. He emphasises the complex mediations that take place between song, subjectivity, and communal identity. Singing occasions acts of collective memory in Horváth’s play. The popular Lieder sung at the
Heuriger carry collective memories of an idealised ‘old Austrian’ past and are transformed by the characters’ zest for a collective national identity in songs of glorified nationalism. This idea is supported by Horváth’s deliberate insertion of group singing of other iconic Viennese songs, such as Wien, du Stadt meiner Träume or
Vindobona, du herrliche Stadt, which takes place within the frame of an enthusiastic discussion about the idea of homeland (Heimat) (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 745).
ALLES singt Wien, Wien, nur du allein Sollst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein, Dort, wo ich glücklich und selig bin, Ist Wien, ist Wien, mein Wien! MISTER Wien soll leben! Die Heimat! Und die schönen Wiener Frauen! Und der Heimatgedanke! Und wir Wiener sollen leben–alle, alle! (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 745)
All sing Vienna, Vienna, you alone Will be the city of my dreams,
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There, where I feel happy and blessed Is Vienna, is Vienna, my Vienna! MISTER Vienna should live! The homeland! And the beautiful Viennese women! And the homeland idea! And we the Viennese people should live–all, all!
In an explicit ironical manner, Horváth lets the figure of Mister, a Viennese expatriate from America, who is basically a foreigner, voice and cheer the idea of ‘homeland’.
The concept of ‘Heimat’, which is recalled in Horváth’s play by the communal singing of Wienerlieder, corresponds to Ernst Bloch’s explanation of the concept as
“something that shines into the childhood of all and where no one has ever been”, as a creation of “the human being, who transforms and surpasses the actuality” (Bloch,
1986, pp. 1375-1376). Horváth’s characters’ perception of homeland implies the reference to a utopian space and time of hope and protection that provides them with feelings of fulfilment and security. In their celebration of homeland, the Wienerlieder which the characters sing also celebrate the spirit of a shared identity. This idea is stressed by Mister’s use of the plural pronoun “we” (“wir”) in his discourse on Heimat and reinforced by the repetition of the pronoun “all, all”, which refers to all the
“Viennese people”, at the end of Mister’s intervention. However, as noted in the sketch of his novel Der Mittelstand, Horváth considers that, although the middle-class representatives “detached themselves from the horde”, they are still “incapable of grasping the real idea of community” (“Der Mittelstand ist fast gleich mit der
Familienkultur. Er hat sich von der Horde losgelöst, aber er ist noch nicht fähig zur wirklichen Gemeinschaftsidee” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 646]). As clearly suggested in this play, they are instead vulnerable to a false and deceptive communal solidarity, built on ideological clichés that revolve here around the Viennese myth of
Gemütlichkeit. The Wienerlieder they sing act as providers of an illusory feeling of 106 communion and happiness. The gemütlich spirit of the songs seduces Horváth’s characters and caters to their mindless identification with the spirit of the masses. They merge into an undifferentiated group of social compliance and mediocrity.
Therefore, through the communal singing of songs that take place at Heuriger,
Horváth mainly exposes his characters’ reckless quest for a collective identity.
Possesing a fragile sense of independence, the characters really feel safe only within a group. However, offering frameworks for identification, the musical material that
Horváth inserts in this scene (Wienerlieder) points specifically to the precariousness of these forms of group identification. Although Horváth places a community on stage, emphasised also by the presence of the ‘chorus’, there is no clear group identity, and
Horváth’s people continue to be alone and vulnerable together.
3.6. Military music
After the Heuriger, Horváth takes his characters to ‘Maxim’s’, a night-club where cabaret numbers are performed. Inspired by the cabaret atmosphere he experienced in the interwar years of Berlin, the playwright includes in this scene cabaret numbers meant to illustrate the petit bourgeois’ kitschy and clichéd taste and their appetite for sentimentality, self-indulgence, and erotic vulgarity. The night-club programme includes a wide variety of musical styles, from waltzes and Volkslieder to marches and classical excerpts. As indicated in the play’s stage directions, the mix of various musical pieces stirs the enthusiasm of the cabaret audience and triggers their unconscious response. Horváth’s use of music in this scene serves his explicit critique of the consumption of popular music.
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The accent falls on military music, represented by Austrian and German songs and marches. As Philip Vilas Bohlman asserts in his study on The Music of European
Nationalism, such military music is explicitly nationalistic because “its conscious goal is to generate moments of unisonality” (2004, p. 146). According to Bohlman, in these moments “the nation recognizes itself in the collective actions of a military force, and, by extension, in the more abstract performance of that collective through ensembles dedicated to the ritual performance of military music” (2004, p. 146). In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, the military music is shown to be able to ‘mobilize’ the cabaret audience through musical ideas, as well as to respond to the middle-class’s general desire for an extension of the war experience, for fight and camaraderie. Moreover, through the insistent mix of both German and Austrian military music, Horváth brings forth the confused nationalism of his characters and their susceptibility to forms of patriotic propaganda. In this scene, Strauss’s Wiener Blut and An der schönen blauen
Donau are played along with Hoch-und Deutschmeistermarsch, Fridericus rex, and
Deutschlandlied.
The evening at ‘Maxim’s’ starts with the Emcee’s speech. It incongruously refers to symbols of German high culture, Goethe and “our immortal Faust”, to introduce a trivial moment of what he calls “tradition” and “recollection”, embodied by a few girls in traditional costumes who dance to Strauss’s waltz Wiener Blut:
DER CONFERENCIER Ich begrüße Sie auf das allerherzlichste im Namen meiner Direktion! Schon Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, der Dichterfürst, sagt in seinem Meisterwerk, unserem unsterblichen Faust: Was du ererbt von deinen Vätern hast, erwirb es, um es zu besitzen! In diesem Sinne, meine Sehrverehrten: Nummer auf Nummer! Das ist Tradition, meine Sehrverehrten! Und nun bitte, treten Sie ein mit uns in den Himmel der Erinnerung!–
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Und nun erklingt der Walzer “Wiener Blut” von Johann Strauß, der Vorhang hebt sich, und einige Mädchen in Alt-Wienertracht tanzen den Walzer–dann fällt wieder der Vorhang; rasende Begeisterung im Publikum, und die Musik spielt nun den Hoch-und Deutschmeistermarsch. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 746)
THE EMCEE I warmly welcome you in the name of my management! Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the prince of poets, says in his masterpiece, our immortal Faust: what you have inherited from your fathers, acquire, in order to own it! In this sense, my very honoured: a special number! This is tradition, my very honoured! And now please join us in the heaven of recollection! And now there sounds the waltz “Wiener Blut” by Johann Strauss, the curtain lifts up and some girls in old Viennese national costume dance the waltz–then the curtain falls again; frantic enthusiasm among the audience, now the music plays “Hoch-und Deutschmeistermarsch”.
Horváth explicitely mocks and draws the attention to the confused nationalism of his characters. In this scene, the representatives of Horváth’s petite bourgeoisie respond with equally frenetic elation to the icons of both German and Austrian culture, to the name of Goethe and to Strauss’s music. Although incongruously juxtaposed, the speech, Strauss’s music, and the image of dancing girls have the effect of stirring the petit bourgeois’ supposed sentiment of ‘national’ pride. As the stage directions indicate, the audience members react ecstatically. Horváth ironically highlights the patriotic enthusiasm of the moment by including next an example of military music, the
Hoch- und Deutschmeistermarsch, in the interpretation of the cabaret’s orchestra.
As in the case of other popular examples of military music, the powerful historical narrative of this song invests it with a common narrative of nationalism. The march, dated 1893, celebrates the infantry regiment No. 4 (Hoch-und Deutschmeister) of the Austro-Hungarian army that its Viennese composer, Wilhelm August Jurek, 109 served in for three years.28 A popular song, it used to raise the audience to their feet and its refrain, “Mir san vom Ka und Ka Infantrieregiment”, was always cheerfully received. In the years after the First World War, the march gained significance specifically through its capacity to memorialize and mythologize the glories of the past.
In Horváth’s play, used in conjunction with the image of waltzing women in Viennese traditional costumes, this march reflects the characters’ longing for a return to the past, to the time of the military vigour of the Habsburg Empire. It also clearly points to the characters’ susceptibility to the nationalistic message of the song. Moreover, it stresses their readiness to rally to the military marches and respond to the call of the collective.
After such an excited introduction, the cabaret programme continues with a series of tableaux vivants. The first one is called “the Danube’s mermaids”
(“Donaunixen”). To the melodic strains of Strauss’s waltz, An der schönen blauen
Donau, appear three half-naked girls, “picturesquely grouped in front of a black curtain in a green spotlight” (“alle sind malerisch gruppiert vor einem schwarzen Vorhang im grünen Schweinerferlicht” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]). Giving expression to the characters’ frivolous erotic impulses, this number receives “strong applause” and incites Zauberkönig’s exclamation: “naked women, quite proper!” (“Nackte Weiber, sehr richtig!” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]). The moment of “highly artistic living nude sculptures” is followed by a more programmatic one, suggestively entitled “Our
Zeppelin” (“Unser Zeppelin” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]).
The second ‘tableau’ is part of Horváth’s further mockery of the petit bourgeois’ nationalist ambitions. It consists of three girls who stand naked on the stage, “one holding a propeller in her hands, the second one a globe, and the third one a small zeppelin” (“auf der Bühne stehen drei nackte Mädchen–die erste hält einen
28 Hoch-und Deutschmeistermarsch was composed by Wilhelm August Jurek (1870-1934). 110
Propeller in den Händen, die zweite einen Globus und die dritte einen kleinen
Zeppelin” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]). This cabaret number is musically accompanied by the Prussian march Fridericus Rex.29 One of the most famous German military marches, Fridericus Rex Grenadiermarsch, evokes the figure of Frederick the
Great, the King of Prussia. It glorifies the national heroes of the past, implicitly promoting among the economically and politically oppressed middle-class the idea of a return to a monarchical system. In the cabaret scene, the compelling rhythm of the melodic line, together with the historical narrative of the song, reinforce the message conveyed by the image of the zeppelin, largely considered in the years between the two world wars a symbol of German power and technological progress. According to
Guillaume de Syon’s history of German Airship, “the role that the zeppelin assumed during the stabilization and decline of the Weimar Republic clearly shows its importance as an instrument of popular culture and as a political and business tool applied to the rehabilitation of Germany” (2002, p. 146). “Weimar Germany used the airship”, de Syon explains, “as a means to remember an ageing Count Zeppelin who had given united Germany a happy sign of its youthful promise” (2002, p. 146). Thus, sound and image collaborate again to manipulate the cabaret’s audience and to provoke their automatic response. The ‘artistic’ number indeed reaches its intended effect.
After ecstatic applause, the characters “spring out of their seats and start singing the first strophe of the Deutschlandlied” (“das Publikum rast vor Beifall, schnellt von den
Sitzen in die Höhe und singt die erste Strophe des Deutschlandliedes” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]). As Horváth suggests, they are ready to join in choruses, to form communities of worshipers mobilized through songs.
Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, Germany, Germany above all,
29 Fridericus Rex, composer: Ferdinand Radeck (1828-1903). 111
Über alles in der Welt, Above all in the world, Wenn es stets zu Schutz und Trutze When, for protection and defence, Brüderlich zusammenhält. It always takes a brotherly stand together. Von der Maas bis an die Memel, From the Meuse to the Memel Von der Etsch bis an den Belt– From the Adige to the Belt– Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, Germany, Germany above all, Über alles in der Welt. Above all in the world. 30
Horváth makes use of the German national anthem to highlight the reactionary nationalistic euphoria that seizes the audience. Horváth’s deliberate reference to the first strophe of the song, with its most notorious verse “Germany, Germany, above all”
(“Deutschland, Deutschland über alles”), underlines this idea. However, as stressed in
Bohlman’s history of music of European nationalism, in the last century, the
Deutschlandlied was interpreted in vastly different ways, most commonly being either
“a potent text for fascist imperialism” or simply “a means of celebrating common national culture with a nostalgic hymn” (2004, p. 35). Horváth seems aware of the complex layers of meaning that songs can accrue through subsequent public usages and draws the attention in this scene to the manipulative power of this song.
The last tableau vivant brings the main action’s thread back into the foreground.
“The Pursuit of Happiness” (“Die Jagd nach dem Glück”) presents a group of naked girls “who trample each other in trying to reach a golden ball” on which poses the undressed Marianne in the role of ‘Happiness’ (“eine Gruppe nackter Mädchen, die sich gegenseitig niedertreten, versucht einer goldenen Kugel nachzurennen, auf welcher das Glück auf einem Bein steht–das Glück ist ebenfalls unbekleidet und heißt
Marianne” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748]). It is set to Robert Schumann’s Träumerei
30 Deutschlandlied, music: Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), text: August Heinrich Hoffman von Fallersleben (1798-1874).
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(Dreaming), a melody of exquisite tenderness. However, Schumann’s music provides a discordant accompaniment to the image of a naked Marianne, the symbol of elusive happiness, who stands on one leg on a ball in a position that illustrates the precariousness of her situation. That Marianne herself cannot attain happiness is made painfully clear when, as a consequence of Valerie’s cry of recognition, she loses her balance and falls off the ball. The tableau is preceded by a “deathlike silence”
(Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748), which ‘freezes’ the cabaret’s audience into a grotesque picture. The moment of silence gives an inkling of the devastating impact of the recognition scene: Marianne’s confrontation with her father. Only when Marianne once again falls prey to the neighbourhood can the ‘happiness’ of the “quiet street” be restored. Only after Marianne’s complete ordeal and the death of her child, following the mores of a rigid society, is she forgiven and accepted back into society, and a
‘respectable’ marriage is performed with Oskar.
In the night-club scene, Horváth tailors the three cabaret numbers so as to illustrate the taste of the petit bourgeois for kitsch and vulgarity as well as his confused nationalism and susceptibility to political manipulation. Horváth realises this primarily by combining different musical elements. He alternates marches and military music, which are preponderant, with popular waltzes and ends the scene with a classical piece.
The succession of these songs has no coherent relationship with the external frame of the action, or with the place where they are performed. The nightclub is thus exposed as a forum for political propaganda.
The analysis of various types of music has emphasised that in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Horváth relies more extensively than in the other plays of the cycle on musical elements. In contrast to the traditional examples of the Volksstück genre, they are wholly integrated within the text and assist the assertion of the play’s major 113 ideas. The music contributes to the depiction of the state of chaotic confusion and basic contradictions that underlay the life of the petite bourgeoisie in the aftermath of the First World War. It, therefore, supports the new socially critical format of
Horváth’s Volksstück.
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CHAPTER FOUR:
Music in Kasimir und Karoline
Completed between 1931 and 1932, Kasimir und Karoline is the last play that Horváth entitled “Volksstück”.31 From all the plays of the cycle, this work seems to correspond to the classical patterns of the genre in the most exemplary way.
However, as I wish to argue in this chapter, Kasimir und Karoline best illustrates the principles of Horváth’s new Volksstück and his intention to use a popular genre precisely for the purpose of subverting it.
31 Kasimir und Karoline was first performed at the Leipzig Schauspielhaus on 18 November 1932. According to Kastberger and Reimann, the 1961 edition of Traugott Krischke’s Ödön von Horváth: Stücke is the first published version of Horváth’s Kasimir und Karoline (Horváth, 2009, p. 2). 115
4.1. Kasimir und Karoline, the ballad
In the notes occasioned by the Viennese performance of his play, Horváth openly connects Kasimir und Karoline to the traditional forms of folk art.32 He describes this play as “the ballad of the unemployed chauffeur, Kasimir, and his ambitious bride, a ballad of silent grief, tempered by humour, and by the everyday understanding of the fact that we all must die!” (“Die Ballade vom arbeitslosen Chauffeur Kasimir und seiner Braut mit der Ambition, eine Ballade von stiller Trauer, gemildert durch Humor, das heißt durch die alltägliche Erkenntnis: ‘Sterben müssen wir alle!’” [Horváth, in
Krischke, Materialien zu Ödön von Horváths Kasimir und Karoline, 1973, p. 133]).
The reference to a ballad invokes the tradition of popular theatre, folk singers, and comedians that Horváth explicitly acknowledges as the inspirational source of his unique Volksstücke (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 663). Furthermore, the reference alludes to the representative features of the folk ballad, such as the narrative form, the indispensable presence of music and local colour, and the topic of love, with an emphasis on the hardships or the end of love.
Kasimir und Karoline apparently was developed in accordance with the balladesque tradition. Unlike the other plays in the cycle, which are divided into acts or tableaux (Bilder), Kasimir und Karoline has a seemingly unstructured series of 117 scenes. The linear arrangement of these scenes evokes the narrative flow of a ballad’s stanzas, with its regular beat structure and rhyming pattern. The local content, which in
Kasimir und Karoline is assured by placing the action in Munich during the Oktoberfest festivities, is another source of similarity. The apparent topic of love also reminds one
32 The notes are part of a letter addressed by Horváth to Ernst Lönner, the Director of the Kasimir und Karoline performance staged at the Kleines Theater, Vienna, in November of 1935. 116 of the folk ballad and the tradition of popular theatre. The play’s title together with its motto: “love never ends” (“Und die Liebe höret nimmer auf”) reveal from the outset that the theme of Kasimir und Karoline revolves around an intrigue of love whose protagonists are the two title characters (Horváth, 2009, p. 464). Similar to the folk ballad, Horváth’s play does not present a serene love story. It instead depicts a moment of crisis in love that will eventually mark the moment of the couple’s definitive separation.
The play is set at the height of the Depression era. Kasimir is a chauffeur who recently has been laid off. He is in no mood to enjoy the Oktoberfest attractions and accompany Karoline around the fairground. Without a job and with no prospects of employment, Kasimir feels both distressed and frustrated. He voices mixed feelings of self-pity and resentment towards “those up there”, who, as he says, can “fly [with the zeppelin] while down here millions are starving” (“Da fliegen droben zwanzig
Wirtschaftskapitäne und herunten verhungern derweil einige Millionen!” [Horváth,
2009, p. 465]). Kasimir reacts resentfully toward Karoline as well, who, as an office worker with parents on a Beamtenpension, has a more stable financial condition.
KASIMIR Natürlich hast du gelacht. Und das darfst du ja auch–du verdienst ja noch was und lebst bei deinen Eltern, die wo pensionsberechtigt sind. Aber ich habe keine Eltern mehr und steh allein in der Welt, ganz und gar allein. (Horváth, 2009, p. 465)
KASIMIR Sure you laughed. Why shouldn’t you? You still got money coming in, and you’re living with your parents, who have a pension to live on in their old age. But I don’t have my parents no more. I’m on my own in this world, strictly on my own.
On the one hand, there is the financially as well as socially insecure Kasimir, who is unemployed and does not have a ‘union’ or a political party to support him. On the 117 other hand, there is Karoline, a representative of the economically insecure new petty bourgeoisie, who lives in fear of losing her class advantages of income and status as a consequence of a possible humiliating descent into the working class. She says as she confronts Kasimir:
KAROLINE ... Ich habe mich von dir tyrannisieren lassen und habe es dir nachgesagt, daß eine Büroangestellte auch nur eine Proletarierin ist! Aber da drinnen in meiner Seele habe ich immer anders gedacht! Mein Herz und mein Hirn waren ja umnebelt, weil ich dir hörig war! Aber jetzt ist das aus. (Horváth, 2009, p. 479)
KAROLINE … I used to be dominated by you and I just repeated what you said, that an office worker is no better than a blue collar worker. But deep down inside I always knew better. I just couldn’t think straight! I was in a fog because I only listened to you. But that’s over now.
The love of Kasimir and Karoline is thus called into question. According to a hypothesis advanced by one of the other characters (Schürzinger), the difficulty of the socio-economic conditions affects one’s interpersonal relations. More precisely, if a man loses his job, then he is automatically bound to lose his girlfriend too (Horváth,
2009, p. 466). Kasimir’s refusal to join the general festive atmosphere of the
Oktoberfest eases Karoline into drifting away from him. Determined to have fun with or without him, she severs her relationship with Kasimir and falls into the role of a
Wiesenbraut.
“In Munich,” writes Horváth, “a Wiesenbraut is called a young lady you meet at the Oktoberfest … The Wiesenbraut leaves her relatives, her circle–goes with men she does not know, is less interested in the character than in pleasure. … The Wiesenbraut sacrifices her bridegroom; she does not think, she lives” (“Unter einer Wiesenbraut
118 versteht man in München ein Fräulein, das man an einem Oktoberfest besuch kennen lernt ... Die Wiesenbraut verlässt die Ihren, verlässt ihr Milljöh–geht mit Herrn, die sie nicht kennt, interessiert sich wenig für den Charakter, mehr für die Vergnügungen. ...
Die Wiesenbraut opfert ihren Bräutigam, sie denkt nicht, sie lebt” [2009, p. 431]).
However, the Wisenbraut Karoline is “an ambitious bride” and meeting men at the
Oktoberfest is regarded as a possible way to fulfil her dreams of social advancement, as she plainly affirms:
KAROLINE ... Das Leben ist hart und eine Frau, die wo etwas erreichen will, muß einen einflußreichen Mann immer bei seinem Gefühlsleben packen. (Horváth, 2009, p. 479)
KAROLINE … Life is hard and a woman who wants to get someplace in this world has to play up to men of influence, who can help her to get there.
Karoline’s first ‘conquest’ is Schürzinger, a department store salesman. But
Schürzinger is soon ready to abandon Karoline in favour of his boss, Rauch, in order to receive a promotion. On her side, Karoline is willing to join the businessman Rauch because he has promised her a better job. However, “merely in the fairy tales does a
Wiesenbraut get a prince or a sheikh. In reality, she sinks into nothingness as soon as the festivities in the meadow end” (“Nur im Märchen bekommt die Wiesenbraut einen
Prinzen oder einen Scheich. In Wahrheit versinkt sie in das Nichts, sobald die Wiese aufhört” [Horváth, 2009, p. 431]). After his heart attack, Rauch loses interest in
Karoline and leaves her, although she saved his life by preventing a car accident.
Alone and disoriented, Karoline tries to reconnect with Kasimir but their break-up was definitive. She is left with Schürzinger:
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KAROLINE Ich habe es mir halt eingebildet, daß ich mir einen rosigeren Blick in die Zukunft erringen könnte–und einige Momente habe ich mit allerhand Gedanken gespielt. Aber ich müßt so tief unter mich hinunter, damit ich höher hinauf kann. (Horváth, 2009, pp. 504-505)
KAROLINE I fooled myself into thinking I could make a rosy future for myself–and for a little while I was willing to do anything to get it. But I had to lower myself so far down just to get one step higher.
Meanwhile, Kasimir has found a new partner in the person of Erna, a girl with whom he feels he has a lot in common. Unlike Karoline, Erna shares Kasimir’s revolutionary ideals. In a moment of exaltation, Erna confesses that she often imagines a revolution with “the poor marching under the arch of triumph and the rich in the police wagons”
(“Oft male ich mir eine Revolution aus–dann sehe ich die Armen durch das Siegestor ziehen und die Reichen im Zeiserlwagen” [Horváth, 2009, p. 496]).
At the end of the play, the separation between Kasimir and Karoline is followed by the formation of new couples. Nevertheless, there is no happy ending. Horváth’s characters fail in their relationships as well as in their aspirations. In the absence of love, these new couples form as a response to an individual’s desperate need of reassurance. The cynicism of the play’s theme thus becomes transparent: love does not know an end since it mirrors a form of behavioural automatism. “Love never ends”, writes Horváth in the opening of the text (“Und die Liebe höret nimmer auf” [Horváth,
2009, p. 464]). “Always the same shit” concludes Karoline in her last scene of the play
(“Es ist immer der gleiche Dreck” [Horváth, 2009, p. 506]).
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4.2. Overview of the musical elements
The dramatic events are accompanied in Kasimir und Karoline by extensive musical material that supports the play’s general resemblance to the traditional examples of the
Volksstück genre. As in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, where Horváth’s choice of music is linked to a recollection of the Viennese atmosphere, in Kasimir und Karoline the musical elements are linked to another famous city of popular entertainment–
Munich, the home of Volkssänger culture and the Oktoberfest tradition. The stage directions contain constant references to musical displays specific to festivals and fairgrounds, which provide the play’s musical backdrop, i.e., flourishes of trumpet and drum beats (Horváth, 2009, p. 464, p. 480, and p. 495), “general festive music”
(“Wiesenmusik” [p. 474 and p. 499]), the sounds of a French horn (p. 470), and waltz and march rhythms in the offstage interpretation of a brass band (p. 493). These all contribute to the creation of the Oktoberfestwiese ambience and also act as a mood- enhancing factor for the play. Therefore, as when used as incidental music in the traditional Volksstück, they are intended to fulfil a decorative as well as a functional role.
The stage directions also refer to musical quotations that have a certain resonance among Oktoberfest visitors and form the play’s musical core, i.e., famous operetta melodies, marches, and folk songs. There are a few particular aspects of
Horváth’s use of such main musical material that distinguish Kasimir und Karoline from the other plays of the cycle and also emphasise its Volksstück impression. Here
Horváth introduces musical interludes. There are 9 scenes that consist exclusively of musical passages (Scenes 1, 7, 20, 38, 57, 72, 84, 99, and 108). With a live performance of an orchestra, they make for the highly musical character of the play.
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These musical passages also constantly break the rhythm of the action, supporting the episodic structure of the play. They play the role of the classical interlude, as Horváth explicitely suggests: “they are introductory scenes with which the background changes.
Music as entrée, like in a couplet” (“Die Szenen sind Auftrittsszenen, bei denen der
Hintergrund wechselt. Die Musik als Entree, wie bei einem Couplet” [Horváth, in
Krischke, Materialien zu Ödön von Horváths Kasimir und Karoline, 1973, p. 112]).
However, in Kasimir und Karoline, the function of the ‘interludes’ is far from being primarily ornamental. Through their musical content, the ‘interludes’ also serve the stage events and their intended impact on the audience. This goal is made explicit from the first musical reference, which occurs during, and constitutes, the play’s opening scene.
1. Szene Es wird dunkel im Zuschauerraum und das Orchester spielt die münchener Hymne “Solang der alte Peter”. Hierauf hebt sich der Vorhang. (Horváth, 2009, p. 464)
Scene 1 The lights go down in the auditorium and the orchestra plays the Munich hymn “Solang der alte Peter”. Then the curtain rises.
Kasimir und Karoline starts with the curtain down and the orchestra performing the play’s signature melody, Solang der alte Peter.33 This song, later sung by the characters, refers to certain Munich icons, such as St. Peter’s Church and the “green”
Isar, and it praises the local spirit of Gemütlichkeit (Horváth, 2009, p. 485).34
Consequently, its rendition locates the action even before the curtain is lifted and the
33 Solang der alte Peter was composed by the Viennese folk singer and composer, Carl Lorens (1851- 1909) under the original title Solang der alte Steffel am Stephansplatznochsteht.
34 So long as our old Peter/On Peter’s mountain stands/So long as our green Isar/Through Münchner city flows/So long as down below/Still stands our Hofbrauhaus/So long the warmth and love of home/Our Münchner will not die! (Horváth, 2009, p. 485) 122 place of the events is revealed in the second scene (the Oktoberfest grounds). The song also provides the audience at the outset with a set of background expectations. In the collective consciousness of the masses, Solang der alte Peter is associated with messages of reassurance and conviviality that say ‘as long as the old St. Peter’s Church is still standing, things would be fine’. It creates the illusion of belonging, of social security and solidarity. Thus, the orchestra’s interpretation of the Munich anthem not only evokes a world where this song strongly resonates but also promotes a sense of ongoing familiarity with it. It encourages the spectators’ feelings of comfort in their anticipation of the dramatic events still to come. During the play, the other musical
‘interludes’ preserve these feelings through catchy operetta melodies, folk songs, and marches, which are originally intended to produce a cosy mood in the audience by inducing pleasant emotional responses.
In Kasimir und Karoline, Horváth uses passages from the ‘new’ operetta, signed by the composers of the post-Johann Strauss generation, including Franz Lehar, Leon
Jessel and Paul Lincke.35 With romantic numbers and song-and-dance comedy moments, their works were very familiar to German audiences around 1930. The celebration of pretence and play-acting was precisely what made them so popular.
They responded to the people’s need for a mystification of reality by providing a world of romance and glamour while their beguiling strains act to lull a critical consciousness.
Horváth specifically refers to well-known hits, such as “Glühwürmchen-Suite” from
Lincke’s Lysistrata (1902) and “Bist du lachendes Glück?” from Lehar’s Der Graf von
Luxemburg (1909) (Horváth, 2009, p. 468 and p. 502).
35 Franz Lehar (1870-1948), Leon Jessel (1871-1942), Paul Lincke (1866-1946).
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During these ‘interludes’, the orchestra also plays the strains from two famous folk songs: Die letzte Rose and Mailüfterl (Horváth, 2009, p. 479 and p. 495).36 Their charm and popularity lies in their nostalgic verses and melodic lines that are easy to remember and repeat. They capture and express the indefinite and collective longing for love and happiness of the supposedly ‘simple folk’ and thus serve as the perfect acoustic complement to the characters’ vain desire for love.
The preferred theme of the ‘interludes’, however, is the march music with its concise and regular form and its direct expression of popular feeling. On the one hand,
Horváth employs marches for the explicit social convention that they recall. Radetzky
Marsch (composer: Johann Strauss Sr., 1848), Bayerischer Defiliermarsch (composer:
Adolf Scherzer, 1850), and Militärmarsch 1822 (composer: Franz Schubert, 1822) represent ritualized performances from the past (Horváth, 2009, p. 483, p. 484, and pp.
498 and 499).37 Their historical narratives resonate in the mass consciousness with the memory of a heroic time. As in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Horváth identifies the susceptibility to military music felt by the economically and politically oppressed middle class of the interwar period, for and about whom his plays were written. These marches were expected to produce ecstatic emotional responses due to their capacity to memorialize and mythologize the grandeur of a past to which the members of his intended audience were still deeply attached. On the other hand, the marches, such as
Parade der Zinnsoldaten (Léon Jessel, 1905) or Petersburger Schlittenfahrt (Richard
36 Die letzte Rose, an Irish popular song included in Friedrich von Flotow’s opera Martha (1844). Music: John Stevenson (1761-1833), Text: Thomas Moore (1779-1852). Mailüfterl or Wenn’s Mailüfterlweht is a Volkslied composed by Joseph Kreipl (1805-1866) on the text of Anton Freiherr von Klesheim (1812-1884). 37 Johann Strauss, Sr. (1804-1849), Adolf Scherzer (1815-1864), Franz Schubert (1797-1828).
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Eilenberg, 1885), both characterised by vigorous rhythms and a reprise pattern of dance, act as reminders of the Oktoberfest’s stirring musical environment.38
As in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, the moments of group singing represent another category of consistent musical entries. Similar to the ‘interludes’, these vocal interventions produce individual scenes that break the flow of the action.
They are concentrated in the scenes that take place at the Wagnerbräu, a popular Beer
House on the Oktoberfest grounds (Scenes 59 to 71). The sequence of group singing presents famous folk songs, such as Mailüfterl and Jägers Liebeslied, 39 and specific
Oktoberfest melodies. Accompanied by an offstage brass band, the characters sing the
Munich anthem, Solang der alte Peter, along with the Oktoberfest hymn, Trink, trink,
Brüderlein trink with its famous ‘Wies’n’ refrains “Eins, zwei, drei–gsuffa!” and “Ein
Prosit, ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!” (“A cheer, a cheer, for what is dear, our
Münchner home!/One, two, three–let’s drink!” [Horváth, 2009, p. 485]).
This overview of musical elements points out that as in the other plays of the cycle popular music is a defining presence in Kasimir und Karoline and contributes to the play’s Volksstück appearance. Horváth relies on his audience’s response to the conventions that these specific waltzes, marches, and folksongs will connote. On the other hand, this overview of the musical episodes stresses that unlike the other
Volksstücke, Kasimir und Karoline delivers a stricter organisation of its main musical material. Music is no longer dispersed over the text as in Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald. Rather, it is concentrated in precise entries, which follow the typical pattern of the traditional Volksstück, where the interludes were formally separated from the text.
Moreover, the required presence of an orchestra emphasises the sense of similarity
38 For Léon Jessel, see Note 35. Richard Eilenberg (1848-1925).
39 Jägers Liebeslied (1827), Text: Franz Schober (1796-1882), Music: Franz Schubert (1797-1828). 125 between Horváth’s play and the traditional examples of the Volksstück genre.
Therefore, not only the musical content but rather its particular configuration and orchestral interpretation indicate more explicitly in Kasimir und Karoline than in the previous Volksstücke Horváth’s intention to enhance the genre’s expectations for his presumed audience.
The frequent musical interventions next to the ostensible love topic, narrative form, local colour, and interludes ascertain the designed affiliation of Horváth’s last
Volksstück with the tradition of popular theatre. However, Kasimir und Karoline may also be considered the ‘manifesto’ of Horváth’s attempts to reform the Volksstück genre. It does not only occasion the writing of the Gebrauchsanweisung, Horváth’s single theoretical statement regarding the interpretation and ‘use’ of his Volksstücke;40 it also most straightforwardly illustrates Horváth’s ideas about the new Volksstück that he has envisaged. Kasimir und Karoline is not only a ballad of “love, desire, and sorrow”, but set in the time of its writing, it is also a ballad of “our bad times”, 41 as
Horváth refers to the last period of the Weimar Republic, or “a ballad of redundancy”
(“eine Ballade der Arbeitlosigkeit”) as a later description of this play states (Horváth,
1972, vol. 8, p. 645).42 It is primarily concerned with the effect of the Depression on the petty bourgeoisie and their general consciousness and behaviour. Moreover, it facilitates an explicit illustration of the ultimate didactic goal of Horváth’s Volksstücke, which is “Erkenne dich bitte selbst!” (“Know yourself, please!” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, p. 328]). Kasimir und Karoline contains a set of ‘play within a play’ scenes that clearly
40 According to Krischke (Materialien zu Ödön von Horváths Kasimir und Karoline, 1973, p. 100).
41 The subtitle of one version of the play states: “Seven scenes of love, desire, and sorrow and our bad times” (“Sieben Szenen von der Liebe, Lust und Leid, und unserer schlechten Zeit” [Krischke, Materialien zu Ödön von Horváths Kasimir und Karoline, 1973, p. 81]).
42 In 1932, the year of the play’s completion, the unemployment rate in Germany was almost 40 percent of the workforce (Weitz, 2007, p. 161). 126 suggest Horváth’s intention to invite the members of the audience to critically view the play and see themselves in the represented characters.
As in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, music remains a strong ally in
Horváth’s artistic endeavour. It assists the depiction of a social landscape that is characterised by the deformation of consciousness in times of severe economic crisis with the final goal of ‘unmasking consciousness’ (Demaskierung des Bewußtseins).
The most prominent features of Kasimir und Karoline that transform it into ‘a ballad of
Horváth’s times’ as well as the contribution of music in the process of ‘the unmasking of consciousness’ are the subject of the following sections of this chapter.
4.3. Kasimir und Karoline, the ballad of Horváth’s times
The choice of the play’s setting, Oktoberfestwiese, serves Horváth’s intent, namely, that of social portrayal. The renowned beer festival works in Horváth’s Volksstück as a perfect pretext for bringing together various social types in order to present a cross- section of Weimar society. Characters from different social classes meet at the festival, which is, according to Rauch, one of the play’s protagonists, an ostensibly democratic place.
RAUCH Da sitzt doch noch der Dienstmann neben dem Geheimrat, der Kaufmann neben dem Gewerbetreibenden, der Minister neben dem Arbeiter–so lob ich mir die Demokratie! (Horváth, 2009, p. 475)
RAUCH Here the porter rubs shoulders with the statesman, the salesman with the boss, the minister with the ordinary worker–that’s what I like about democracy!
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In the bustle of the Oktoberfestwiese, the unemployed Kasimir and the office worker
Karoline, mingle with the white-collar Angestellter Schürzinger, with the businessman
Rauch and his friend Speer (Rauch and Speer are representatives of the old upper bourgeoisie, whose social position was adversely affected by the inflation after the First
World War), and with the representatives of the underclass–the thief Merkl Franz and his girlfriend, Erna, and two prostitutes, Elli and Maria. They all come to the fairgrounds roused by the festival’s supposed spirit of democratic amiability and lured by the colourful and magical world of the Oktoberfestwiese with its beer tents, music, rides, hippodrome, shows, and magic theatre. Thus, the peasants and servants, maids and courtesans of the old Volksstück are replaced in Kasimir und Karoline by workers and the unemployed, petit bourgeoisie and petty criminals, prostitutes and secretaries.
Following the crossing of their paths at the Oktoberfestwiese, Horváth realises a radiograph of a decadent but also vulnerable, society in times of intense economic hardships brought about by the Great Depression.
In their confrontation with their difficult times, Horváth’s characters go through a process of consciousness deformation that definitively affects their perception of reality and makes them incapable of grasping the discrepancies between the real and delusive situations. In this context, the choice of the play’s setting is again significant.
In Horváth’s play, the Oktoberfest represents a symbolic place that hides venality and favours illusions. On the festive grounds everything seems possible for at least a moment. Even social advancement looks like an apparent simple process, and revolutions are easily dreamed of by the protagonists. Here, the characters feel free to release the accrued energy of their hopelessness and voice their zest and longing for a better life. They are also ready to embrace delusion and contemplate wild, irrational dreams. On the fairgrounds everyone feels encouraged to stand out, rise, or fly.
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Accordingly, the image of the Zeppelin, as a symbol of both powerful and deceptive ideals, dominates the play. All of the Oktoberfest visitors watch with fascination and talk about the Zeppelin’s flight over the fields. “It looks so beautiful”, says Karoline with admiration, “even at night, so well-lighted” (“Er sieht schön aus, der Zeppelin– auch in der Nacht, so beleuchtet” [Horváth, 2009, p. 482]). Only Kasimir explains the
“trick”, the magnetism that the Zeppelin exerts on the members of an economically insecure middle class: “when one of us sees this airship, he experiences such a thrill, like he is flying up there too” (“wenn einer von uns dieses Luftschiff sieht, dann hat er so ein Gefühl, als tät er auch mitfliegen” [Horváth, 2009, p. 465]).
Thus, in a personal crisis situation, which enhances the uncertainty of their social position, Horváth’s characters arm themselves with counterfeit feelings and beliefs, meant to assist their frantic desire to imagine that they are in some way very special. They need to assert their supposed individuality in order to ultimately gain more social prestige. Karoline, for instance, an office girl who is infatuated with her new prospects, considers herself superior to the humble chauffeur, Kasimir. Erna gets hung up on the memory of a brother shot in 1919 in order to claim revolutionary connections that should eventually help her attract Kasimir’s sympathy. Merkl Franz finds a ‘moral’ justification for his petty criminal acts by stealing from limousines that belong to high-capitalist tax evaders that let him pose as an anti-capitalist campaigner.
Trapped between confusion and self-deception, each character builds a self-mask meant to conceal their true motivations and feelings.
As in the other plays of the cycle, Horváth lets his characters speak the debased speech of the petty bourgeoisie of his time for which he coins the term Bildungsjargon
(Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, pp. 662-663). “A person becomes alive [on stage] mainly through the language” (“der Mensch wird erst lebendig durch die Sprache”), writes
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Horváth, underscoring the importance of the Bildungsjargon in the vivid creation of his characters (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662). With the support of the Bildungsjargon,
Horváth exposes the forms of consciousness that are affected by a mass culture and highlights the influence of the popular media. In the absence of a clear dramatic focus and an obvious development of plot, the dramatic implications of the Bildungsjargon became more apparent in Kasimir und Karoline than in Horváth’s previous
Volksstücke. Here, they become the main literary device which supports not only the character portrayals but also the presentation of their broken relationships. Prisoners of received linguistic patterns, Horváth’s characters are incapable of spontaneous communication. Moreover, their bond to jargon impedes any form of actual truthful communication as the following fragment illustrates:
SCHÜRZINGER ... Die Menschen sind weder gut noch böse. Allerdings werden sie durch unser heutiges wirtschaftliches System gezwungen, egoistischer zu sein, als sie es eigentlich wären, da sie doch schließlich vegetieren müssen. Verstehens mich? KAROLINE Nein. (Horváth, 2009, p. 466)
SCHÜRZINGER … People aren’t basically good or evil. It’s because of the economy today, it follows people have to think about themselves first. They have to survive after all. See what I mean? KAROLINE No.
Despite their ostensible interaction, the characters, prisoners of received linguistic patterns, do not interact in a genuine fashion and basically remain aloof from each other.
Although not deployed as comprehensively as in Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald, in Kasimir und Karoline Horváth still relies on musical interventions to underscore his characters’ inauthentic behaviour and counterfeit feelings. Two musical
130 entries are of particular interest in this respect. They occur at the internal level of dramatic communication when the characters use songs to articulate their ideas or express emotion. In the first case, music helps disclose Rauch’s frivolous intentions regarding his relationship with Karoline. Asked by his friend, Speer, “where is
Altötting?” (“Wo liegt denn Altötting?”), the destination of the limousine ride on which he invited Karoline, Rauch answers by humming and singing a waltz melody: “in my little room–one two three–in my little bed–one two three–” (“In meinem Kämmerlein– eins zwei drei–in meinem Bettelein–eins zwei drei–” [Horváth, 2009, p. 493]). The semantics of the waltz as an expression of erotic desire is explicitly exploited here. In his study on the semantics of waltz dance and its socio-historical implications, Elvidio
Surian calls the waltz a “closed-couple” dance, which has “the remarkable ability to stir up thoughts of seduction, of arousal and fulfilment of sexual desire” (Surian, 1991, p.
31). The flirtatious movements of this dance are suggested by Rauch’s invocation of the well-defined rhythmic measure of the waltz. Rauch’s determination to seduce
Karoline and her complicity in these indulging acts are further conveyed through another song. As specified in the stage directions, the brisker melody of a march accompanies the verses in this instance:
RAUCH singt grimmig mit und fixiert den Speer noch immer dabei Ja wir sind Zigeuner Wandern durch die Welt Haben fesche Weiber Die verdienens Geld Dort auf jener Wiese Hab ich sie gefragt Ob sie mich mal ließe “Ja” hat sie gelacht! (Horváth, 2009, p. 493)
RAUCH grimly singing while he continues to glare at Speer 131
Yes, we are the gypsies Wandering the earth Beautiful are our women And they are earning gold. There on that meadow I asked her Whether she would let me “Yes”, she said, and laughed!
The lines and rhythm of Rauch’s second singing intervention explicitly evoke a march-polka song that was widely known at the time under the name of Helgoländer
Tanz: “Auf der grünen Wiese/Hab ich sie gefragt:/‘Liebst du mir, Luise?’/‘Ja’ hat sie gesagt.” (“On the green meadow/I asked her:/‘Do you love me, Luise?’/‘Yes’, she answered.”)43 This song is included in Rolf Wilhelm Brednich’s Handbuch des
Volksliedes under the category of erotic folk songs with a parodied but also a popular version: “Auf der grünen Wiese/Hab ich sie gefragt,/Ob sie mich mal ließe;/‘Ja’ hat sie gesagt” (“On the green meadow/I asked her:/Whether she would let me/‘Yes’, she answered” [Brednich, 1973, p. 575]). Horváth brings forth the connection between
Rauch’s song and a refrain with its obvious erotic connotation to illustrate Rauch’s intentions for his relationship with Karoline. Horváth also calls attention to his characters’ appeal to musical clichés as forms of personal expression. It is inferred that not only the characters but also the members of the audience respond to the world of these presented clichés and, consequently, are likely to respond as well to the social conventions that they recall.
The most blatant example of the characters’ exploitation of music to overcome their inability to express themselves in an individual manner occurs in the play’s last
43 According to Richter (2004, p. 402). The music of Helgoländer Tanz was composed by Philipp Fahrbach jr. (1843-1894) and is known as Ein flotter Studio. 132 scene when Erna and Kasimir join in singing the leitmotif of Kreipl’s Mailüfterl. When even the words fail, the music remains and appears to be the characters’ last resort:
116. Szene KASIMIR Träume sind Schäume. ERNA Solange wir uns nicht aufhängen, werden wir nicht verhungern. Stille. KASIMIR Du Erna– ERNA Was? KASIMIR Nichts. Stille.
117. Szene ERNA singt leise–und auch Kasimir singt allmählich mit Und blühen einmal die Rosen Wird das Herz nicht mehr trüb Denn die Rosenzeit ist ja Die Zeit für die Lieb Jedes Jahr kommt der Frühling Ist der Winter vorbei Nur der Mensch hat alleinig Einen einzigen Mai. (Horváth, 2009, p. 506)
SCENE 116 KASIMIR Dreams are illusions. ERNA As long as we don’t hang ourselves, we won’t starve. Silence. KASIMIR You, Erna– ERNA What? KASIMIR Nothing. Silence.
SCENE 117 ERNA sings softly–Kasimir joins in too The roses bloom again The heart cannot be dull Because rose time, you know,
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Is the time for love Each year comes the spring When the winter has gone But the human has only One May of his own.
The end of the play establishes the degrading level reached by the characters’ interactions. The stock phrases are no longer effective. The interpersonal void becomes obvious and a state of speechlessness prevails. In the absence of words, the referential power of the music is placed into action. Erna and Kasimir make an appeal to the nostalgic intrinsic message of Kreipl’s song in their struggle to experience as well as articulate their conventional romantic feelings. However, their attempt only results in exposing their emotional and spiritual vacuity. It also confirms once again their dependency on the use of clichés.
Therefore, without focusing on developments, and instead relying on the
Bildungsjargon and with the help of musical interventions, Kasimir und Karoline depicts a world in disorder where the process of socialisation is seen simply as the learning of the clichés. It presents the state of consciousness of Horváth’s contemporaries and illustrates his endeavour to describe the world “as unfortunately [it] is” (“Ich [habe] doch kein anderes Bestreben …, als die Welt so zu schildern, wie sie halt leider ist” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 1, p. 13]).
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4.4. Further implications of music: Demaskierung des Bewußtseins
In the Gebrauchsanweisung, Horváth expresses his belief that the main function of theatre is not to fantasise for an audience but, more importantly, to allow them to live through the world of theatrical fantasy (1972, vol. 8, p. 660). The theatre should appeal to the spectators’ emotions and facilitate their fictitious identification with the presented characters. According to Horváth, this experience enables the spectators to satisfy their obscure “asocial impulses” (“asozialen Regungen”) and, on the other hand, to confront a magnified image of themselves where all their own deficiencies are revealed (1972, vol. 8, p. 661). This belief is clearly articulated in his Volksstücke.
Horváth creates ‘popular plays’ that address people’s problems in such a familiar way that the audience cannot fail to recognise themselves in the characters on stage.
However, from all the plays in the cycle, only in Kasimir und Karoline is Horváth’s intention openly manifested. The indication of “pause” (Scene 56) splits the dramatic material into two almost equal parts of 55 and 61 scenes, respectively. They correspond to and illustrate the two phases of Horváth’s strategy of the “unmasking of consciousness” (Demaskierung des Bewußtseins): 1. familiarization (when the audience’s members should recognise themselves portrayed as the play’s characters but without being critically engaged in the interpretations of the dramatic events); and 2. the awakening of consciousness (when Horváth’s spectators become critically aware of their own onstage satirisation).
During the first 55 scenes, Horváth allows his intended petit bourgeois audience to learn about the status, the situation, the personal qualities, and the feelings of the persons in whom they are able to see themselves mirrored socially, economically, and psychically. This stage of ‘initial’ recognition promotes a sense of familiarity that lures
135 the spectators into feeling comfortable with the events being presented. Music makes a great contribution as well. The opening of the play with Solang der alte Peter marks the first step. The orchestra performance of this tune indulges the audience into having feelings of good cheer and reassurance. The following interludes all amplify the effect of the Munich anthem by bringing forth the Oktoberfest conventions. Cheerful operetta melodies (“Glühwürmchen-Suite” in Scene 4), stirring marches (Parade der
Zinnsoldaten in Scene 20 and the Radetzkymarsch in Scene 51), as well as folksongs
(Die letzte Rose in Scene 38) encourage the uncritical complicity of the audience. The insertion of allusions with a certain impact on the large audience of the time, such as the constant reference to Zeppelin, also creates the prerequisites of accepting a familiar atmosphere.
However, the ‘pause’ in Scene 56 causes disruption (Horváth, 2009, p. 484). It represents a key moment, when the participation of Horváth’s ‘implied spectators’ changes from passive to active. 44 This ‘pause’ interrupts the freak show that is watched on stage by the Oktoberfest visitors. In a relentless need for self-delusion, Rauch,
Speer, Karoline, and Schürzinger are among those who come to see the freaks not only to avoid the dull reality that exists beyond the fairground but also to gratify their petty self-esteem by witnessing the deformities of others. On display on the freak show’s stage are people with malformations, such as the Man with the Bulldog’s Head, the
Gorilla Girl, and the Fat Lady. On the one hand, they are Horváth’s most flagrant example of humans living within the cage of a degraded economic and social situation.
These malformed people are exploited by a dwarf-manager who considers them solely a form of capital. On the other hand, despite their precarious situation and lack of
44 The notion of ‘implied spectator’ corresponds to Wolfgang Iser’s concept of “implied reader” (1976) as discussed by Marinis (1993, pp. 163-164). It refers to an ideal spectator. 136 freedom, they are the only characters who are truly authentic in Horváth’s play of personalities. They do not wear ‘masks’. They do not expose façades of any false consciousness. All their feelings as well as their deformities are on full display. By having his characters watch the freak show, Horváth implicitly summons them to contemplate their own psychic deformity. The freak show ends with the curtain falling on Scene 55 and with the appearance of the Midget, who crosses the stage holding a sign that reads: “pause” (Horváth, 2009, p. 484). Therefore, the sideshow audience is invited to an intermission. The next scene of the play (Scene 56) consists of a single stage direction that says, “pause” (Horváth, 2009, p. 484). Horváth clearly infers here that the ‘implied spectators’ of the outer performance should also experience an interval. He operates a structural duplication of the theatrical reality.
The intermission in the freak show now functions as the intermission in
Horváth’s play as well. The indications in the subsequent scene (57) support this assumption. They explicitly state that while “the lights are down in the theatre, the orchestra plays Scherzer’s Bayerischer Defiliermarsch and only then the curtain rises again” (“Und wieder wird es dunkel im Zuschauerraum und das Orchester spielt den bayerischen Defiliermarsch von Scherzer. Hierauf hebt sich wieder der Vorhang”
[Horváth, 2009, p. 484]). Thus, with the help of a ‘play-within-a-play’ moment,
Horváth connects the outer and the onstage performances and also indicates that the spectators are a necessary part of the dramatic events and of their interpretations.
When asked to share the same interval with the audience on stage, Horváth’s
‘implied spectators’ are challenged emotionally and forced to reconsider the fictional reality they witness. The similarity that Horváth draws between the outer and the onstage performance as well as between the spectators viewing the freak show and the audience in the performance hall is now explicit. Horváth’s ‘implied spectators’ can no 137 longer avoid conscious recognition. It becomes obvious that like the characters on stage, they are watching a freak show too. It is a show that exhibits those people who developed perverted forms of consciousness. They are watching a show that mirrors their confused aspirations and hopes, inadequacies and failures to adapt, in other words, their distorted consciousness. Therefore, in the second part of the play, Horváth exposes the audience to new ways of interpreting and receiving the stage events before them. Familiarity and recognition stop producing comfort. Now they cause disturbance. The spectators “cannot laugh about themselves”, as Horváth declares, so they quickly conclude that they are being attacked and mocked (1972, vol. 1, p. 13).
The ultimate goal of Horváth’s strategy of “unmasking consciousness” is thus nearly achieved: the members of the audience are urged to reconsider not only the fictional reality but also their own actual reality.
Music plays a significant role in making Horváth’s intention even more obvious. The play’s ‘second’ part opens with the same musical piece that was performed in its first scene: Solang der alte Peter (2009, p. 485). It is now sung by characters in a group performance. Considering the development of the dramatic events, the Munich hymn cannot reiterate its initial messages. It can no longer convey assurance and conviviality. The image of the city of Munich invoked by the song’s verses has not been found in the play.
59. Szene Alles außer Kasimir, singt zur Blechmusik Solang der alte Peter Am Petersbergerl steht Solang die grüne Isar Durchs Münchnerstadterl fließt Solang am Platzl drunten Noch steht das Hofbräuhaus 138
Solang stirbt die Gemütlichkeit Zu München nimmer aus Solang stirbt die Gemütlichkeit Zu München nimmer aus! Ein Prosit, ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit! Eins, zwei, drei–gsuffa! (Horváth, 2009, p. 485)
SCENE 59 All, except Kasimir, sing along with the brass band So long as our old Peter On Peter’s mountain stands So long as our green Isar Through Münchner city flows So long as down below Still stands our Hofbrau house So long the warmth and love of home Our Münchner will not die! A cheer, a cheer, for what is deer, our Münchner home! One, two, three–let’s drink!
The original expectations aroused by the Munich anthem remain unfulfilled during the first part of the play. Accordingly, its rendition in the second part creates tension by teasing even further the expectations of Horváth’s ‘implied spectator’. And so music, which has served well as a means of lulling the consciousness, now produces discomfort. It is invested with new contextual meanings meant to draw attention to the grotesque characteristics of the dramatic events.
The new function of music becomes manifest in the sequence of group singing that occurs in the opening of the play’s second part. According to the stage directions, each musical entry (Jägers Liebeslied in Scene 61; Trink, trink, Brüderlein trink in
Scenes 63 and 66) ends in silence (Horváth, 2009, pp. 486-487). Only the last song
(Mailüfterl in Scene 71) is followed by the indication of “darkness” (“Dunkel”), which 139 also implies stillness (Horváth, 2009, p. 490). Horváth places special emphasis on the type of silence that should intervene. He refers to a “sudden” silence (“Plötzlich
Stille”) that abruptly interrupts every singing act (Horváth, 2009, pp. 486-487). Under the disruptive influence of these silences, the Oktoberfest songs fail to convey the expected spirit of cheerfulness and, consequently, sound discordant and leave the spectator feeling dissatisfied and dislocated. Horváth amplifies this effect by placing the songs so they contrast with the surrounding fragment of dialogue. For example, the group singing of Jägers Liebeslied, a folksong about love’s power to subdue even the most hard-hearted men, provokes Kasimir’s sarcastic comments.
62. Szene KASIMIR Und dennoch hab ich harter Mann die Liebe schon gespürt–und die ist ein Himmelslicht und macht deine Hütte zu einem Goldpalast– und sie höret nimmer auf, solang du nämlich nicht arbeitslos wirst. Was sind denn das schon überhaupt für Ideale von wegen dem seelischen Ineinanderhineinfließen zweier Menschen? Adam und Eva! Ich scheiß dir was auf den Kontakt– (Horváth, 2009, p. 486)
SCENE 62 KASIMIR Yet though I am a man of iron, still love has touched my heart– and it’s like a light from heaven that makes a palace of the meanest hut– and it never dies–as long as you don’t get laid off, that is. What’s all that crap, anyway, about perfect love that joins two souls as one? Adam and Eve! I don’t give a shit about all that–
The tender message of the song is contradicted by Kasimir’s words. There is no room for romance in the harsh world of Horváth’s characters. The incidence of the songs becomes thus incongruous, forcing the play’s ‘implied spectators’ to reassess their initial expectancies; in this case, the love theme of the play.
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Also the orchestral interludes forge reverse emotional reactions in the play’s second part. While the audience’s awareness regarding their active role in the theatrical act deepens, the original perception of music as a source of familiarity and comfort is gradually altered. Under their new understanding of the dramatic events and although still familiar, the popular marches (Petersburger Schlittenfahrt in Scene 72 and
Militärmarsch 1822 in Scene 99), the operetta extracts (“Bist du lachendes Glück?” in
Scene 108), and the folksongs (Mailüfterl in Scene 74) become dissonant and ugly.
Now they represent only ironical attempts to recreate the carefree atmosphere of the
Oktoberfest and to reinforce the image of Munich as a city of Gemütlichkeit.
Therefore, strategically built around the key moments of a ‘play within a play’,
Kasimir und Karoline provides a clear illustration of Horváth’s strategy of
Demaskierung des Bewußtseins and explicitly exposes music as a defining element of the process of unmasking consciousness. Music serves the initial effect of familiarization only to assist later in shattering the illusions of Horváth’s ‘implied spectators’. It eventually supports Horváth’s intention to make the members of his presumed audience feel uncertain in their own realities. More than in the previous plays of the cycle, in Kasimir und Karoline the occurrence of music is strictly and explicitly linked to Horváth’s technique of subverting the audience’s expectations. It affects the structure, meaning, and indeed, the reception of the dramatic material.
Although the play apparently follows the classical pattern of the Volksstück genre, Kasimir und Karoline proves to be a truly representative piece of Horváth’s
“genuine folk theatre”, which, with the help of music, “appeals to people’s instincts and not to their intellect” in order to complete the spectators’ conscious ‘self-recognition’ act (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662).
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CHAPTER FIVE:
Ödön von Horváth and silence: definitions and critical perspectives
The first part of this chapter introduces the notion of silence in order to outline the understanding of silence that I adopt when I analyse the complexities of silent moments in Horváth’s Volksstücke. It approaches silence from the perspectives of the linguistics, communication studies, and philosophy of language, to then examine the relation between silence and speech and to offer an overview of the role of silence in modern drama. My position is that silence is congruent with and as important as words in conveying Horváth’s main ideas in these plays.
The second half of the chapter reviews some of the approaches Horváth critics have taken in examining the importance of silence in the Volksstücke as well as what is missing in these accounts. My study seeks to fill this gap.
I conclude by discussing the possibilities of ‘reading’ silence in dramatic discourse and presenting my own concepts of conjunctive and disjunctive silence.
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5.1. Definitions of silence
Silence is commonly defined as the absence of words, sound or noise. In the Oxford
English Dictionary, for example, under the lemma “silence”, the following meanings are classified in a few distinctive categories:
1. The fact of abstaining or forbearing from speech or utterance (sometimes
with reference to a particular matter); the state or condition resulting from this;
muteness, reticence, taciturnity. 2. The state or condition when nothing is
audible; absence of all sound or noise; complete quietness or stillness;
noiselessness. 3. Oission of mention, remark, or notice in narration” (Oxford
English Dictionary).
Each entry defines silence as an absence of something else. However, the third explicative category opens new possibilities of interpretation. It suggests that silence may be the expression of something intentionally left unsaid. In this case, silence represents not an absence but a significant presence behind the language.
There have been various attempts to define silence and to understand its nature.
These attempts oscillate between the understandings of silence as an absence of something and as a presence of something else. According to Richard Kostelanetz, the composer John Cage assumed an extreme position when he said that silence means the whole world of sound (1971, p. 146). For Cage, there is no such thing as absolute silence because “something is always happening that makes a sound” and he quotes, as personal proof, an experience in an anechoic chamber, a room made as technologically silent as possible, in which he heard two sounds: his nervous system and his circulatory system (Kostelanetz, 1971, p. 9). However, the language scholar Adam Jaworski rejects the possibility to reach a final definition of silence because it represents “the
143 most ambiguous of all linguistics forms” (1993, p. 29). Silence has many faces that can be revealed only by taking into consideration the field or the context of study.
In linguistics, the traditional position has been to define silence as the absence of speech. However, the view of the linguist William Samarin that “like the zero in mathematics ... [silence] is an absence with a function” (1965, p. 115) is shared by many language scholars. In the field of communication studies, silence is accepted as
“a valid object of investigation, bounded by stretches of verbal material which provide boundary marking for its identification” (Saville-Troike, 1985, p. 4). Silence is an integral part of all communication processes, because, as the speech communication scholar Robert L. Scott argues, “every decision to say something is a decision not to say something else ... In speaking we remain silent. And in remaining silent, we speak” (1972, p. 146). From a communicational point of view, silence implies a mode of ‘speech’, which is considered indeterminate and fundamentally different from verbal communication, but potentially as powerful as the verbal expression.
From a philosophical perspective, although it can be equated with a kind of emptiness, silence has not been generally regarded as an absence. The idea that silence is a significant presence behind the language resonates in the field of philosophy of language with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s theory, one of the best-known instances of this nexus. Language is discussed in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
(published in 1921, the year of Horváth’s early work for theatre) as a limited reflection of reality. Following this interpretation of language, silence becomes a presence congruent with language, affirming the existence of experiences that elude language.
According to Wittgenstein, silence can express what language cannot. It can give meaning to insights, feelings, thoughts that a person “cannot speak about” (“What we
144 cannot speak about”, writes Wittgenstein, “we must pass over in silence” [1961, p.
151]). However, in his later reflections, published posthumously as Philosophical
Investigations in 1953, Wittgenstein adopted a different point of view in which he considered reality a reflection of language, questioning to what extent there is a reality beyond language and also the concept of silence as a presence beyond language.
Although Wittgenstein’s position changed over time, his view of silence as a presence congruent with language influenced other philosophers and writers of the twentieth century, such as Max Picard and, later, Bernard Dauenhauer, who show a constant preoccupation with the phenomenon of silence. Picard’s World of Silence and
Dauenhauer’s Silence: The Phenomenon and Its Ontological Significance are studies that explore also the intricate connections between silence and speech. They promote the idea of complementarity between silence and speech. According to these philosophers, speech and silence are not mutually exclusive but undoubtedly linked, and simultaneously meaningful.
In The World of Silence, Max Picard advances the idea of silence as a presence that “contains everything in itself” and which “completely fills out the space in which it appears” (1988, p. 17). He explains that the bond between silence and speech is stronger than the distinction between them.
Speech came out of silence, out of fullness silence. The fullness of silence would have exploded if it had not been able to flow into speech. … There is something silent in every word, as an abiding token of the origin of speech. And in every silence there is something of the spoken word, as an abiding token of the power of silence to create speech. (Picard, 1988, p. 24).
According to Picard, silence and speech are originally one and engage in a reciprocal rather than in an oppositional relationship. They depend upon each other: behind all
145 speech is silence and silence surrounds all speech. “When language ceases,” writes
Picard, “silence begins. But it does not begin because language ceases. The absence of language simply makes the presence of silence more apparent” (Picard, 1988, p. 15).
Two situations characterise the complementary relation between silence and speech.
On the one hand, the words are shaped by silence. On the other hand, the words are embedded in silence and vice versa. Silence is indicative of the boundaries of speech and also an incentive for the expression of its meaning. Picard emphasises the power and importance of silence when he suggests that “one cannot imagine a world in which there is nothing but language and speech, but one can imagine a world where there is nothing but silence” (1988, p. 17). However, he still affirms the supremacy of the word over silence: “it is language and not silence that makes man truly human” (1988, p. 17).
Influenced by Picard’s work, Dauenhauer (1980) discusses silence and speech as two strongly connected categories. In contrast to Picard, however, he rejects the perspective of a hierarchy between silence and speech. He regards both of them as equally involved in the “initiative” and “responsiveness” that “is required for man to manifest the meaning of being” (1980, p. 107). Thus, Dauenhauer inextricably connects silence with human production and intention. From these considerations derives Dauenhauer’s view on silence as a phenomenon with “ontological significance”
(1980, p. 107).
According to Dauenhauer, silence is a meaningful category of communication next to discourse.
Silence is a founded, active performance which, in its pure occurrences, does not directly intend an already determinate object of any sort. … silence interrupts or cuts an already instituted stream of intentional performances which, in most cases, intend determinate objects. Thus, … silence is not simply 146
the correlative opposite of discourse. Rather, it establishes and maintains a tension not only among the several levels and shapes of discourse but also between the signitive domain as a whole and the other domains of experience. (Dauenhauer, 1980, p. 140)
Dauenhauer suggests that the meaning of silence derives from the relation to its counterpart in discourse. From this perspective, Dauenhauer focuses on three types of silence. “Intervening” silence punctuates the specific components of an utterance.
“Fore-and-after” is the silence that surrounds the utterance as a whole. “Deep” silence pervades both “intervening” and “fore-and-after” silences and utterance itself, but it is not necessarily correlated with any specific utterance, though it does not exist separately from discourse as a whole (1980, Part 1, Chapter 1). This apparently restrictive perspective on silence stresses in fact that silence and speech complement each other. They are simultaneously meaningful, therefore linked in a dialectic symbiosis.
My study shares the idea that silence can be as powerful as the utterance. In
Horváth’s plays, silence is conjoined with words. It carries meaning and its complementary relation with words and music underlines its significance. The effect of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke cannot be grasped without considering the relation between silence and the context of its use, on the one hand, and the relation between silence and its users, on the other.
Thus, taking into consideration all these perspectives on silence but largely drawing on its effect within the communicational process, I regard silence as a presence, as a form of communication, able to support the conveyance of various messages. My analysis of the role of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke and in
Marthaler’s productions relies on the understanding of silence as a dramatic or
147 theatrical presence (sign, in semiotic terms), which expresses the dramatist’s, director’s or actor’s intentionality and carries a certain informative, aesthetic or emotional function.
5.2. Silence and modern drama
This section provides an overview of the role of silence in modern drama, before and after Horváth wrote his Volksstücke (1926-1932), and stresses the change of perspective surrounding the implications of silence in dramatic literature, which occurred at the beginning of the twentieth century. It suggests the possible influences on Horváth and serves as a background discussion for the later analysis of Horváth’s innovative use of silence.
The presence of silence in dramatic literature is traceable to Greek drama. In a comprehensive analysis of Greek tragedy, H.D.F. Kitto (2002) mentions, for example, the importance of the silent responses in stressing the meaning of the dialogue. He notes the powerful effect “achieved by imposing silence on an actor whom we do expect to speak” (2002, p. 86). In all literary epochs, playwrights have used silence to comment upon an action, to contrast the effect of words with silent responses, to create or break dramatic tension, to characterise the relation between characters, and to express interior states of being. The suggestive power of silence and its significance in relation to the words could never be ignored. In his study on the “rhetoric of silence”,
Christiaan Hart Nibbrig (1981) describes silence as “the shadow of the literary speech”
(“Schatten literarischer Rede”), a simultaneous presence next to the words that was
148 always part of the literary discourse.45 However, towards the end of the nineteenth century, the importance of silence for the creation and representation of dramatic works increased. It reflected a phenomenon of dissatisfaction with language, described by literary scholar George Steiner as “the retreat from the word” (1967). Silence became a poetic element involved in the renewal of the literary language, often discussed as an appropriate mode of expression where words fail.
The increased tendency to incorporate silence as an integral element of the dramatic discourse might be linked to the “crisis of modern drama” in Peter Szondi’s terms. Szondi sees drama as an absolute form, as a self-contained dialectical process.
“Drama is absolute”, writes Szondi, “it knows nothing outside itself” (1963, p. 15). He considers the dialogue the “carrier of the drama” (“Träger des Dramas”) and the crucial mediator of interpersonal interaction (Szondi, 1963, p. 19). He also sees drama as strictly related to the development of the action. But, as Szondi contends, towards the end of the nineteenth century, drama underwent a series of major thematic shifts that clashed with the form of the ‘absolute’ drama, in whose tradition the modern drama is discussed. He refers to the works of Henrik Ibsen, Anton Chekhov, August Strindberg,
Maurice Maeterlinck and Gerhard Hauptmann. The dramatic work of these authors no longer depended exclusively on the possibility of action or dialogue. The intrusion of new epic features in the works of modern authors challenged the absolute model. The dialogue ceased to be the only “carrier” of meaning in drama and the theatre of silence represented a possible solution.
Towards the end of the nineteenth century, silence started to be considered an excellent dramatic device capable of conveying abstract concepts, the invisible, the
45 Hart Nibbrig bases his theory on the analysis of the role of silence in the works of various authors from Shakespeare to Samuel Beckett, Paul Celan, Elias Canetti and Günter Eich. 149 inexpressible, and the unintelligible. Leslie Kane is one of the scholars who has examined the language of silence in modern dramatic literature and her remark on the role of silence in the texts of Maurice Maeterlinck and Anton Chekhov is significant:
“the central role of silence in their fin de siècle drama reflects an altered perspective on the nature and function of dialogue and dramatic silence. These dramatists do not wish to clarify phenomenal experience but rather to dramatise the unintelligibility of that experience” (1984, p. 23). Silence became an aesthetic principle in drama and, consequently, a dramaturgy of silence began to develop. The works of Maurice
Maeterlinck and Jean-Jacques Bernard are examples of this. The terms “Theatre of the
Unexpressed”, which was used in relation to Maeterlinck’s drama, and “Theatre of
Silence”, in relation to Bernard’s works, highlight the privileged position of silence in their theatre. For these dramatists who were trying to escape from the limitations of language, silence seemed the best form of artistic expression.
The artists’ discontent with language opened perspectives for linguistic experiments that included silence. The literary theorist Ihab Hassan speaks about the metaphor of silence as a characteristic feature of the avant-garde artistic movements.
The literature of the avant-garde, writes Hassan (1967), challenges traditional literature from the perspective of the relation between silence and discourse. More precisely, the outcome of the former (silence) questions the main concerns of the latter (the excellence of discourse). In a later study, The Dismemberment of Orpheus (1982),
Hassan projects a suggestive image for the lost potential of language and for the increased significance of silence in modern drama: a dismembered Orpheus with a lyre that has no strings.
The high value placed on silence in contrast to the devaluation of language reaches its climax in the ‘theatre of the absurd’. For its authors, as Eugène Ionesco 150 notes, the words lost all their significance: “I detect a crisis of thought, which is manifested by a crisis of language; words no longer meaning anything” (1964, p. 115).
Samuel Beckett and Harold Pinter are probably the two most important playwrights of the twentieth century in terms of probing the theatrical possibilities of silence. In their plays the psychologically motivated pauses are overshadowed by silences that transcend the linguistic context of their occurrence and constitute strategic interruptions of the action. In Beckett’s drama, for example, one speech does not motivate the next and the presence of silent moments expresses caesura and signals the failure of language. Samuel Beckett’s Act Without Words is an example of a play in which absolutely nothing is said. “The first articulate word spoken will bring down the curtain”, writes Steiner about Beckett’s play in “The Retreat from the Word” (1967, p.
72). Silence is similarly an integral part of Pinter’s dramatic texts. His appeal to silence suggests a refusal to use language to communicate, as emphasised by many of his critics.46 From this perspective, Pinter speaks about the presence of two kinds of silence in his texts. He proposes a poetic distinction between ‘non-verbal’ silences that imply the absence of words and ‘verbal’ silences that can be associated with the use of words. ‘Verbal’ silence draws attention to the emptiness of his characters’ language.
Although they use many words, they remain ‘silent’ because they have nothing to say, as James R Hollis, a Pinter scholar, has emphasised (1970, p. 16). The ‘non-verbal’ type of silence in Pinter’s drama is mainly responsible for inducing caesura.
Furthermore, Pinter differentiates among various levels of caesura by using distinct stage directions of silence. The following fragment from Pinter’s The Homecoming provides an example of this effect.
46 See John Russell Brown (1987, p. 23), Martin Esslin (1987, pp. 238-239), Alice Benston (1993, pp. 116-117). 151
How did I know? Pause. I decided she was. Silence. You and my brother are newly-weds, are you? (Pinter, 1965, p. 31)
The two moments of silence, marked with “pause” and “silence”, fulfil distinct functions within this section of the conversation. While the first moment interrupts the speech, the second one indicates a much deeper caesura. It interrupts the dialogue and action and represents an autonomous element of the dramatic discourse.
Thus, many authors make a very deliberate use of silence in their works as a result of an estrangement from language. The view on silence as a possible mode of expression impregnates the dramatic literature at the end of the nineteenth century only for silence to become a presence full of meaning, an active and independent part of the dramatic discourse next to the dialogue, in the works of later authors of the twentieth century, such as Beckett and Pinter. In this literary tradition, Horváth’s use of silence occupies a special position. Horváth’s approach to silence in the Volksstücke cycle anticipates that of Beckett and Pinter: all three dramatists use silence as a way of conveying the ideas of the play beyond expressing the psyche or the emotional state of a character; they also use distinct stage directions of silence in order to impose and distinguish among various levels of caesura. Horváth’s complex way of using silence is analysed in the following chapter.
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5.3. Critical perspectives on Horváth’s use of silence
Many scholars who analysed Horváth’s use of language have noticed the importance of silence in stressing the meaning of the dialogue. However, they refer mainly to the indication of “Stille” in the Volksstücke, ignoring other stage directions of silence and their importance to the plays of this cycle. The following overview of the critical literature on this topic aims to identify and discuss the major analytical trends.
The scholars of the ‘Horváth-Renaissance’ pointed out two different but, as they argued, intimately connected functions of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke: it expresses the breakdown of communication between characters and, at the same time, it produces an experience of distantiation for the audience (Verfremdung). These two complementary roles of silence in Horváth’s plays are clearly explained by Krishna
Winston (1978), for example. In an article that analyses modern aspects of Horváth’s drama, Winston observed that in Horváth’s Volksstücke silences primarily signal the characters’ loss of words. They occur when the protagonists find themselves incapable of continuing verbal communication; when the characters are either “embarrassed” or suddenly aware of “the implications of something [they] just said” and, as a consequence, they choose to remain silent (Winston, 1978, p. 178). According to
Winston, these pauses also represent ways of breaking the stage illusion and generating the effect of distantiation (Verfremdungseffekt). The moments of silence draw the audience’s attention to the previous dialogical lines, emphasising their effect. They are charged with semantic implications, because, as Winston argues, during these pauses
“bad faith, spurious logic, pathetic delusions become audible” (p. 178).
In general agreement with Winston, in her study on Horváth’s plays, Violet
Ketels insists on the role that silences fulfil in Horváth’s intended process of audience 153 distantiation. Ketels regards silences as active elements of Horváth’s technique of
‘unmasking consciousness’ (Demaskierug des Bewußtseins). They represent moments when the audience is granted space and time “to see, experience, and comprehend the
‘sleeping beasts’ in human consciousness” (Ketels, 1979, p. 44). Ketels sees the unmasking process as the primary focus of Horváth’s drama, because through it he is able to look deeply into the human psyche and to stress the presence of viciousness in latent forms. This viciousness, says Ketels, as shown in Horváth’s plays, “can erupt in moments of personal stress and … can be manipulated cynically in times of social and economic crises” (1979, p. 42). Thus, she defines Horváth’s use of silences and pauses as a dramatisation of “the eruption of the unconscious into the conscious life” and considers it one of his greatest strengths as a dramatist (1979, p. 40).
Theo Buck is the author of the single article exclusively dedicated to the role of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke (“Die Stille auf der Bühne. Zum dramaturgischen
Verfahren in den Volksstücke Ödön von Horváths”), published in Recherches
Germaniques in 1979. In his study, Buck attempted to provide an adequate definition of Horváth’s silence. But like other scholars who explored this topic, he solely referred to the indications of “Stille”. According to Buck, the presence of silence does not only define a simple quiet moment when no words are heard because the characters do not talk; it rather punctuates a moment of tension between characters, when they would like to talk but are incapable of communicating. Thus, Buck describes silence as an extreme form of non-communication (“Un-Kommunikation”) in Horváth’s plays (1979, p. 177). He also points out what he calls the “metaphoric quality” of Horváth’s silence.
Buck specifically refers to the capacity of “Stille” to emphasise “the painful and embarrassing inability of characters to come to terms with themselves and the world”
(“Sie unterstreicht das Schmerzhafte oder auch das Peinliche der verbal und szenisch
154 vorgeführten Unfähigkeit, mit sich selbst und mit der Umwelt ins Reine zu kommen”
[1979, p. 177]).
As does Ketels’s, Buck’s analysis confirms the theory of the importance of
Horváth’s silence to the relationship between the author and the audience. Yet, he is more radical and suggests that Horváth uses silence to ‘speak’ directly to his potential spectators.
Die Intention steht somit fest: Horváths Dramaturgie zielt direkt auf den Zuschauer. Auf ihn sind die Dialoge und Monologe geöffnet. ... Um es paradox zu formulieren: gerade die Stille in den Stücken Horváths spricht das Publikum an. Weil dem so ist, empfiehlt der Autor, nicht “nur die Handlung” zu sehen, sondern in erster Linie “auf das Wort im Drama zu achten”. Das hat viel zu tun mit kritischer Distanz, wenig hingegen mit Identifikation. (Buck, 1979, p. 180)
The intention is certain: Horváth’s dramaturgy aims directly at the spectator. The dialogues and monologues are opened for him. ... Horváth’s “Stille” speaks directly to the audience. The author suggests that this happens because he wants to draw the attention “primarily to the word in drama” rather than to “the action”. This has much to do with critical distance, however, and less with identification.
Buck suggests that only someone who understands silence as an epic commentary in
Horváth’s plays, as “the main transfer instance” between the author and the audience, can grasp the meaning of the dramatic dialogue and “productively work in the sense of the author” (“Nur wer die Stille als hauptsächliche Transferinstanz des ästhetischen
Programms von Horváth ausmacht, kann die Impulse des Dramendialogs aufgreifen und im Sinne des Authors produktiv verarbeiten” [1979, p. 181]). He argues that
“Stille” activates the exchange of ideas between the author and his potential spectators by reversing to some extent the closed significations of the stage action. Thus, Buck examines the indications of “Stille” as part of Horváth’s aesthetic programme. In line 155 with Buck’s theory, David Midgley (1983) sees silence as a significant device of
Horváth’s strategy of audience manipulation. As Midgley argues, in the moments of silence, Horváth entices the audience to uncover the thoughts that are shown to run on in the minds of characters, and also to wait for these thoughts to resurface abruptly after the pause (1983, p. 130).
Stuart Parkes (1977) is another scholar who signalled the importance of silence to Horváth’s dramatic art. He examined silence from the same perspectives: as a sign of non-communication and as a source of Verfremdung. However, Parkes insists more than other scholars on the importance of silence in stressing the lack of communication between Horváth’s characters. He argues that silence is specifically employed to disrupt the dialogue, and thus to make obvious the breach between characters, as well as their incapacity to express themselves. Parkes explains that the moments of pause within dialogue are related to and reveal “tensions between the characters and within their minds”, tensions that cannot find expression in the characters’ own words (1977, p. 115). He highlights the similarity between Horváth’s dialogue, with its choreography of pauses and silences, and the ‘theatre of the absurd’.
Breakdown of communication, caused by the inability of characters to express themselves in an individual manner, is a feature of plays frequently labelled ‘absurd’, for example the work of Ionesco. Some of the dialogue in Horváth’s plays, as it reflects a lack of communication between characters, approaches this concept of the ‘absurd’. (Parkes, 1977, p. 114)
With respect to Horváth’s use of silence as a distantiation device, Parkes claims that silence can be regarded as an epic element insofar as it enables the spectators “to go behind the words of a character and see into his mind” (1977, p. 116).
156
As this overview reveals, the scholars of the ‘Horváth-Renaissance’ who have shown a critical interest in Horváth’s use of silence share the view that the segmentation of dialogue by pregnant pauses represents the hallmark of Horváth’s work for the theatre. As insightful and stimulating as the research reviewed so far is, it fails to address an important issue. There is no explanation given, for example, for
Horváth’s choice to use different stage directions in order to indicate a moment of silence within the dialogue. Most of the studies refer mainly to the indication of
“Stille”, neglecting the presence and particular implications of other stage directions that also imply silence, such as “Pause” and “Schweigen”.
Analysing the ‘rhetorical’ functions of silence in literature, Christiaan Hart
Nibbrig (1981) is the first critic who considers a possible distinction between the roles of “Stille” and “Pause” in Horváth’s texts. He suggests that “‘Pause’ interrupts the action and dialogue and signals an empty space, a void”, while the “Stille”, “as a moment of action and speech, reveals what cannot be carried out or said” (“Die ‘Pause’ unterbricht, signalisiert das Nichtfortgehen von Handlung und Rede im Sinne einer
Leere. Die ‘Stille’ überbrückt, bringt, als Moment von Handlung und Rede, die Fülle dessen zum Vorschein, was nicht ausgeführt oder gesagt werden kann” [Hart Nibbrig,
1981, p. 202]). Thus, according to Hart Nibbrig’s interpretation, in Horváth’s plays, the moments of “Pause” seal the tragicomedy of speech, swallowing completely in their emptiness what they conceal. The indications of “Stille”, on the other hand, are open to interpretations. They mark the distinction between what is said but not intended, and what is not said but intended.
Subsequent research has drawn attention to new aspects of Horváth’s use of silence. In a study from 2002, Claudia Benthien discusses the significance of silence in
Horváth’s drama. In the preliminary discussion to her analysis of Horváth, she 157 contends that a new function of silence grows in importance in twentieth century drama. The psychologically motivated pauses are overshadowed by silences that impose caesura. In the works of Samuel Beckett or Harold Pinter, for example, as
Benthien argues, silence does not indicate only a psychological gap to be filled, nor does it represent only a non-verbal means of expression by the protagonists. It can rather be found within the dialogue without being assigned to a character. No longer tied to the speech, silence has almost become “a ‘real figure’, a quasi-physical partner for the characters on stage” (“Von einer rhetorischen Figur wird es nach un nach zu einer ‘realen’ Figur, die den Bühnenfiguren quasi physisch gegenübersteht” [Benthien,
2002, p. 195]).
Benthien traces back to Horváth the modern use of silence as a “figure of stillness” (”Denn Schweigen ist dann nicht mehr an Sprache gebunden … Schweigen wird zu einer Figur der Stille” [2002, p. 204]). Like the other scholars, she mostly refers to stage directions of “Stille”. According to Benthien, the “Stille” defines a
“quiet presence” that acts as “an independent part of the dialogue” (“Das Schweigen steht als ‘Stille’ zwischen den Repliken, es ‘gehört’ keiner Figur, sondern stellt vielmehr einen eigenständigen Teil des Dialogs dar” [p. 208]). In contrast to Hart
Nibbrig’s assumptions that still link the interpretation of “Stille” to the speech,
Benthien claims that “Stille”, without being assigned to a specific character, belongs to the action and implies caesura. She rather connects the indications of “Pause” to the characters’ speech.
Wo “Pause” statt dem bei Horváth üblichen Wort “Stille” steht, geht es oft darum, daß eine Figur zögert, zu antworten, daß sie nachdenkt oder sich der Reaktion verweigert, während die andere Figur es unterläßt, weiter zu sprechen oder deutlicher nachzufragen. Die Stille-Anweisung hingegen berührt die Ebene des Nichtintentionalen, als einer Absenz von Sprache wie allgemein von 158
Geräuschen, von der zu Beginn dieses Beitrags die Rede war... Horváths “Stille” hebt den Handlungscharakter. (Benthien, 2002, p. 208)
Where “Pause” is used instead of Horváth’s usual word “Stille”, it is often suggested that a figure hesitates to answer, thinks or denies the reaction, while the other figure fails to speak further or to inquire more clearly. On the other hand, the indication “Stille” represents the level of non-intentionality as an absence of language and noises…. Horváth’s “Stille” influences the action.
Thus, in the attempt to differentiate between various effects of silence in Horváth’s
Volksstücke, Benthien connects the indications of “Pause” to characters’ communication, while “Stille” constitutes an independent element of the dialogue.
Benthien’s study demonstrates a more profound understanding of the role of silence in
Horváth’s drama.
Klaus Kastberger (2004) agrees with Benthien and Nibbrig that the silence described by “Stille” does not fulfil a rhetorical function and that its occurrence in the
Volksstücke might be metaphorically compared to the physical presence of the characters on the stage. But unlike other critics, Kastberger suggests that the incidence of silence in Horváth’s plays works as a reinforcing rather than a disruptive factor
(“Horváths Stille ist keine Störung der Kommunikation, sondern ein Dynamo, an dem sich das Gesellschaftliche erst so richtig auflädt” [2004, p. 187]). He gives an example from Horváth’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald in support of his hypothesis. As the stage directions indicate, after a moment of “deathly silence”, the characters start singing again “with triple strength”: “Jetzt wirds einen Augenblick totenstill beim
Heurigen–aber dann singt wieder alles mit verdreifachter Kraft” (Kastberger, 2004, p.
187).
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Drawing on Kastberger’s theory, Monika Meister discusses the ‘energetic power’ of Horváth’s silences (2006). The silence marked with “Stille”, as Meister claims, “deliberately structures the space and time of the (modern) theatre and constitutes also a meta-space of theatricality” (“Man könnte von energetischen
Kraftfeldern der Stille sprechen. Bewusst gesetzte Stille strukturiert Raum und Zeit des
(modernen) Theaters und konstituiert immer auch einen Meta-Raum von Theatralität”
[2006, p. 29]). She points out the performative quality of these silences. They do not belong only to the text, but represent also a very noticeable aspect of the stage readings that can be made out of Horváth’s plays. The “Stille”, writes Meister, “interrupts the dramatic narration as well as the performance, and becomes itself performative” (“Sie
[die Stille] unterbricht die ‘dramatische Narration’ und die Performance und ist doch selbst performativ” [2006, p. 29]).
All this goes to show that more recent scholarship is more attuned to Horváth’s distinct employment of various stage directions for silence (e.g., Benthien). Yet the way in which they become effective in the Volksstücke has not been examined in much detail and the distinction between them is still unclear. All of these critics fail to provide an explicit and comprehensive understanding of the distinct role of Horváth’s indications of silence, which could verify the validity of their critical assumptions for all the plays of the Volksstücke cycle. The significance of the stage direction
“Schweigen” is still left unexplored and the need for a more sustained examination of the role of “Stille” and “Pause” remains. Furthermore, there are no studies that discuss
Horváth’s use of silences from a chronological perspective so as to trace the evolution of the effects of silence in the Volksstücke from the first to the last play of the cycle.
The present study seeks to provide a comprehensive analysis of all the indications of silence, to make comparisons and to outline the divergences between 160 their employments. Following this purpose, my research draws and expands upon previous critical commentary (e.g., Benthien’s) targeting the examination of certain key features of Horváth’s use of silence according to their place within the dramatic communicational structure of the Volksstücke. My study contends that “Schweigen”,
“Pause” and “Stille” do not have similar connections to dialogue because they act at different levels of dramatic communication and fulfil distinct functions. “Schweigen” and “Pause” represent the category of conjunctive silences, while “Stille” belongs to that of disjunctive silences. The possibilities of ‘reading’ silence in dramatic discourse and my own concepts of conjunctive and disjunctive silence are introduced and discussed in the next section of this chapter.
5.4. Silence in a dramatic text
According to Yuri Lotman, the defining characteristic of an “artistic text” is that its structure is built entirely out of elements that generate and bear meaning (1977, p. 12).
An author’s idea is inseparable from the artistic structure in which it is expressed, writes Lotman, and, therefore, the resulting “artistic text” becomes a “complexly constructed meaning” (1977, p. 12). With Lotman’s theory in mind, I discuss the play also as an “artistic text”. It is formed exclusively by elements (characters’ words, playwright’s indications as regards, for example, the interventions of music, silence and other non-verbal elements within the play), which bear specific meanings and which the playwright has intentionally chosen to convey a complex message. In this context,
I consider the stage directions of silence, which are inserted by the playwright within the dialogue, as meaningful elements of the intentional semantic structure of the play.
Thus, the dramatists include silence in a text with the clear intention to convey
161 messages, to produce meaning. I agree with Susan Sontag’s rejection of the possibility that a genuine silence exists in the field of art-work, as expressed in her study of the aesthetics of silence.
A genuine emptiness, a pure silence, are not feasible–either conceptually or in fact. If only because the art-work exists in a world furnished with many other things, the artist who creates silence or emptiness must produce something dialectical: a full void, an enriching emptiness, a resonating or eloquent silence. Silence remains, inescapably, a form of speech ... and an element in a dialogue. (Sontag, 1969, p. 5)
One of the crucial questions for my readings is: whose ‘speech’ does silence represent?
When silence occurs, whose silence is it? The answer to these questions determines my
‘reading’ of silences in Horváth’s drama. The different types and functions of silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke that are considered here are all communicative and carriers of meaning. I use Manfred Pfister’s model of communication theory and theories of silence in communication studies to provide a novel clarification of types of silence, which are relevant to the analysis of Horváth’s Volksstücke. Manfred Pfister’s concept of different levels of communication in drama is particularly relevant to this discussion of silence as a communicative device.
Pfister stresses the presence of several layers of dramatic communication, which come with their own sets of addressers and addressees. The playwright’s communication to his receptors is the outermost level. The “external communication system” comprises “internal” and the “mediating” systems (Pfister, 1991, pp. 3-4). The
“internal system” is the first level of communication and consists of the interaction among the characters of the play. The “mediating system” is the second level and an important characteristic of the narrative model of communication. It implies the
162 presence of a fictional narrator and a fictive receptor. Pfister asserts that the hallmark of the dramatic model is the absence of the “mediating system”. However, this
“unmediated overlapping of the internal and external communication systems” characterises the “‘absolute nature’ of the dramatic text”, conditioned by its hypothetical independent existence of either author, or narrator, or the spectators themselves (1991, p. 4). Pfister also recognises the tendency of modern drama to produce ‘epic’ structures, which perform ‘mediating’ functions.
These include, for example, the chorus in classical tragedy, the allegorical characters in medieval morality plays, ... the explanatory and interpretative functions of ‘para-texts’ (R. Ingarden) in the form of introductions, prefaces or extended stage-directions, and, finally, the introduction of the commentator or producer figures in modern ‘epic dramas’. (Pfister, 1991, p. 4)
Thus, Pfister identifies three levels of communication in modern drama: “internal”,
“mediating” and “external”. The dramatist ‘speaks’ indirectly through the characters’ speech (“internal”) and directly through the stage directions (“mediating”). The
“external” communication between the playwright and the reader is conditioned, therefore, by the functionality of both the “internal” and the “mediating” communication systems.
According to Pfister’s model, then, the stage directions are always part of the mediating communication system. However, as Mick Wallis and Simon Shepherd argue in Studying Plays, there are “conjunctive” stage directions, which are closely related to the characters’ communication and explain the dialogue, and “disjunctive” stage directions that “act in tension with or against the dialogue” (Wallis, 2010, p. 10).
I apply Wallis’s and Shepherd’s theory to a particular set of stage directions, namely the indications of silence in the secondary text, and suggest that they are either part of
163 the “conjunctive” or “disjunctive” stage directions. Consequently, two types of silences can be distinguished at this point, which I name ‘conjunctive’ and ‘disjunctive’ silences. I borrow Wallis’s and Shepherd’s terms in order to introduce my own categories of silence in a dramatic text, which differentiate between two distinct types of silences in relation to characters’ speech. The conjunctive silences are elements in the characters’ communication and exist only in relation to the words; they are closely related to the characters’ communication. They are active at the internal level of dramatic communication and signal breakages within the internal communication, between the characters. On the other hand, the disjunctive silences are not strictly related to the occurrence of conversation within the play but are part of the mediating communication of the text, where the dialogue or action is commented upon. They act in tension with the dialogue and action and bring about caesura. Their effect becomes more apparent at the external level of dramatic communication. The disjunctive silences reflect the intentional suspension of communication between the playwright and the receptors of his work, between the stage and the audience.
I draw on language scholar Adam Jaworski’s explanation of the communicative functions of silence in order to clarify my distinction between the conjunctive and disjunctive silences. Jaworski notes that “silence per se is neither communicative nor noncommunicative ... but ... when examined from the perspective of a given pragmatic framework, it can be communicatively relevant or irrelevant” (1993, p. 95). In this sense, I regard conjunctive silences as the ‘communicatively relevant’ pauses and disjunctive silences as the ‘communicatively irrelevant’ pauses when analysed from the pragmatic perspective of dialogue between the characters. Unlike the first type of silence, which has a direct mediating function between the protagonists of the play and an indirect one between the author and the reader, the latter type has only a direct
164 mediating function between the author, on the one hand and the receptors of his work
(the reader, director or the audience) on the other.
5.4.1. The conjunctive silence
This section further develops the category of conjunctive silences. I draw on conversation analysis in approaching the role of silence so as to further elaborate the possibilities of identifying and ‘reading’ conjunctive silences in a dramatic text.
The theory that the dramatic or narrative text incorporates literary representations of features of natural talk is argued by language and communication scholars such as Mary Louise Pratt (1977), Margaret L. McLaughlin (1984), James
VanOosting (1985) and Katrin Meise (1996).47 Pratt and Meise propose methods of applying speech act theory to the study of literary texts. McLaughlin discusses significant issues in discourse analysis and Van Oosting points out the potential use of literature in empirical communication research. Although the relationship between fictional dialogue and natural speech is approached from different perspectives, all these studies claim the existence of certain connections between the fictional and natural conversational modes, emphasising their similarities rather than their differences.
These theories about the similarities between fictional and ordinary speech also suggest that many of the conventional methods of analysing ordinary speech can
47 There are language scholars, such as Aijmer (1996), Bishop (1991) and Simpson (1997) who, although they agree that fictional talk shares certain characteristics with real talk, stress the major differences between the two. The divergences are primarily related to, and derive from, the control that an author exerts over the fictional dialogue. They also relate to the communicative goal at the base of the interaction (in the case of fictional dialogue, an external third party–the reader–is added to the interlocutors participating in the naturally occurring dialogue).
165 provide access to the interpretation of fictional speech. As Katrin Meise notes: “In literary text containing representation of communication”, such as dramatic texts, “we clearly encounter a projection of structures of conversational organisation which hardly differs from the procedures of linguists in the notation of (authentic) recordings of talk
...” (1996, p. 56). Consequently, because silence can play a significant role in the dramatic conversation as well as in the naturally occurring communication, it might be examined in a fictional dialogue using methods utilized for its study in everyday interaction. From a conversation-analytic perspective, the most common discussions respond to the temptation to create classifications. I do not think that establishing taxonomies represents the key to ‘reading’ silence. Nevertheless, some classifications are relevant because they deepen our understanding of the role of silence within both natural and literary dialogue. They are adopted and modified according to their relevance to the analysis of Horváth’s use of the conjunctive silences.
The linguistics scholar Muriel Saville-Troike, for example, lists three types of situations in which silence may function–institutional, group, and individual–and suggests the following categories of silence: “institutionally determined silence”,
“group-determined silence” and “individually determined/negotiated silence” (1985, p.
14). The “individually determined” category is of particular interest here because it refers to silences that can be found in natural or fictional dialogue as expressions of the individual participation to interaction. The “individually determined” category includes the types of “interactive” and “noninteractive” silence, which are considered as such according to their particular settings, relations, functions, context, and determining factors.
166
The individually determined interactive silences can be 1. socio-contextual silences (role-indicative, status-indicative, situation-indicative, tactical- symbolic/attitudinal, and phatic); 2. linguistic silences (discursive, propositional, didactic); and 3. psychological silences (echoeing timidity, embarrassment, fear, neurosis, etc.). The values of interactive silence suggested in the presentation above, far from being exhaustive, correspond closely to the broad range of qualitative interpretations that a silent moment can receive in a literary dialogue.
Although the conjunctive silences in a dramatic text act more as indicators of the quality of the discourse (interactive silences), they might also assist the organisation of the conversational material. These kinds of pauses correspond to Saville-Troike’s
“individually determined noninteractive” silences and are more linked to the place of silence than to its meaning within the dialogue. They can take the form of a gap or a lapse.48 The gap is the pause between the speeches of two known and nominated speakers. It could be defined within a fictional conversation model as ‘transitional’ or
‘turn-taking’ pause. A lapse occurs when the current speaker does not nominate the next speaker but simply stops speaking. In a literary dialogue, the lapse is represented by the silence that cannot be attributed to a specific character but to all participants in interaction. On a structural level, it implies a cutting technique that influences the rhythm of the dialogue. On a semantic level, it signifies the breakdown of communication between the dialogue’s protagonists. Although less semantic and with less psychological content than the interactive silences, the noninteractive silences establish the form and the interior rhythm of the dramatic dialogue.
48 The description of gap and lapse rely on the definitions given by Harvey Sacks, Emanuel A. Schegloff and Gail Jefferson (1974). 167
Thus, the conjunctive silences represent silent moments in characters’ conversation, meant to stress the meaning of the dialogue or, in contrast, to signal the breakdown of communication, to characterise the participants in interaction or the relation between them. They are largely considered in this study as conventional modes of expression of the protagonists, as providers of non-verbal answers and, hence, most of them can be attributed to a particular participant in a given situation. The conjunctive silences that cannot be assigned to a specific character still have conversational significance due to their structural effect. They mark gaps and lapses in conversation and reflect a general lack of dialogue between the participants.
5.4.2. The disjunctive silence
Muriel Saville-Troike also draws attention to the distinction between the silence that is part of a communicative process and silence that occurs in the absence of communication. Her statement is a good starting point for the discussion in this section: “a distinction should be made between the absence of sound when no communication is going on, and silence which is part of communication. Just as not all noise is part of ‘communication’, neither is all silence” (Saville-Troike, 1985, p. 4).
The disjunctive silences are the counterpart of Saville-Troike’s type of silence that occurs when there is no communication between the dramatis personae. They are independent of dialogue and, as already stated, not communicative from the pragmatic perspective of interaction between the characters. They become communicatively relevant only when analysed from the perspective of author-reader/receptor relation.
Consequently, I consider the disjunctive silences author-identified pauses. They follow
Manfred Pfister’s functional pattern of the authorial secondary text.
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By drawing attention to essentially external phenomena in this way, the author succeeds in creating a mediating communication system in the secondary text which can guide the receiver’s attention in a particular direction and suggest a meaningful interpretation of the internal dramatic level. (Pfister, 1991, p. 72)
The playwright uses disjunctive silences to add supplementary information about the dramatic events and their context or to underline moments of action and ideas that are significant for the entire plan of the play. They are active at the mediating level of dramatic communication and are invested with independent meaning. The disjunctive silences function as ‘signs proper’.
A scholar in non-verbal communication, Fernando Poyatos (1983) proposes a taxonomy of silence, which is not based on its functions (as in the examples of the previous section) but rather on its semiotics. This classification includes the ‘signs proper’ category of silences that signify themselves, not as replacement for sounds or words. I argue that, as signs proper, the disjunctive silences do not indicate an absence but rather the void replete with an excess of meaning. They function as subtextual speech; they help transfer the author’s intention from subtext to text. The playwright interweaves speech and disjunctive silences as independent and necessary parts of thedramatic text. The message transmitted by the author does not reside solely in these silences or in character speech but in the relation between them. The disjunctive silences and speech imbue each other with additional meaning.
Thus, the disjunctive silences are next to the words a major literary device. The presence of disjunctive silences is a feature of modern drama. It culminates in the works of Beckett and Pinter, where disjunctive silences are responsible for caesura.
They do not interrupt only the dialogues but the entire action of the play. When analysing the role of disjunctive silences in Horváth’s Volksstücke, it becomes apparent
169 that he develops a ‘language of silence’ that anticipates the exploitation of pauses in
Beckett’s and Pinter’s plays.
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CHAPTER SIX:
Silence in Ödön von Horváth’s new Volksstücke
This chapter provides a new perspective on Horváth’s use of silence. It examines the author’s use of silence to contribute to character communication and also to directly express ideas, particularly his social criticism.
It first introduces the terms that Horváth employs in order to evoke silent moments and looks at their dynamics within the Volksstücke from a chronological perspective.
Then, it further discusses the types of conjunctive and disjunctive silence in the plays of the Volksstücke cycle.
The chapter concludes with a new proposal for thinking about some of the differences between silence on the page and silence of the stage, and hence ways silence in
Horváth’s dramatic texts can be interpreted by performance practitioners.
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6.1. Chronological account of Horváth’s use of silence
This study claims that there is clear progression in Horváth’s employment of the effects of silence in the plays of the Volksstücke, from Revolte auf Côte 3018 (1926) to
Kasimir und Karoline (1932). A close reading of the plays reveals that Horváth uses distinct terms in order to invoke silent moments: “Schweigen”, “Pause”, and “Stille”.
The English word “silence” has a polysemous character. It could imply the absence of speech but also the absence of any noise.49 In German, the verb “schweigen” defines particularly the absence of talk and seems to have no counterpart in English, while the noun “die Stille” suggests the absence of any sound, including speech. Horváth’s concomitant use of both of these terms (“Schweigen” and “Stille”) from the first play of the cycle (Revolte auf Côte 3018) clearly indicates his awareness of the difference and a deliberate strategy in their employment.
In Revolte auf Côte 3018 and Die Bergbahn, Horváth uses only the stage directions “Schweigen” and “Stille” to introduce silence. The following example from
Revolte auf Côte 3018 illustrates the simultaneous presence of these stage directions within the same moment of dialogue. They indicate two distinct types of silence that fulfil different functions within the communicational structure of the play.
SCHULZ Ich habe gehört, hier würden noch Leute eingestellt werden. REITER lacht leise, kurz So? Wo hast denn des gehört? SCHULZ In, in–ich weiß nicht, ob es stimmt. REITER Des stimmt net. Aber scho gar net. Er folgt Xaver und Sliwinski. Stille. VERONIKA tritt mit einer Schüssel Kartoffel und einigen rohen Koteletts an die Quelle Jetzt hockt der no allweil da!
49 The polysemy of the English word “silence” is discussed, for example, by Muriel Saville-Troike (1985) and Jef Verschueren (1985). 172
SCHULZ Ja. Schweigen. SCHULZ Eßt ihr hier alle Tage Fleisch? (Horváth, 2001, p. 49)
SCHULZ I’ve heard that people would still be needed here. REITER chuckles, then briefly So? Where did you hear that? SCHULZ In, in–I do not know whether it’s true. REITER That’s not true. But certainly not. He follows Xaver and Sliwinski. Silence. VERONIKA enters with a bowl of potatoes and some raw chops to the Well Now he will sit there for a while!
SCHULZ Yes. Silence. SCHULZ Do you eat meat here every day?
In this extract, the indication of “Schweigen” implies the absence of talk while “Stille” marks an interruption of both action and speech. “Schweigen” clearly suggests a silent moment in Schultz’s speech, meant to express his astonishment and to introduce his next question: “Do you eat meat here every day?” “Stille”, on the other hand, is not assigned to a character and is devoid of meaning from the perspective of the protagonists’ communication. It introduces a moment of caesura. In another example from the same play (Revolte auf Côte 3018), the stage directions “Schweigen” (“all are suddenly quiet”) and “Stille” are placed immediately one after the other, in the same dialogical line: “Er lauscht Veronikas Gesang; Karl pfeift; plötzlich verstummt alles;
Stille” (“He listens to Veronica’s song; Karl whistles; they are all suddenly quiet; silence” [Horváth, 2001, p. 47]). Again, the indication of “Stille” comes after all the participants in interaction turn silent. Its presence would not be necessary unless it refers to a type of silence that describes the absence of any sound not only of talk and could also imply the value of stillness. By being placed immediately one after the
173 other, the different functions of the indications “Schweigen” (turning quiet) and “Stille”
(silence) are, therefore, clearly emphasised. These examples show Horváth’s intention to distinctively use the stage directions “Schweigen” and “Stille” from the first play of the cycle.
Horváth chose his stage directions of silence with great care. He renounced using the indication “Schweigen” after Die Bergbahn and replaced it with “Pause”
(pause). “Pause” is preferred to “Schweigen” for its more incisive connotations; in
Horváth’s Volksstücke, it insinuates a more abrupt disruption of the dialogue’s flux.
This study argues that this shift corresponds to an intensification of social criticism that becomes acute in Horváth’s next plays (Italienische Nacht, Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald and Kasimir und Karoline). The shift also marks a clear progression in his dramaturgical technique. In the early Volksstücke (Revolte auf Côte 3018 and Die
Bergbahn), Horváth still employed a conventional act structure, the social criticism is indirectly expressed and the suggestion that a change in the economic system would improve human nature could still be detected. Starting with Italienische Nacht, the social criticism becomes explicit and the circular structure substitutes the linear development of the action, suggesting that the characters are hopelessly trapped in their situation and perceptions. In Italienische Nacht, the silences interspersed within the text specifically support the satire of various political orientations (fascism, communism, republicanism, etc.) that manipulate the minds of the petits bourgeois depicted in the play. The moments of silence emphasise the contradiction between the characters’ words and their acts, as well as the socio-political disillusion to which the protagonists fall victim.
Like “Schweigen”, the indication “Pause” still describes someone’s silence, and its interpretation depends on the immediate context of the dialogue where it occurs. 174
Next to “Pause”, “Stille” grows in importance and in frequency. It disturbs the dialogue and action and marks moments of non-communication or acute miscommunication between protagonists. The following extract provides an example of the distinct way in which the indications of “Pause” and “Stille” are used in
Italienische Nacht.
ADELE Wann ist denn Polizeistund? BETZ Um zwei. ADELE Und jetzt? BETZ Jetzt gehts gegen zwölf. ADELE Oh Gott. STADTRAT zu Betz So laß sie doch, bitte! Stille. ADELE Hier hol ich mir noch den Tod. BETZ Oder eine Lungenentzündung. Pause. Der schönste Tod ist ja allerdings der Tod für ein Ideal. ADELE Ich kenn kein Ideal, für das ich sterben möcht. (Horváth, 2003, p. 55)
ADELE When is the closing time? BETZ At two o’clock. ADELE What time is it now? BETZ Now it is close to twelve. ADELE Oh God. THE MAYOR to Betz So let her, please! Silence. ADELE Here I’ll catch my death. BETZ Or a pneumonia. Pause. However, the most wonderful death is the death for an ideal. ADELE I don’t know of any ideal I would want to die for.
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In this fragment, the indication “Pause” describes an interruption of Betz’s speech, which is meant to reinforce the meaning of his next words. On the other hand, the
“Stille” does not imply someone’s silence but the silence of all participants to the interaction. It indicates a moment of non-communication or caesura. In Italienische
Nacht, Horváth’s subtle political satire relies for its realisation on the characters’ stereotypical language, on silences (“Pause” and “Stille”), and on musical effects that are used more extensively than in the previous plays. These features become characteristic of Horváth’s critical Volksstücke.
They are even more apparent in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and Kasimir und Karoline. The Bildungsjargon, the consistent use of popular music, and the numerous sudden interruptions of speech and music by silent moments play essential parts in depicting a world of human corruption and distorted consciousness. In these last plays of the Volksstücke cycle, the stage direction “Pause” is more scarcely used, while “Stille” accomplishes a more complex role. Through frequent insertions of
“Stille”, the internal communication system is disturbed by interventions from the mediating level. “Stille” largely takes over the function of the conjunctive silences as structuring elements in dialogue. As a consequence, the silence introduced by the stage direction “Stille” creates a deeper caesura.
Horváth’s tendency to increase the instances of “Stille” in his later Volksstücke also corresponds to a proliferation of musical insertions in these plays. After
Italienische Nacht, where music “replaces other stage effects such as lighting, weather sounds, and detailed settings” (Winston, 1977, p. 134), music becomes an important structural and thematic component of the dramatic material in Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald and Kasimir und Karoline. The function of silence (“Stille”) as a form of caesura becomes even more apparent in relation to the musical moments included in 176 these plays. There are numerous examples of stage directions that indicate sudden interruptions of music, such as: “the waltz suddenly interrupts, in the middle of a beat”
(“plötzlich bricht der Walzer ab, mitten im Takt”–Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 710]); “the orchestra interrupts again in the middle of a beat” or “the orchestra interrupts the waltz again, and specifically in the middle of a beat”
(“das Orchester bricht wieder mitten im Takt ab”, “dann bricht das Orchester den
Walzer wieder ab, und zwar mitten im Takt”–Kasimir und Karoline [Horváth, 2009, p.
498 and p. 500]). Unlike music, which serves also to accompany the dialogue, calling forth associations of ideas (for example, the waltzes which recall the Viennese atmosphere in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald or the Oktoberfest songs in Kasimir und Karoline), silence always functions as a comment on both action and dialogue.
Thus, starting with Italienische Nacht, the indication “Pause” becomes a continual presence in Horváth’s Volksstücke next to “Stille”. These stage directions imply distinct types of silence, with separate functions within the communicational structure of the play. “Pause” is active at the internal level and represents the category of conjunctive silences, while “Stille” serves the mediating level and belongs to the disjunctive silences. The following sections of this chapter will discuss these types of silences in more detail.
6.2. Horváth’s conjunctive silence
In the Volksstücke, the conjunctive silences appear as counterparts of what Saville-
Troike calls “individually-determined” silences in naturally-occurring communication
(1985, pp. 16-17). Horváth employs them in order to support the structure as well as the meaningful content of the characters’ verbal interaction. The conjunctive silences 177 punctuate the characters’ speech and add nuances to the words, replace them, emphasise their meaning, contradict them or, simply, indicate changes in the course of the dialogue. Taking into consideration the sense of similarity between them and
Saville-Troike’s “individually-determined” silences, the conjunctive silences could either play an active role in interaction or could be noninteractive. Whether they are interactive or not, they are all context-dependent communication devices; they strictly depend on the immediate context of their occurrence for being interpreted.
Following Saville-Troike’s model, the conjunctive silences in Horváth’s plays can fulfil sociological, linguistic or psychological functions. They can express emotions, relational messages, cognitive processes, and semantic propositions. They could suggest the distance or closeness of relationships between characters, or they may cause changes on the interactional level by affecting the speech or actions of the dialogue partners. Sometimes, they attempt or accomplish several of these purposes simultaneously. In Horváth’s texts, the conjunctive silences are indicated by particular notations, such as dashes, or specific stage directions of silence (“Schweigen” and
“Pause”), which are described in what follows.
From the range of notations generally employed to indicate conjunctive silences
(dashes, dots, or ellipsis) Horváth uses only dashes. They fulfil different functions in accordance to their position within the text. They are inserted within a simple dialogical line, punctuate individual speeches and short monologues, or occupy the position of line endings. A fragment from Geschichten auf dem Wiener Wald exemplifies the complex role that Horváth attributes to dashes as indicators of silence.
MARIANNE ... Wenn es einen lieben Gott gibt–was hast du mit mir vor,
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lieber Gott?–Lieber Gott, ich bin im achten Bezirk geboren und hab die Bürgerschul besucht, ich bin kein schlechter Mensch–hörst du mich?– Was hast du mit mir vor, lieber Gott?– (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 741)
MARIANNE ... If there is a dear God–what do you plan with me, dear God?– Dear God, I was born in the eighth district and I have attended the public school, I am not a bad person–do you hear me?–What do you plan with me, dear God?–
This fragment illustrates Marianne’s attempt to ‘communicate’ with God in search of answers regarding her miserable fate. There are two levels of communication in this fragment: the exterior level, which manifests itself through direct questions addressed to someone else, and the interior monologue. The first dash indicates a moment of silence that is related to Marianne’s interior monologue. This first pause suggests the feeling of hopelessness that she experiences, and also that she doubts God’s existence.
The other dashes invoke moments of silence that serve to structure Marianne’s speech.
During these pauses she is waiting for answers that obviously do not come.
The dashes that are placed at the end of a simple dialogical line most often indicate sudden interruptions of speech as in the following example from Italienische
Nacht.
BETZ Überhaupt mit welchem Recht– DER MAJOR unterbricht ihn Maul halten! (Horváth, 2003, p. 65)
BETZ In general, by what right– THE MAJOR interrupts him Shut up!
In Horváth’s Volksstücke, the conjunctive silences are also indicated by stage directions that specifically assign a silent moment to a participant in interaction. For instance,
“Leni verstummt” (“Leni falls silent”), “Karl schweigt” (“Karl does not talk”), “Dritter
Kamerad verstummt plӧtzlich” (“The third comrade suddenly turns silent” [Horváth,
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2003, p. 26, p. 35, and p. 36]), “Alfred schweigt” (“Alfred remains silent” [Horváth,
2015, p. 735]), “Karoline schweigt boshaft” (“Karoline assumes a malicious silence”
[Horváth, 2009, p. 467]). In each of these cases Horváth rejects interpretations. He precisely indicates the nuances and designates the functionality of these silences. For example, the indication “Leni verstummt” (“Leni falls silent”) implies that Leni becomes suddenly quiet. The emphasis falls on the way in which Leni falls silent, namely ‘suddenly’. Placed within the speech of Karoline’s dialogue partner (Kasimir), the indication “Karoline schweigt boshaft” (“Karoline assumes a malicious silence”) acts as a non-verbal answer. The emphasis falls on the way in which Karoline is silent, precisely “maliciously”. The indications: “Karl schweigt” (“Karl does not talk”) and
“Alfred schweigt” (“Alfred remains silent”) connote non-verbal answers.
The indication “Schweigen” (silence, not talking) represents another way of signalling silent moments in the characters’ interaction. Although frequently placed between the dialogical lines, “Schweigen” is largely attributed to a specific participant in an interaction and signposts a psychologically motivated pause. Its meaning derives from the forward or backward action of the text to which it is related. The following extract from Revolte auf Côte 3018 offers an example of Horváth’s use of “Schweigen”.
It refers to a moment of dialogue between Veronika, the cook from the workstation at the Cote 3018, and Schulz who came there in search of a job.
SCHULZ Gestatten Sie: mein Name ist Schulz. Max Schulz. Und Sie? VERONIKA Vroni. SCHULZ Das soll wohl Veronika sein? VERONIKA Ja. Schweigen. Habens scho viele rasiert? SCHULZ Rasiert, frisiert, onduliert– (Horváth, 2001, p. 52)
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SCHULZ Excuse me: my name is Schulz. Max Schulz. Yours? VERONIKA Vroni. SCHULZ Should this probably be Veronika? VERONIKA Yes. Silence. Have you shaved many? SCHULZ Shaved, hair cut, undulating–
In this text, “Schweigen” indicates Veronika falling silent to allow herself time to manage the personal interaction with the newcomer. It is a tactical/attitudinal type of silence, according to Saville-Troike’s account of interactive silences. “Schweigen” could also reflect a non-verbal answer as in the next example from Die Bergbahn.
INGENIEUR Was soll das?! Schweigen. Es wird weitergearbeitet. Mit Hochdruck und sofort, Los! Keiner reagiert. Schweigen. Hört: sollte das Wetter umschlagen und wir hätten die Vorarbeiten noch nicht beendet–das Werk, der Bau, die Bahn ist gefährdet! (Horváth, 2001, p. 124)
THE ENGINEER What is this?! Silence. The work will be continued. At high pressure and immediately, go! Nobody reacts. Silence. Listen: the weather changes and we did not finish the preparations–the work, the construction, the railway are at risk!
This fragment illustrates a moment of increased tension between the Engineer, who represents the capital force, and the workers. The two instances of “Schweigen” act as non-verbal answers that reflect the workers’ refusal to continue the construction of the
181 railway in conditions that put their lives at risk. The subliminal message of these moments of silence announces the imminence of the conflict.
“Schweigen” is less semantic and becomes more a communication structuring device when it ends synchronically the speeches of both dialogue partners. In the following example (Revolte auf Côte 3018), the empty space described by “Schweigen” in conversation is a result of both Oberle and Schultz falling silent. The stage direction
“Schweigen” indicates a ‘transitional’ pause or a gap in Oberle’s and Schultz’s verbal interaction.
SCHULZ ... Wollen Sie mich weiter schlagen? Bitte– OBERLE I hab Sie no nie geschlagn. SCHULZ Alles schlägt mich. Schweigen. OBERLE Was wollns hier? SCHULZ Arbeit. (Horváth, 2001, p. 54)
SCHULZ … Do you still want to hit me? Please– OBERLE I have never hit you before. SCHULZ Everything hits me. Silence. OBERLE What do you want here? SCHULZ Work.
In this example, “Schweigen” does not function only as a structuring element, it also comments on the relation between the two men. As a newcomer, Schulz is not well received by the other workers (including Oberle), who do not want to lose their workplace at the railway construction.
Next to “Schweigen”, the indication “Pause” is also used to suggest the absence of talk in Horváth’s plays. Compared to “Schweigen”, “Pause” is more imperative, reflecting disturbances in dialogue. Without being necessarily assigned to a character, 182 it usually takes the form of a lapse and signals an aware, synchronic stopping of the speeches of all participants to interaction. The silence introduced by the stage direction
“Pause” is therefore less ‘interactive’ from the perspective of the interplay and does not lend itself to the same broad range of interpretations. However, its potential immediate meaning remains strongly related to the fragment of dramatic speech that it interrupts.
Its semantics are revealed in relation to the words. There can be distinguished three possible cases. One is when the silence introduced by the indication of “Pause” is used to reinforce the meaning of the words. This situation is exemplified with an extract from Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald.
VALERIE Können Sie schweigen, Herr Rittmeister? RITTMEISTER Natürlich! VALERIE Ehrenwort? RITTMEISTER Na, wenn ich als alter Offizier nicht schweigen könnt! Denkens doch nur mal an all die militärischen Geheimnisse, die ich weiß! Pause. VALERIE Herr Rittmeister. Sie war bei mir. RITTMEISTER Wer? VALERIE Die Mariann. Ja, die Mariann. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 754)
VALERIE Can you keep a secret, Mr. Captain?
THE CAPTAIN Of course! VALERIE Word of honour? THE CAPTAIN Well, if I as an old officer cannot keep a secret! You should just think of all the military secrets that I know! Pause. VALERIE Mr. Captain. She was here. THE CAPTAIN Who? VALERIE Mariann. Yes, Mariann.
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In this example the pause increases the tension already created by the preceding sentences that announce the revelation of a secret. It is then broken by Valerie, who says that Marianne visited her. The effect of the pause reverberates in Valerie’s words, adding emphasis.
There is another situation when words reinforce the meaning of the pause. In the following fragment from Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Valerie and
Zauberkönig have a conversation about another character, Erich, in his presence.
VALERIE Er zahlts ja nicht! ZAUBERKÖNIG Und singen kann er auch nicht! Pause. VALERIE zu Erich Warum singst du eigentlich nicht? (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 743)
VALERIE He doesn’t even pay! ZAUBERKÖNIG And he can’t sing either! Pause. VALERIE to Erich Really now, why don’t you sing?
The moment of silence that follows after Valerie’s and Zauberkönig’s comments about
Erich marks a lapse in conversation. It is filled with expectations of a reaction from
Erich vis-à-vis Valerie’s and Zauberkönig’s remarks. In the absence of this reaction,
Valerie’s direct question in the last line reinforces the intrinsic meaning of the pause and explicitly asks for Erich’s reaction and participation in the conversation.
In the last possible situation, the words and pauses are interrelated, supplementing each other with meaning. I use a fragment from Kasimir und Karoline as an example of this case.
SPEER Majestätisch. Hipp hipp hurrah! Pause. 184
EIN LILIPUTANER Wenn man bedenkt, wie weit es wir Menschen schon gebracht haben–Er winkt mit seinem Taschentuch. Pause. KAROLINE Jetzt ist er gleich verschwunden, der Zeppelin– (Horváth, 2009, p. 465)
SPEER Majestically. Hip hip hurray! Pause. ONE MIDGET When you think how far we, human beings, have already got– He waves his handkerchief. Pause. KAROLINE It is just gone now, the Zeppelin–
In this fragment, the pauses reinforce the meaning of the preceding dialogical lines and are emphasised by the words that come after them. The delusive aspect of the characters’ speech echoes in these moments of pause. The first pause stresses the effect of Speer’s line that brings into discussion the Zeppelin, a symbol of German power but also of deceptive ideals, which haunt all the characters in the play. The contrast between Midget’s speech about mankind’s progress and his own humble situation becomes more apparent in relation to the pauses that frame Midget’s words. As already stated, from the stage direction that indicate conjunctive silences “Schweigen” appears only in Revolte auf Côte 3018 and Die Bergbahn, while “Pause”, next to “Stille”, becomes a constant presence in Horváth’s Volksstücke and functions mainly as a theatrical production of the lapse.
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6.3. Horváth’s disjunctive silence
This section explores Horváth’s choice to extend the importance of a particular type of silence in his plays. It discusses the indication “Stille” as a major component of the dramatic structure of Horváth’s Volksstücke and argues that “Stille” designates authorial pauses within a text, which occur at the mediating level of dramatic communication.
Most of the scholars who have studied Horváth’s use of language consider that the stage direction “Stille” placed within the dialogue indicates the breakdown of communication between characters or their incapacity to express themselves. This perspective places the silence introduced by “Stille” in the adjacent area of the internal level of dramatic communication and raises a fundamental question: whose is this silence? In line with Claudia Benthien’s theory on Horváth’s use of silence, I argue that the silence evoked by “Stille” in Horváth’s plays can hardly be assigned to a participant in dialogue. It incorporates one character’s quietness into a deeper silence that interrupts the speech, music, all noises, movement and gesture; the action itself.
The subsequent extract from Italienische Nacht provides an explicit example for the employment of “Stille” as a form of disjunctive silence in Horváth’s drama.
LENI Aber Herr Karl! Wenn jemand einen so schӧnen Gang hat. Sie lacht. KARL Wie?! Er fixiert sie. Leni verstummt. Stille. Ja, Fräulein, Sie verstehen mich anscheinend nicht ...–Ich seh schwarz in die Zukunft, Fräulein. (Horváth, 2003, p. 26)
LENI But Mr. Karl! If someone has such a beautiful way ahead. She laughs.
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KARL Excuse me?! He gazes at her. Leni falls silent. Silence. Yes, Miss, you obviously don’t understand ...–I see a black side of the future, Miss.
The “Stille” in the last line would not be necessary, unless it signified something other than the “Schweigen”. A silent moment was already established by Leni’s silence.
Unlike the indication “Leni verstummt” that is communicatively relevant from the pragmatic perspective of the characters’ conversation, “Stille” is communicatively irrelevant from the same perspective. It is not assigned to a figure; it does not express someone’s position in interaction or one’s personal state, and does not suggest the status of dialogue at a particular moment. It is not a conversational type of pause.
Leni’s silence already established an eloquent pause within the dramatic speech. Thus, the placement of “Stille” in the next line specifically illustrates the absence of its involvement in the characters’ communication. Horváth could use “Pause” instead of
“Stille”, but his intention was not to create a break in Karl’s speech or in his conversation with Leni. Horváth chooses the latter term to distinguish clearly the caesura from a simple moment of silence in dialogue. “Stille” signals an important moment within the entire plan of the scene rather than within the immediate dialogical context. It announces a change in topic, a shift in the ideas that is clearly expressed by
Karl’s words: “Ich sehe Schwarz in die Zukunft, Fräulein” (“I see a black side of the future, Miss”).
There are other features of Horváth’s use of “Stille” that definitely place it within the mediating level of dramatic communication. “Stille” is employed, for instance, when the characters are not communicating with each other. It opens the text, being placed before the first spoken line in Revolte auf Côte 3018 (Horváth, 2001, p. 187
47), Italienische Nacht (Horváth, 2003, p. 9) and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald
(Horváth, 2015, p. 705). In Kasimir und Karoline two scenes start with the indication
“Stille”, while scene number 16 consists of only three words: “Karoline appears.
Silence” (“Karoline erscheint. Stille”), then the next scene follows (Horváth, 2009, p.
472). In this example, “Stille” does not represent Karoline’s silence; it suggests a moment of silence that influences and stops the flux of the action. It signifies itself, it is not a replacement for sounds or words. It acts as a ‘sign proper’. These silences marked with “Stille” are empty spaces in speech, when analysed from the perspective of the internal level of dramatic communication. But they are filled with meaning when examined from the perspective of the mediating level. I consider the use of
“Stille” in the Volksstücke to be linked to their thematic motivation which finds its explanation in an autobiographic background.
I take a different approach than other Horváth scholars by investigating
Horváth’s “Stille” in relation to his personal statements. In 1924, two years before
Horváth’s first Volksstück, he wrote the essay, “Die Flucht aus der Stille” (“The run from silence”). Here Horváth speaks about the “danger” of silence, which he personally felt in rural life (1972, vol. 8, p. 658). The silence that he fears is not the absence of noise, which he could also experience when living in the city. It is rather
“the silence of the atmosphere, of the standstill”.
Und dann ist noch ein Gefahr auf dem Lande, das ist die Stille. Unter Stille verstehe ich nun natürlich nicht die Geräuschlosigkeit, die man sich zum Arbeiten auch in der Großstadt beschaffen kann. Es ist die Stille der Atmosphäre, des Stillstands. (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 658)
And then there is another danger in the country, which is the silence. Of course, by silence I don’t understand the quietness, which you can also experience in the big city. It is the silence of the atmosphere, the standstill. 188
When talking about “Stille”, Horváth refers to the ‘danger’ of stagnation and emptiness.
The “silence of the atmosphere” or the “standstill” refers to stasis, immobility and lack of human development and meaningful human interaction; however, it also connotes emptiness and the absence of values. In the country, Horváth further explains, the society appears to be paralysed, as trapped in time and space because of “the so-called new illusion”, namely “the danger of becoming romantic” (“Auf dem Lande besteht die
Gefahr des Romantischwerden. Der sogenannten neuen Illusion” [1972, vol. 8, p.
658]). Horváth associates the silence with the risk of living in an illusory, empty world as a consequence of individual and social mystifications. His essay about “the run from silence” actually expresses the urgent need to run away from this noxious “illusion” that keeps the majority of his generation asleep.
Although Horváth connects the “silence of the atmosphere”/“the standstill” first with country life, he then transfers this observation to the city. This reflects the movement from old to new (pre-modern to modern), and also reflects the development of the new Volksstück that he intended. The rural setting, which was one of the characteristic features of the traditional Volksstück, is replaced in Horváth’s plays by urban locations. Horváth’s construction of the new Volksstück and his reformation of the genre are clearly illustrated by this change in venue. The first plays of the cycle,
Die Bergbahn and Italienische Nacht, could be considered in-between stages. In Die
Bergbahn, although the rural setting is still present, the presence of the cable car marks the intrusion of modern life and technology. Italienische Nacht takes place in a small town (Kleinstadt) and displays the typical characters of the old Volksstück (small-town aristocracy), yet, included in its list of characters are modern proletarian workers and the play itself brings to attention the process of shifting consciousness that occurred in the industrialising society at the beginning of the last century. In Geschichten aus dem
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Wiener Wald and Kasimir und Karoline the urban setting receives full attention. The large cities (Vienna in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and Munich in Kasimir und
Karoline) are the home of the ‘new’ middle-class, born as a “Phoenix out of the inflation”, which represents the target of Horváth’s criticism (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p.
648). To Horváth a metropolis is associated with noise and speed. A howling background opens and accompanies the events in Kasimir und Karoline, for example.
This idea is also indirectly expressed in Horváth’s essay “The run from silence”, which specifically connects silence and standstill with the life in the country. However, in
Horváth’s new Volksstücke, the recurrent use of “Stille” echoes all the connotations of stasis invoked in the above-mentioned essay. Silence and stagnation lie behind all the urban noise and the characters’ actions. Despite all the howling, the silent moments noted as “Stille” mark incisive interruptions in the dialogue and action and establish a deep and overwhelming silence. Horváth underlines the silence that lies behind the urbanisation that continued apace in the Weimar era. “Stille” is thus a significant indicator in the process of Horváth’s reformation of the genre and in the socio-critical dimension of his new Volksstücke. It does not ‘speak’ for the characters, rather it
‘speaks’ about them and their ‘new’ world.
As Horváth declared, the Volksstücke depict either successful or frustrated members of the petite bourgeoisie of his time, who represented “ninety per cent” of
Germany’s and other European countries’ people (1972, vol. 8, p. 662). He actually dramatises the distorted consciousness of the middle-class people of his time, who were influenced by the “silence of the atmosphere” and the “new illusion” about which he talked in his essay. The “silence of the atmosphere”, as Horváth writes, encourages people’s imagination to indulge in self-centred dreams. His characters are victims of
190 their own phantasies. They preserve a deceptive image about themselves and the world they live in.
Denn in der Stille träumt man unwillkürlich und wenn man genauer hinsieht, steht man immer persönlich im Mittelpunkt seiner Phantasien, und dies tut einem natürlich wohl. Aber das ist bekanntlich sehr gefährlich, denn meist ist es wohl völlig uninteresant für andere, wenn man selbst in dem Mittelpunkt steht, man muss sehen, dass der andere im Mittelpunkt steht. (Horváth Archive, ӦLA, 3/W 228)
For in silence you start to dream involuntarily and if you take a closer look, you find that your person is always at the center of your fantasies, and this–of course–makes you feel well. But this is known to be also very dangerous, as it is totally irrelevant for others if you are at the centre; you have to place the others at the centre.
In the Volksstücke, Horváth depicts people who have lost their true identity, who put themselves at the centre of everything and who fantasize about themselves and about their own role and importance. His characters are no longer themselves, rather they are masks displayed in a macabre dance (Totentanz) of life. They are self-absorbed and egotistical, while neglecting others, dialogical relations to other people and the community at its extent. In these conditions, a real connection between individuals becomes hardly possible, but Horváth’s characters are not aware of this because of their self-centredness. Horváth lets them ironically long for togetherness and belonging, as illustrated in the scenes that include moments of communal singing.
Under the influence of the “new illusion”, the interwar petite bourgeoisie also struggles to revive the deceptive images of the past. They maintain a deceptive image of the time before the war when the old monarchy was in power.
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Meine Generation ... kennt das alte Österreich-Ungarn nur vom Hörensagen, jene Vorkriegsdoppelmonarchie, mit ihren zweidutzend Nationen, mit borniertestem Lokalpatriotismus neben resignierter Selbstironie, mit ihrer uralten Kultur, ihren Analphabeten, ihrem absolutistischen Feudalismus, ihrer spießbürgerlichen Romantik, spanischen Etikette und gemütlichen Verkommenheit. (Horváth, 1972, vol. 5, pp. 9-10)
My generation ... knows the old Austria-Hungary only from hearsay, that pre- war double monarchy with its two dozens nations, with their narrow-minded local patriotism next to resigned self-irony, with its ancient culture, its illiterates, its absolutist feudalism, its middle-class romanticism, Spanish etiquette and cosy depravities.
Like the people of his time, Horváth’s characters refuse to destroy myths. Predisposed to sentimentality, they encourage idealised images of the past. They prefer a lie to facing the truth. They live with a confused sense of reality that makes them vulnerable to manipulation.
Horváth states in the Gebrauchsanweisung that silence in his texts works as an indicator of the fight between consciousness and subconsciousness, which “must be visible” (1972, vol. 8, p. 664). He does not refer solely to the individual cognitive processes but also to their social implications. The fight between “consciousness and the subconsciousness” is the fight between the mask and its underlying reality understood at a larger social scale. Horváth confesses: “I have no other goal than this: the unmasking of consciousness. Not the unmasking of an individual, of course, nor of a city. That would be awfully cheap!” (“Ich habe kein anderes Ziel, als wie dies:
Demaskierung des Bewußtseins. Keine Demaskierung eines Menschen, einer Stadt–das wäre ja furchtbar billig!” [1972, vol. 8, p. 660]). He refers to the mentality of the petite bourgeoisie of his time. Horváth precisely specifies which stage direction of silence bears this meaningful content. He does not mention “Pause” or “Schweigen” but only 192
“Stille”. In Horváth’s “Stille” reverberates the illusion to which his characters fall victim, and its effects. What is echoed in these moments of deep silence are the falsity, deformed souls, and corrupt consciousness. “Stille” points to the failure of individual experiences and of interpersonal relations but most of all to the emotional and spiritual paralysis of an entire social system. Horváth’s plays do not portray individual characters. The engineer and the workers in Die Bergbahn, the republicans, fascists and communists in Italienische Nacht, Alfred, Oskar and Marianne in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, or Kasimir und Karoline in Horváth’s last Volksstück are stereotypical characters. They are representative of a society without coherence, made up of individuals whose individuality is an illusion. They might be malicious like
Schürzinger or cunning like Havlittschek, or helpless and weak like Marianne.
However, they do not inspire emphaty or compassion. Horváth suggests that they are responsible for their personal failure and for the failure of the society that they represent. The barriers set between them further affect the entire social mechanism.
Thus, “Stille” is not the silence of a character who has nothing to say or is incapable of communicating. Acting at the mediating level of dramatic communication, it expresses the author’s intention to emphasise the “silence of the atmosphere” as a consequence of the emptiness of his characters’ inner and external world. The fact that the Volksstücke (with the exception of Kasimir und Karoline) start with the indication “Stille” supports this theory. The silence is already established before the beginning of the dialogue. Horváth’s choice to open Kasimir und Karoline with a howling background is meant to counterpoint and highlight another kind of silence, namely the emptiness of the subsequent spoken words. There is a certain resemblance between Pinter’s “non-verbal” and “verbal” silences (Pinter, 1964, p. 579) and Horváth’s use of “Stille”, on the one hand, and of the language of silence that lies
193 beneath the openly uttered words, on the other hand. Earlier than other modern authors, such as Pinter, he employed a new artistic device: the trap of silence. His characters, Horváth seems to suggest, are trapped in the absolute stillness/ineffectiveness of their existence. Employed in this manner, “Stille” indicates, at a semantic level, that Horváth’s is always to be a silent space, despite all the noises, music and torrents of speech which fill his Volksstücke. “Stille” is present in the background, from the beginning to the end of the plays. It plays the first part and
‘writes’ the first line: everything is about emptiness. What follows is an illustration of this initial inaudible statement. Horváth perceives the phenomenon of silence in a similar way to Wittgenstein and translates it into the form of “Stille” in the Volksstücke.
The words are embedded in silence. Behind all speech is silence and silence surrounds all speech. Perhaps more philosopher than playwright in this sense, Horváth prepares the stage to convey the idea of silence in human existence and to make the readers and spectators feel that around them there is the menace of standstill as an indicator of the emotional and spiritual emptiness.
6.4. Particular aspects of Horváth’s use of “Stille”
“Stille” is more frequently used to punctuate the ‘love scenes’, which occur between protagonists that pretend to be emotionally involved with each other. Causing disturbance, the silent interventions are meant to stress precisely the contrary: the absence of love and caring, of the human capacity to feel. In this way, Horváth illustrates the most painful aspect of the social pathology of his characters. They fail even to experience real feelings and emotions and, hence, borrow imaginary sentiments. The conversation between Marianne and Alfred in what is supposed to be
194 the ‘love scene’ of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald represents such an example. The dialogue begins with “Stille” and is interrupted by seven other instances of the stage direction “Stille”.
Marianne steigt aus der schönen blauen Donau und erkennt Alfred. Stille. ALFRED lüftet den Strohhut Ich wußte es, daß Sie hier baden würden. MARIANNE Woher wußten Sie das? ALFRED Ich wußte es. Stille. MARIANNE Die Donau ist weich wie Samt–... ALFRED ... Keiner darf, wie er will. MARIANNE Und keiner will, wie er darf. Stille. ALFRED Und keiner darf, wie er kann. ... MARIANNE Liebst du mich, wie du solltest–? ALFRED Das hab ich im Gefühl. ... Stille. ... ALFRED Du denkst zu viel. MARIANNE ... Warum sagst du kein Wort? Stille. ALFRED Liebst du mich? MARIANNE Sehr. ... ALFRED Ich laß mich verbrennen. MARIANNE Ich auch–du, oh, du–du– Stille. Du–wie der Blitz hast du in mich eingeschlagen und hast mich gespalten–jetzt weiß ich aber ganz genau. ALFRED Was? MARIANNE Daß ich ihn nicht heiraten werde– ALFRED Mariann! MARIANNE Was hast du denn? Stille.
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ALFRED Ich hab kein Geld. MARIANNE Oh warum sprichst du jetzt davon?! ALFRED Weil das meine primitivste Pflicht ist! Noch nie in meinem Leben hab ich eine Verlobung zerstört, und zwar prinzipiell! ... Dazu fehlt mir das moralische Recht! Prinzipiell! Stille. MARIANNE Ich hab mich nicht getäuscht, du bist ein feiner Mensch. Jetzt fühl ich mich doppelt zu dir gehörig– (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, pp. 668-669)
Marianne steps out of the beautifully blue Danube and recognizes Alfred. Silence. ALFRED slightly lifts his straw hat I knew that you would take a bath here. MARIANNE How did you know? ALFRED I just knew it. Silence. MARIANNE The Danube is as soft as silk– ... ALFRED ... Nobody may do what he wants to do. MARIANNE And nobody wants to do what he may do. Silence. ALFRED And nobody may do, as he can. ... MARIANNE Do you love me as much as you should–? ALFRED I feel so ... Silence. ... ALFRED You’re thinking too much. MARIANNE ... Why don’t you say a word? Silence. ALFRED Do you love me? MARIANNE Very much so. ... ALFRED I throw myself into the fire. MARIANNE Me too–you, oh, you–you– Silence.
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You–just like lightning you have hit me and split me–but now I know for sure. ALFRED What? MARIANNE That I’m not gonna marry him– ALFRED Mariann! MARIANNE But what? Silence. ALFRED I don’t have any money. MARIANNE Oh, but why do you have to mention it now?! ALFRED Because it is my uttermost primitive duty! Never in my whole life have I destroyed an engagement–in fact, never in principle! ... I don’t have the moral right for that! In principle! Silence. MARIANNE I was wrong, you are a fine person. Now I feel that I belong to you even more–
In this supposed love scene both figures are alienated. Although talking to each other,
Marianne and Alfred talk to and about themselves. Their conversation revolves around their own illusions, their personal need to love and be loved, or interest in finding a partner. The discussion is more about their own perspective on love than about the feeling that they supposedly share. Consequently, the romantic vocabulary is almost missing and the moments of silence introduced by the stage directions “Stille” emphasise the inauthentic character of the dialogue. They actually split the dialogue in two monologues that run in parallel. The entire conversation flows into a misunderstanding with further repercussions for the protagonists. A victim of her self- delusion, Marianne follows Alfred, hoping to fulfil her romantic dreams. But the love story is only a projection of her imagination and she suffers the consequences. Alfred, eager to regain his freedom, abandons Marianne and their child, who is eventually killed.
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In Kasimir und Karoline, the indications “Stille” also mark in a cliché-ridden manner the inauthenticity of the protagonists’ feelings as well as of their interaction.
The play’s motto states clearly from the beginning that for the characters of this play love becomes commonplace. In a world where there are neither authentic feelings, nor tragic heroes, “love never ends” (“Und die Liebe hӧret nimmer auf”) because partners are interchangeable and relationships always expandable.
Horváth uses variations of “Stille” such as “peinliche Stille” (“embarrassing silence”; e.g., 2015, vol. 2, p. 707) or “plӧtzliche Stille” (“sudden silence”, which is used only in conjunction with music; e.g., 2009, p. 486). The indication “Totenstille”
(“deathly silence”), more scarcely used, is of particular interest because it produces a more profound caesura and is employed in the key-scenes of the Volksstücke. In
Italienische Nacht, for example, “Totenstille” is present in the last scene of the play and comes after the verbal intervention of a fascist (Der Major), which contains the following sentence: “Quiet! You betrayed yourselves!” (“Ruhe! Jetzt habt ihr euch selbst verraten!” [Horváth, 2003, p. 63]). The silence introduced by “Totenstille” acts as a prophetic flash that anticipates the triumph of the Nazi mentality. Horváth’s critical attitude towards the collective consciousness of a whole age resonates in this silence. The value vacuum is the most prominent feature of this consciousness, which transforms it into an easily manipulated mass of people.
In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald the indications “Totenstille” are found in the central ‘unmasking’ scene of the play, which is set at Maxim, a nightclub where
Marianne works as a nude dancer. She was forced to accept this job in order to make a living after the refusal of her father to help her, as a consequence of her relationship with to Alfred. Her father realises that the nude figure of Happiness in the show is his daughter and he disowns her a second time. This scene represents the climax of the 198 play. It definitely breaks the illusion and confronts the characters with themselves: alienated and vulnerable persons that form a group of people without any principles or social coherence. There are five instances of the stage direction “Totenstille” in the scene that takes place “at Heuriger”, which all point up the process of ‘unmasking’, of revealing the protagonists’ hypocrisy and their obtuseness of personality and character.
The last two of these “deathly” silent moments and their context are illustrated by the following example.
DER CONFERENCIER wieder vor dem Vorhang Und nun, meine Sehrverehrten, das dritte Bild: “Die Jagd nach dem Glück”. Totenstille. Darf ich bitten, Herr Kapellmeister– Die “Träumerei” von Schumann erklingt und der Vorhang teilt sich zum dritten Male–eine Gruppe nackter Mädchen, die sich gegenseitig niedertreten, versucht einer goldenen Kugel nachzurennen, auf welcher das Glück auf einem Bein steht–das Glück ist ebenfalls unbekleidet und heißt Marianne. VALERIE schreit gellend auf in finsteren Zuschauerraum Marianne! Jesus Maria Josef! Marianne! Marianne erschrickt auf ihrer Kugel, zittert, kann das Gleichgewicht nicht mehr halten, muß herab und starrt, geblendet vom Scheinwerfer, in den dunklen Zuschauerraum. ... und nun wird es Licht im Zuschauerrraum und wieder für einen Augenblick totenstill. (Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 748)
THE EMCEE again in front of the curtain And now, ladies and gentlemen, the third Act: “The pursuit of happiness”. Deathly silence. Shall we, Mr. Music Director– The “Reverie” by Schumann starts to play and the curtain parts for the third time–a group of naked girls, which stamp each other down, try to
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run and reach for a golden ball, on which Happiness balances on one leg–the Happiness is also undressed and her name is Marianne. VALERIE screams piercingly in the dark auditorium Marianne! Jesus Christ! Marianne! Marianne startles on top of the ball, she shakes and is not able to keep her balance. She has to get down and stares, blinded by the spotlight, into the darkness of the auditorium. ... now lights go on in the auditorium and again there is a moment of deathly silence.
The first “Totenstille” announces the final stage of Marianne’s humiliation and draws attention to her. The second one, together with the indication “lights go on in the auditorium”, redirects the attention to the audience members of the nude show. They all are petrified in this deathlike silence. In this moment the subtext suggests the interrogation: “who is judging whom?” They are not more moral or better than
Marianne. They all have imperfections marked by their weakness of will that will drag them eventually into an empty life without hope or love.
As this discussion and examples have shown, the concealed implications of the dialogue are revealed in the silent moments, which are introduced by the stage direction
“Stille” and its variations. During these pauses the previous lines echo in our ears.
Although the “Stille” traces the feeling of an empty existence, Horváth’s ‘silence’ is never completely empty. The inner world of his characters is irremediably broken into pieces and the sound of this bursting echoes in these moments of silence.
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6.5. Horváth’s silence in the text-performance translation
According to Lotman (1977), every “artistic text” expresses the author’s intention to convey a complex message to his audience. As in the case of other communication processes, this involves three fixed elements: the sender, the channel, and the receiver.
However, in the case of a dramatic text, one may argue that the communication process is a twofold process that implies two phases in order to be complete. The dramatist writes a play that is then read and used by a director, in collaboration with other artists
(actors, composers, set-designers, etc.), to stage a performance. The playwright becomes the primary sender of information, while the director together with his/her collaborators represents the secondary sender. The channel is the actual play in the first phase of communication and the theatrical production in the second phase. The receiver or the addressees are the readers of the dramatic text in the first phase and the members of the audience in the final performance. Thus, two processes of semiosis are involved in the dramatic communication system: one at the textual level and the other one at the performance level.
encoding process1 encoding process2 channel = play channel = performance Playwright------Receptor1------Receptor2 (Reader/The creators of the production) (Audience)
In the process of the translation of a text into a theatrical performance, there are also two stages of investing silence with meaning. They are described by the semiotician
Pia Teodorescu-Brînzeu as the “theoretical” and “physical” stage respectively (1984, p.
50).
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The first stage is represented by a theoretical existence, when the pauses are mentioned in the text but not actually realized. The second stage is represented by the movement from the text to the performance, by which the pauses obtain a physical experience and function as a real sign. (Teodorescu-Brînzeu, 1984, p. 50)
The textual and scenic dimensions of silence can be perceived as intimately connected but also as two distinct experiences of silence as a sign. In the theatrical process, the dramatist’s silences are interpreted and transformed into independent signs with an almost ‘physical’ appearance. The creators of the performance reinvest them with meaning and emphasise them in relation to the other theatrical signs. However, only in an ideal case a director would search and create a context that maximises the relevance of a textual silence. In general, the performers utilise the pauses as a flexible tool, adjusting their quality and quantity in accordance with the demands of the performance.
This study suggests that by calling attention to silence in his drama, Horváth requires the creators of the production to pay attention to the assumptions that are made manifest in each period of silence and to project their contextual effects. Horváth’s stage directions of silence indicate authorial voluntary pauses; they represent an integral part of the script because of their communicative value. Consequently, in the process of translation of Horváth’s dramatic texts into theatrical texts, they offer limited possibilities of interpretation. Their importance to the staging of Horváth’s plays is clearly emphasised in the Gebrauchsanweisung, a set of “instructions for the use” of the Volksstücke that Horváth wrote (1972, pp. 659-665). Among a detailed discussion about the reformation of the Volksstück genre, the Gebrauchsanweisung contains specific indications that should increase the onstage effect of Horváth’s plays.
In the Gebrauchsanweisung, Horváth particularly emphasises the significance of the interplay between spoken words and silence. The most relevant aspects are the 202 opposition between the verbal signs and silence, and between the movement (corporal expression) and stillness. Unlike the first one that is apparent in the dramatic text, the latter one can be fully grasped only in the stage production. In this regard, Horváth specifically notes that “a silent play of one part is strictly prohibited” (1972, vol. 8, p.
664). He also writes: “no extras ...–no motion, excepting the speaker” (1972, vol. 8, p.
664). The noisiness is an indicator of movement and the silence of the stillness. Who speaks moves; who is silent is motionless. The oppositions: speech-silence, movement- stillness and the correlations: speech-movement, silence-stillness are clearly expressed.
Thus, the staging implications of Horváth’s indications of silence also include the aspect of stillness.
However, Horváth’s request for stillness does not necessarily apply to the conjunctive silences (“Schweigen” and “Pause”), which are contextually linked to dialogue and, hence, rely more on the verbal/acoustic expression that implies movement in the performance. Horváth mainly refers to the “pauses within the dialogue” that are marked with “Stille” (therefore the category of silence that I call
‘disjunctive’) and which have to be clearly emphasised on stage (Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 664). Horváth draws particular attention to these pauses that doubled by stillness suspend not only the onstage communication but rather the communication between the stage and the audience in the performance hall. They are intended to produce moments of caesura which represent a significant requirement for the process of staging
Horváth’s plays. With the help of these silent moments that break the stage illusion, the tradition of the ‘old’ Volksstück is also suspended in favour of Horváth’s ‘new’ form of popular theatre that promotes “seriousness and irony” in a “stylized” manner
(1972, vol. 1, p. 12 and vol. 8, p. 663). As Horváth writes, the accents of Naturalism and Realism in interpretation should be avoided because they can “kill” his plays 203
(1972, vol. 8, p. 663). They should be replaced by a “stylized” manner of interpretation that, according to Horváth, would enhance the reception of his Volksstücke.
Accordingly, the silent moments resulting from the observance of the indications “Stille” (the disjunctive silences) should not stage non-verbal answers or imply actions. They can function as units of rhythm with a dynamic expression based on the temporal extension they receive on stage and on their syntactic relation to other theatrical signs. More than in the case of the “Stille”, the interpretation of the conjunctive silence (“Schweigen”, “Pause”) is left open to the creators of an actual production of the play. They can also decide to what extent it is doubled by stillness, in accordance with the overall plan of the staged play.
The staging implications of Horváth’s indications of silence cannot be determined solely by the analysis of the dramatic text. Because their precise meaning and effects emerge only in the performance, the last chapter of my thesis proposes a discussion of Christoph Marthaler’s productions based on Horváth’s Volksstücke. The examination of Marthaler’s staging also provides examples of the way in which
Horváth’s silences are staged and become effective in a contemporary performance.
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CHAPTER SEVEN:
Sounds and silences in Christoph Marthaler’s productions of
Ödön von Horváth’s Volksstücke
This chapter investigates the ways in which the non-verbal features of Horváth’s texts become active in Christoph Marthaler’s stagings of Horváth’s Volksstücke.
The first section of this chapter takes a look at tendencies in contemporary theatrical practices in which sounds and silence have received special attention. It draws on the theories of ‘postdramatic theatre’ and ‘theatre’s musicalization’ in relation to the theatre work of Christoph Marthaler, a representative director of the new theatrical trends.
The second section discusses typical features of Marthaler’s unique approach to directing by briefly referring to some of his major projects dating from before and after the staging of Kasimir und Karoline, his first Horváth production. This discussion sets the stage for the performance analysis that is carried out in the last two sections of this chapter that deal with Marthaler’s stagings of Horváth’s Volksstücke.
The aural space of Marthaler’s Kasimir und Karoline is examined first. Then the chapter moves on to analyse auditory aspects of Marthaler’s staging of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald.
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7.1. New directions in theatre practice
In his study on recent forms of theatre (Postdramatic Theatre, 2006), Hans-Thies
Lehmann noted that contemporary theatre performances are no longer centred on a narrative thread. They rather rely on non-hierarchic structures that situate the text at the same level as other elements that constitute the theatrical production. Drama, music, dance and the visual aspects are treated as independent from each other and they do not merge but rather act simultaneously during the performance. This leads to a great variety of contemporary theatre work that Lehmann refers to as “postdramatic” and which includes a wide range: from a theatre of images to a theatre of voices, from monological to choral performances. Lehmann does not identify the postdramatic theatre as an opposite to the dramatic form but as a form of theatre that relies on different sensory modalities for challenging the established modes of the audience’s perception. Postdramatic theatre represents a space of collaboration that invites both artists and spectators to co-produce its meanings. It favours highly fragmented, heterogeneous, associative, and intertextual texts, as well as performances that put the emphasis on experience instead of critical interpretation.
In the context of postdramatic theatre, Lehmann discusses the emergence of a scenic language that is both linguistic and non-linguistic. Postdramatic theatre promotes the musicality and materiality of language and is preoccupied with the aspects of timing, sound and polyphony of the theatrical media. Lehmann refers to the intrinsic musicality of the text, which is, he claims, at least as important as its dramatic content. He acknowledges the emergence of an “independent auditory semiotics” that is linked to the idea of theatre’s ‘musicalization’ (Postdramatic Theatre, 2006, p. 91).
Lehmann considers the ‘musicalization’ of theatre as one important trait in “the stylistic
206 palette of postdramatic theatre” (p. 86). It involves the approach of the theatrical staging from a musical standpoint. According to Lehmann, in the contemporary theatrical performance, where the narrative features are not the predominant element, music can provide a basis for the shape of the performance. He identifies musical structures within the theatrical performances staged by directors from Robert Wilson and Arianne Mnouchkine to Christoph Marthaler and René Pollesch. In their stage works, music, sounds and noises act as autonomous elements. Long pauses, repetitions, recurrent themes and motifs, and extreme tempos (retardation and acceleration) are also common. Rhythm comes to the foreground as an organising principle.
Whereas Lehmann concentrates on ‘musicalization’ in a short section of his book, David Roesner (2003) discusses more extensively the idea of theatre as music based on the practice of several contemporary theatre directors: Christoph Marthaler,
Einar Schleef and Robert Wilson. Roesner’s comparison of a theatre piece to music does not simply refer to similarities in structural composition. It rather takes into consideration the immediacy, materiality, and transience of sound. He notices a
‘musical turn’ in the German theatre of the past few decades, a shift in the directorial approach, which pertains to a musical organisation of all theatrical means. Marthaler’s theatre, for example, consists of music and voice recitals, contrasting various languages and modes of articulation, while Schleef stages productions that are based on a physical, spatial and rhythmical concept of the chorus. In the theatre of these directors, music influences not only the aesthetics; the term ‘musicalization’ can be used to approach the “devising or rehearsal process” as an “organisational principle” or can affect the “perception process” of the performance (Roesner, 2008, p. 44).
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In the context of such postdramatic theatre, there are many contemporary directors who have successfully staged Horváth’s Volksstücke. Andreas Kriegenburg, for example, relied on physical language when staging Kasimir und Karoline at
Staatstheater Hannover in 1994, while Stephan Kimmig played with silence and tonalities when staging the same play at Thalia Theater Hamburg in 2008.50 Martin
Kušej, considered one of the directors of the ‘musical turn’ in German theatre (Roesner,
2003, p. 152 and pp. 170-171), is another director who has staged Horváth’s work in a highly individual manner.51 Critics specifically praised the musicality of his production of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Thalia Theater Hamburg, 1998).
A theatre artist and musician whose particularity of theatrical expression has been linked to Pina Bausch and Robert Wilson, Marthaler staged Horváth’s Kasimir und Karoline in 1996 at Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg in a remarkably faithful manner. He changed not a single line of the text, and Horváth’s indications for musical and silent moments were diligently respected. With the help of these silences and musical effects, Marthaler’s strategies of deceleration and repetition aligned his production of Kasimir und Karoline with what Lehmann has dubbed ‘postdramatic theatre’. The performance was a memorable success, and Marthaler was awarded
Theater Heute magazine’s ‘Director of the Year’ title in 1997. After that staging of
Kasimir und Karoline, Marthaler returned to Horváth on three occasions: to stage Zur schönen Aussicht (Salzburger Festspiele, 1998), Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald
(Volksbühne Berlin, 2006) and Glaube Liebe Hoffnung (Volksbühne Berlin/Wiener
50 Kriegenburg directed two other productions based on Horváth’s texts: Don Juan kommt aus dem Krieg (Salzburger Festspiele, 2014) and Glaube Liebe Hoffnung (Schauspiel Frankfurt, 2014). Kimmig also staged Horváth’s Galube Liebe Hoffnung (Münchner Kammerspiele, 2006).
51 Die Unbekannte aus der Seine (Staatstheater Stuttgart, 1995), Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Thalia Theater Hamburg, 1998), Glaube Liebe Hoffnung (Burgtheater Vienna, 2002), Zur schönen Aussicht (Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg, 2006).
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Festwochen, 2012)—all plays whose dialogue intertwines with music and songs, punctuated by silence.
Thus, the stylistic diversity of the theatrical panorama of recent decades has produced various original on-stage interpretations of Horváth’s Volksstücke. From this multitude of Horváth productions I have chosen to discuss Marthaler’s, because, in the context of postdramatic theatre, Marthaler is regarded as the author of a total theatre that engages music, language, vocalisation, silence and physical movement equally in one performative interaction. I am particularly interested in exploring the ways in which Horváth’s texts support postdramatic productions without needing to be significantly altered, and in understanding how Marthaler reinforces the theatricality of
Horváth’s texts in order to produce individual performative events.
Moreover, Marthaler’s stagings of Horváth’s plays instigated discussion of the contemporary resonances of their subject matter and compositional structure. In direct response to Marthaler’s productions based on Horváth’s texts, Lehmann wrote an article in which he calls Horváth a “precursor” and an “inspiration source” of the contemporary theatre (“Der vielschichtige Ödön von Horváth ist Inspirator, Ahnherr,
Dialogpartner des heutigen, auch postdramatischen Theaters” [Anmerkungen zur
Aktualität von Ödön von Horváths Theater, 2006, p. 20]). He draws particular attention to the “poetics of the stereotype” (“Poetik des Stereotyps”) that dominate
Horváth’s drama (p. 11). As in many of the examples provided by today’s theatre, writes Lehmann, the lack of individuality exhibited by Horváth’s characters is reflected in their artificial use of language. The absence of a clear narrative and the fragmented structure of Horváth’s plays (for instance, Kasimir und Karoline) are also features that, according to Lehmann, mark the modernity of Horváth’s drama. While Lehmann insists on the importance of these features, he mentions only in passing the presence of 209 music and silence as another potential cause for considering Horváth a “dialogue partner” of the present-day theatre (p. 20).
Lehmann’s article offers a lead to follow, but also provides an opportunity to expand and add nuance to the discussion it presents. I argue that the presence of music and silence in Horváth’s Volksstücke is at the core of their ‘scenic dynamic’, and that this calls for postdramatic stagings of Horváth’s texts. The analyses of Marthaler’s
Kasimir und Karoline and Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, provided in this final chapter of my thesis, serve to spell out the crucial role that Horváth’s indications of music and silence have played in the polyphonic aural spaces of Marthaler’s productions. Analysis of these performances shows that Marthaler—one of the most prominent theatre creators of the late-20th century and early-21st century—finds in
Horváth a dialogue partner: not only with respect to his use of language and its inherent social criticism, as Lehmann has emphasised, but also with regards to Horváth’s use of the non-verbal features of the theatre.
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7.2. Key features of Christoph Marthaler’s approach
to theatre directing
Since his Basel performances in the late 1980s, the Swiss musician and theatre creator
Christoph Marthaler has attracted the attention of both critics and theatregoers with the distinctive format of his productions. In 1992, Theater heute magazine called
Marthaler a “crossover artist” for his tendency to incorporate extensive musical interludes and song recitals into his theatrical “evenings” (Richard, 1992, p. 8).
However, Murx den Europäer!52, Marthaler’s first major success, presented its director as not only a “crossover artist” but also the inventor of a theatrical genre that enables the exploration of complex aspects of contemporary history and identity “in a way that neither spoken theatre nor conventional opera are able” to accomplish (Till, 2005, p.
233).
Without an explicit narrative nor clearly defined characters, Murx consists of impressive moments of music-making mixed with fragments of text and at times grotesque, at times violent, repetitive actions. The characters are trapped in a space designed as a waiting room by Anna Viebrock, Marthaler’s long-term collaborator.
People, who seem to have fallen out of time, sit isolated at tables without developing relationships, instead spending time in silence or repeating inane jokes and phrases.
They expose a fragile sense of solidarity only when they join in communal renditions of German Volkslieder and hymns. Ironically subtitled “a patriotic evening”, Murx incorporates a repertory of songs that refer to different moments of idealism and disillusionment in German history. The songs include Flamme empor, from the
52 The complete title is Murx den Europäer! Murx ihn! Murx ihn! Murx ihn! Murx ihn ab! that can be translated as Screw the European! Screw him! Screw him! Screw him! Go screw him!
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German resistance to Napoleon, and the Nazi Horst Wessel song or the theme from
Haydn’s Emperor quartet, which served as West Germany’s anthem and is the anthem of today’s unified Germany. As Marthaler argues, “incredible things” can be represented through music due to its strong impact at the level of emotional consciousness (1994, p. 16). In Murx, many years of history are recapitulated through music, and the memories of the past are brought into the routines of the present. At the same time, in conjunction with silent, motionless scenes along with repetitive jokes (the phrase: “this week fucking without women” is recurrently heard as a sardonic comment on the ‘economy of scarcity’ characteristic of the German Democratic Republic) and actions (the characters repeatedly queue to wash their hands and respond to a buzzer that announces their mealtimes), music helps bring to the surface problems in
Germany’s memory and history after the reunification and calls for a meditation on the idea of national identity.53
After playing for more than a decade, Murx became the hallmark of Marthaler’s staging style. As in Murx, people lost in Zwischenzeit (“between time”, according to
Carp, In der Waagerechten auf die Fresse fallen, 2000, p.109)—trapped between the time of their presence and the temporal space of their affective memories, having disjointed collectives, and being united in songs but without a clear group identity— populate the stage of Marthaler’s following performances, such as Die Spezialisten
(The Specialists, 1999), Groundings (2003), and Riesenbutzbach. Eine Dauerkolonie
(Riesenbutzbach. A Permanent Colony, 2009). The present and past mingle in
Marthaler’s stage world; memory is always haunting, and history is never completely elapsed. The figures are “locked” in vast, mostly empty and closed-off spaces that act as “monumental coffins”, as critic Benjamin Henrichs describes them (1995, p. 3).
53 Murx was commissioned as such by Frank Castorf, the director of the Berlin Volksbühne (Carlson, 2009, p. 119). 212
Dramaturg Stefanie Carp, another member of Marthaler’s team, underlines the fact that these spaces respond to the problematic temporality in Marthaler’s performances: they
“show the present as something that has just passed”, and they “bear the traces of yesterday” and are always “shifted into yesterday” (Carp, Geträumte Realräume, 2000, p. 42). Viebrock also refers to her designs as being neither historical nor modern but rather suitable for reflecting the spirit of an entire century (Marthaler, 1996, p. 14).
The stretching of time and emptiness of space thus constitute characteristics of
Marthaler’s theatre. Together with the presence of silences, another constant feature of
Marthaler’s productions, they contribute to a deepened sense of void. The lethargic behaviour of his characters perfectly fit into this stage environment. They sit, stand motionless, or lie down and doze. The tempo of their speaking is slower than normal, and their perception and ability to take decisions are altered. They just wait in the passageway of their lives for something that will never come because, in the lapsed time they live, their dreams are already memory and their actions have long faded into routine. In the absence of a clear narrative and a coherent plot, the characterisation of the slow and isolated figures that Marthaler brings on stage plays an important role in both generating and reinforcing the atmosphere of his works.
Aside from atmosphere, another characteristic element of Marthaler’s theatre is tonality. Whether based on original material or on scripts adapted from the classics
(e.g., Goethe’s Faust, Shakespeare’s Tempest and Twelfth Night, or Chekov’s Three
Sisters),54 all of Marthaler’s performances feature aural spaces that are not limited to spoken language. In addition to speaking, a wide range of sounds is produced on stage: music, singing, sobbing, choking, and other voices of human manifestation as well as
54 Goethes Faust √1 + 2 (Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg, 1993), Sturm von Shakespeare–le petit rien (Volksbühne Berlin, 1994), Was ihr wollt (Schauspielhaus Zürich, 2001), Drei Schwestern (Volksbühne Berlin, 1997). 213 animal sounds and machine noises. Marthaler carefully orchestrates them using music as a structuring principle. His productions promote the idea of theatre as music, which presumes the approach of the theatrical staging from a musical perspective, as discussed by Lehmann (Postdramatic Theatre, 2006) or Roesner (2003). They also bring forth the close relationships between contemporary theatre and opera as well as the correspondences between speaking and singing performances.
Central to Marthaler’s preoccupations is the materiality and transience of sound that theatre shares with music. Stunde Null (Zero Hour, Deutsches Schauspielhaus
Hamburg, 1995) is emblematic in this sense. A group of politicians of the former GDR participate in a training course meant to sharpen their ability to deliver public presentations. As in Murx, the utterance of political slogans and clichés is mixed with patriotic singing but with more satirical accents. Actors’ speeches expose the effort of imitating the voices of famous German politicians, from Ulbricht and Honecker to
Brandt and Kohl. However, the vocal exercise culminates in an extensive babble of meaningless political speak. The aural aspects of the text are used as sound and music instead of solely for discourse. The emphasis on the physicality of enunciation becomes more apparent in the foreigner’s monologue, which consists of public decrees made in post-war Berlin and delivered on stage in four different languages: French,
English, Russian, and German. The presence of foreign languages reduces the semantic meaning and heightens the aural qualities of the spoken word. The interference of choking and coughing sounds and other noises within the multilingual speech increases this effect.
This approach to verbal language is characteristic of Marthaler’s theatre as a whole. The text is treated as material and constructed under musical constraints, while the voices of Marthaler’s actors–orators–singers act as instruments in a musical 214 ensemble. At the same time, the way in which the verbal message is delivered, mostly in a slow tempo and with blank expressions, calls much of what is said on stage into question. The disjointed use of sound, voice, and physical acts that accompanies them is also noteworthy. The semantic content of the songs is often diminished too; they are not intended to provide a verbal or visual image but rather to stress the polyphony of the entire orchestration. Not only the sound but also its collapse into silence represents one of Marthaler’s major concerns. The mute scenes in Stunde Null are illustrative in this regard. The speeches or singing moments frequently end up in sounds of suffocation or in silence, with characters walking with their mouths wide open but incapable of any audible articulations.
Another significant element in Marthaler’s theatre is rhythm. “Before going into rehearsal”, he affirms in an interview to Theater heute, “I analyse the material I am staging in almost musical terms, as if carving it out, in order to establish the rhythm”
(“Vor den Endproben, analysiere ich das inszenierte Material beinahe musikalisch, wie eine Arbeit am Schneidetisch, um den Rhythmus herzustellen” [Marthaler, 1992, p.
12]). The musicality of his productions does not consist of actors’ songs but rather the rhythm of the evening that, as Marthaler has emphasised, has not so much to do with the songs (1994, p. 14). The rhythm sets all the elements of the performance in a clear relationship with one another and controls the interplay among corporeality, spatiality, and tonality through the organising of the principles of variation and repetition. In
Marthaler’s performances, a theatrical gesture rarely appears only once, although it might not occur in the exact same form. Stunde Null, Die Spezialisten, and Die schöne
Müllerin (The Fair Maid of the Mill, 2002) consist almost entirely of varied repetitions.
Most spoken lines echo previous ones. “Das ist gut so!” (“That’s all right!”) is a phrase repeatedly heard in Stunde Null, while, as mentioned above, “This week baking without
215 flour” with its modified version “This week fucking without women” is common in
Murx. The songs, which the characters repeatedly start singing without any apparent rational motivation, might also differ from one another. The musical motifs and themes can be altered, shortened, or reassembled. The tonalities of singing the same tune or pronouncing the same phrase could change too, most frequently involving higher notes.
However, the recurrence of musical interventions establishes a rhythmic pattern.
Furthermore, sequences of music, spoken words, and silences that form rhythmic structures and are repetitively used in the course of the performance can be identified.
The pauses are another factor that influences the rhythm of Marthaler’s productions. In his theatrical constructions, “a pause is followed by a song, then comes again a pause and so on” (Marthaler, 1994, p. 15). Consequently, critics refer to Marthaler’s theatre as one not only of repetition (Wiederholung) but also of slowness (Langsamkeit).55
Therefore, Marthaler’s theatre, which includes among other features grey backgrounds, locked rooms, slow movements, and pantomimic interludes, works not with narrative but rather with musical structures. The songs, sounds, tones, and noises become autonomous elements. The language is musicalized as a result of the alteration of its normal utterance. Rhythm acts as the main organising principle through the use of long pauses, repetition, and the variation of motifs. By applying a compositional method to his performances, Marthaler succeeds in ensuring a harmonious and idiosyncratic character to his scenic arrangements.
This overview has emphasised features of Marthaler’s work that resonate with
Horváth’s concerns as manifested in the Volksstücke cycle. Both Horváth and
Marthaler tell stories of people who keep living in the deceptive world of their imagination. Both their notions of theatre show a great preoccupation with sound and
55 See, for instance, David Roesner (2003). 216 musical features of speech, including the act of falling silent. Both, Horváth and
Marthaler introduce elements of repetition, tempo and rhythm into their works for devising a theatre of boredom, of exhaustion, of standstill.
7.3. Christoph Marthaler’s staging of Kasimir und Karoline
Critics praised Marthaler’s production of Kasimir und Karoline especially for the exemplary way in which it translated on stage the universe of Horváth’s play. It was considered to be particularly successful in emphasising the tragedy underlying
Horváth’s comedy and thus to clearly illustrate Horváth’s words: “All my comedies are tragedies–they are only comic because they are sinister, and they must be sinister”
(“Alle meine Stücke sind Tragödien–sie werden nur komisch, weil sie unheimlich sind.
Das Unheimliche muß da sein” [1972, vol. 8, p. 664]). The emphasis fell on the involvement of silences in the production of Horváth’s play. For example, critic
Michael Merschmeier observed that in Kasimir und Karoline, “Marthaler looks deep into the soul, as he always has, but this time more than ever, since his silence is also
Horváth’s silence. … And the silence is alive” (“Marthaler ist ein Tiefseelenforscher.
Seit je. Und diesmal mehr denn je. Dennn seine Stille ist auch Horváths Stille. ... Und die Stille lebt” [1997, p. 8]). Horváth’s dramaturgy of silence supports Marthaler’s theatre of suffocation, of standstill. However, there are additional aspects of the production’s aural space that require special attention, such as music and voices, tonality and rhythm.
Since Murx den Europäer! (1993) and Die Stunde Null (1995), Marthaler’s unique style has become easily recognisable, whether he worked with his dramatic
217 material or with pre-existing texts adapted to fit his own style.56 However, Kasimir und
Karoline (1996) is Marthaler’s first text-based production that remains faithful to the original text. Marthaler identifies musical structures within the language of the play, in the arrangement of the scenes, and in the organisation of all of the dramatic material.
He does not change a single line of dialogue since, as he argues, Horváth’s language is already reduced to the essence. According to Marthaler, Horváth’s phrases resemble musical elements; simple and concise, they are efficient in building complex structures
(1996, p. 14). He uses the same attributes when describing the scenes of the play.
Short and condensed, like the language contained in them, they leave significant space around them for the creative intervention of extralinguistic features of performance, such as music and silence. Therefore, Horváth’s play presents itself to Marthaler as a well-structured musical composition and, as Marthaler has declared, the impulse to stage it stemmed from the desire to eventually see and hear Kasimir und Karoline as he had always imagined it (1996, p. 14).
Together with set designer Anna Viebrock, Marthaler imagines the universe of
Horváth’s play as a claustrophobic space, a closed-off room built on stage out of wooden panelled walls. The two ostensible exits lead to ladies’ and men’s toilets and consequently do not provide ways out. In the centre of the stage is a replica of a
Kaiser-Panorama, with numbered viewing stations and peepholes.57 There is no
Oktoberfest meadow, no other amusement places, and no sky for the Zeppelin to fly in.
The austere set design serves as a complex metaphor that features the major paradigms
56 See, for example, Marthaler’s productions of Goethe’s Faust and Shakespeare’s Tempest staged at Deutsches Schauspielhaus Hamburg and Volksbühne Berlin in 1993 and 1994, respectively. 57 Also known as Welt Panorama, the Kaiser-Panorama was an attraction opened in the centre of Berlin in 1838 that functioned until 1939. It consisted of a huge wooden cylinder, with viewing stations displayed around it. Through the peepholes, the viewers could see stereoscopic images of all continents and exotic places, which were part of August Fuhrmann’s collection (1844–1925). See Comment, 1999, p. 70. 218 of the performance. The dominant presence of the Kaiser-Panorama figuratively translates into visual terms the lack of a life perspective among the people on stage.
The narrow peepholes represent their only connection with the ‘outer’ world. They are forced to peer through them in order to engage with the Oktoberfest atmosphere, to participate in the attractions, and to see the Zeppelin. This idea becomes explicit from the opening scene showing the performers standing still and looking inside the panorama for more than five minutes while festive music and then the noise of an aircraft’s engines are heard. The entire world seems trapped inside, yet the protagonists of Marthaler’s performance do not have direct or full access to it. They can experience reality only through the deformed lenses or restricted prospects of their viewpoints.
Like Horváth’s characters, they live confined by a distorted perception of reality.
On the other hand, by allowing them to look through the peepholes, Marthaler emphasises their predisposition to illusion and their need for illusory dreams. The
Kaiser-Panorama’s system relies on the reality effect that brings far off and exotic images closer and creates the impression that they might actually become tangible.
Through the panorama’s lenses, distant places become more exciting too. The
Oktoberfest meadow, with all its attractions, such as the ice cream man with balloons and candies, the roller coaster, and the Zeppelin appear as a source of excitement and freedom. At the end of the performance’s first part, the wooden construction opens its doors and lets the encapsulated magical world of the Oktoberfest break free. Yet only some freaks step out. Among them, Juanita the Gorilla Girl, Johann the Man with the
Bulldog Head, and the Midget mingle with ‘normal’ characters for the short time of their show. They are forced to retreat into their ‘cage’ before seeing the Zeppelin.
Marthaler reinforces the sense of similarity that Horváth sets between the two groups of characters. Whether inside or outside the panorama’s walls, the freaks and 219
‘normal’ people are all imprisoned by illusions, misconceptions, and fears; consequently, none of them can see the Zeppelin. Acoustically signalled by the noise of an aircraft flying at low-level, the Zeppelin acts in Marthaler’s production not only as a symbol of freedom and progress but also as a metaphorical representation of an inauspicious future, haunted by the sorrowful memories of the past.
Like Horváth’s, Marthaler’s characters live in uncertainty, suspended between times. They are part of a disoriented generation “which bears the scars of the past, which was born in war times, thus in deprivation … and heads towards new miseries”
(“Es handelt von einer Jugend … die schon einen alten Schaden hat aus seiner vorigen
Zeit, die offensichtlich in einem Krieg, zumindest in einem Elend geboren wurde … und sie geht in ein neues Elend hinein” [Marthaler, 1996, p. 15]). However,
Marthaler’s production avoids historical contextualisation. Among the visual elements of the performance, only the Kaiser-Panorama points to the past (Kaiser-Panorama fell into disuse after the Second World War). The costumes could well describe people of our times, although in an outdated manner. Neither historicity nor contemporaneity are
Marthaler’s artistic goal. In Marthaler’s stage reading, Kasimir und Karoline is a play about neither the interwar era nor the contemporary age; it does not focus on a specific time of economic and social crisis. It encompasses fundamental problems that marked both the pre- and post-war periods of the last century (Marthaler, 1996, p. 15). It presents stories of people who are merely dreaming instead of acting and who subsequently fail in fulfilling their aspirations; these people have become isolated and tend to develop a sense of cultural pessimism. From this perspective, Kasimir and
Karoline are presented as the most dreamful characters of the play. They fall victim to and make room for individuals who orient themselves toward survival in the short term.
Schürzinger, the central character of Marthaler’s production, is, according to Marthaler,
220 typical for the contemporary setting of Horváth’s play. “Our time is full of
Schürzingers,” affirms Marthaler, “these trivial opportunists, who are in power and who are going to restructure our culture” (“Unsere Zeit ist voll mit Schürzingern; diese vielen kleinen Opportunisten die an der Macht sind, und die dabei sind unsere Kultur umzustrukturieren” [1996, p. 15]).
In the performance’s first part, the use of the Kaiser-Panorama also contributes to a sense of analogy between the people on stage and the ones in the performance hall.
Its round shape encourages the visualisation of imaginary concentric circles built around it, describing analogue worlds. The spectators in the theatre stalls look at the stage, as the performance’s protagonists inside the panorama, and see a strange, sometimes frightening, yet familiar world as illusion. After the freak show, the curtain falls and, as also indicated in Horváth’s text, both the spectators in the play and those in the performance hall are invited to intermission. The sense of similarity between them is therefore explicitly asserted in Marthaler’s performance too.
The change in décor influences the entire dynamics of the performance’s second part. The Kaiser-Panorama is removed, but a multifunctional circular frame still dominates the stage. It prescribes the constant circular movements of the performers, attracts them inside, and hosts their acts. There are also tables and chairs, where they sit, drink, sing, and—as always in Marthaler’s theatre—they wait in silence. Again there is no perspective, no Oktoberfest meadow, and no Zeppelin. However, “Here it’s right!” (“Hier ist’s richtig!”) written on a placard suspended above the stage and now clearly visible is reminiscent of slogans placed at the entrance of Nazi concentration camps, such as “Arbeit macht frei” (“Work makes (you) free”) and “Jedem das seine”
(“To each what he deserves”). The ‘dream machine’ is missing in the second part of the performance; the illusion is subsequently disturbed, the masks are stripped, and 221 characters are revealed in their desolate appearance—namely, vulnerable and disoriented individuals, idealists without a cause, exploited girls, mischievous capitalists, and wicked opportunists.
Focusing on the main components of the set-design, this discussion has emphasised the way in which Marthaler visually imagines the universe of Horváth’s play and has also allowed the introduction of the major paradigms of the performance.
Marthaler’s staging presents Kasimir und Karoline as an existential metaphor. In the director’s interpretation, the play speaks about inner worlds that are very familiar to contemporary audiences too: about waiting and ineffective longings, about desolation and loneliness. The scenic arrangement supports the exposure of these worlds.
Horváth’s/Marthaler’s people are trapped in a closed-off room, where although together they are alone, where they fancy dreams of salvation (they rush to the peepholes to see the Zeppelin), and where they live their lives of desolation and hopelessness (the
Zeppelin can never be seen, just heard flying somewhere over the Oktoberfest meadow). In the spotlight the feeling of exclusion that these people experience remains. Their existence unfolds disconnected from reality—living in a confining space and outside the panorama’s walls, they are prevented from a comprehensive perspective of the ‘outer’ world.
Building on Marthaler’s programmatic assumptions as they become manifest in the spatial arrangements of the production, the discussion that follows focuses on the way in which Marthaler ‘hears’ Horváth’s play in the aural space of the performance.
A special emphasis is placed on music and voices, next to silences and rhythm. As has been emphasised already, tonality is considered the most significant feature of
Marthaler’s production.
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In Kasimir und Karoline, Marthaler complies with all of Horváth’s stage directions in terms of music. Marthaler respects all of the author’s instructions regarding the onstage interpretation of specific musical pieces. During the performance, a live brass band plays Oktoberfest melodies (such as Trink, trink,
Brüderlein trink and Ein Prosit, ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!), famous folksongs
(Solang der alte Peter, Die letzte Rose, Mailüfterl, and Jägers Liebeslied), operetta extracts (“Glühwürmchen-Suite” from Lincke’s Lysistrata and “Bist du lachendes
Glück?” from Lehar’s Der Graf von Luxemburg), and marches (Strauss’s Radetzky
Marsch, Scherzer’s Bayerischer Defiliermarsch, Schubert’s Militärmarsch 1822,
Jessel’s Parade der Zinnsoldaten, and Eilenberg’s Petersburger Schlittenfahrt). These musical pieces were very popular in the 1930s, having a certain resonance within the collective consciousness of Horváth’s contemporaries. However, in Marthaler’s
Kasimir und Karoline, music, as prescribed by Horváth, does not primarily serve the recollection of a specific socio-historical context. “I do not know in what decade the story takes place,” says Marthaler, “I only know that I want to use music as it appears in the play” (“In welchem Jahrzent die Geschichte bei uns spielen wird, das weiß ich nicht. Ich weiß nur, daß ich die Musik so verwenden möchte, wie sie im Stück steht”
[1996, p. 15]). He does not consider the temporal logic of the story to be fixed and does not link the use of music to it. Music, as a theatrical sign, does not support a certain time frame in this production and does not evoke a particular historical context or location for the represented events. Popular melodies of the era before the Second
World War and Oktoberfest songs are used for their capability to reflect moods and to stir emotions. Marthaler invests music with a dramaturgical function that aims above all at exposing the audience members to various sets of emotions. He is interested in the musicality of the orchestral pieces, in the harmonious character of their
223 interpretation, and in the vibrations produced by the specific sound of brass instruments. While music is played, a nostalgic atmosphere (e.g., Die letzte Rose), a celebratory (e.g., Ein Prosit, ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!), or a patriotic one (e.g.,
Bayerischer Defiliermarsch) are created. The atmosphere imposed by musical means most often does not reflect but challenges the stage events. For example, Marthaler allows Jägers Liebeslied (Hunter’s Love Song), which speaks about love’s power to subdue even the most hard-hearted men, to ironically accompany the argument between
Kasimir and Schürzinger that quickly degenerates into a general fight scene.
Schubert’s music (Militärmarsch 1822) complements the characters’ slapstick comedy type of movements, while they fight to defend Karoline’s ‘honour’.
Marthaler also faithfully considers Horváth’s indications with regard to the orchestral pieces played within the dramatic narrative. They complete the play, affirms
Marthaler; thus, following them is the only right thing to do (1996, p. 15). Following
Horváth, Marthaler organises the interventions of the brass orchestra in interludes that structure the dramatic material. They split the temporal space of performance into units of action. However, Marthaler’s production does not so clearly demarcate the interludes from the stage events. Contrary to Horváth’s suggestions, during the interludes, the stage remains illuminated, and the actors continue to perform their roles without verbal interactions. Therefore, the time of the stage events is not interrupted but rather “put into brackets”, as Fischer-Lichte describes this type of effect in theatre
(2008, p. 134). While the interludes are played, the audience’s attention is challenged by the emergence of an elevated orchestra pit, which fills what Fischer-Lichte calls the
“time pocket” with another action: musicians are seen playing their instruments (2008, p. 132). Once the interlude ends, the orchestra is lowered again, and the musicians move beyond the spectators’ perception. During the interludes, an interplay between
224 different layers of theatrical convention is staged. The spectators are able to direct their attention to an action of their choice, either to the orchestra playing catchy melodies or to the performers on stage, until suddenly emerging sounds or movements might pull them towards another. Marthaler introduces a raisonneur among the performers, a character whose role is to make this interplay obvious. He is a silent figure who is almost always present on stage. He mingles with the Oktoberfest visitors while carrying an accordion with which he occasionally accompanies the protagonists’ conversation or the mute scenes. His playing echoes the musical leitmotifs of the interludes, such as the folksongs, which he repeatedly interprets during the play.
Moreover, he abandons his accordion to join the musicians in the orchestra pit and to provide piano accompaniment during the freak show. Together with the Midget, the accordionist also bows in front of a pulled curtain, inviting all spectators to the intermission.
Although the parallel scenes occasioned by the interludes relate to each other, they have their own status and temporality. Their juxtaposition encourages the continuous contact between actors and spectators but also creates a sense of discontinuity and fragmentation that impregnates the performance. Marthaler’s postdramatic tendencies in directing become evident here in his refusal to bring on stage a fictional world that aligns all dramaturgical elements into a synthetic whole.
Time does not progress steadily as in the naturalistic productions either, each “time pocket” following its own rhythm, tempo, and intensity. However, the performance’s second part integrates the orchestra into the stage events. It performs the role of the
Wagnerbräu band and can be seen and heard playing from a niche in the stage background. The two worlds are assimilated, the illusion is broken, and the characters are unmasked. The music reflects these changes too. The orchestra interprets more
225 marches and other musical pieces characterised by a faster tempo. The accordion sounds dissonant now when accompanying aggressive physical and verbal interactions.
Vocal expression represents another significant element of the aural space in
Marthaler’s performance. It encompasses both speaking and singing voices. Marthaler has openly declared his great appreciation of Horváth’s use of language. As already mentioned, he declares that not a single superfluous sentence occurs in Kasimir und
Karoline and the entire linguistic construction is musically structured (1997, p. 18).
According to Marthaler, the “artificial speech” of Horváth’s characters brings forth the dialect as an art form (“Er [Horváth] hat eine Kunstsprache gefunden–die vielleicht einzig gelungene Kunstform eines Dialektes” [1996, p. 14]). The Bildungsjargon does not fulfil a communicative function; it rather illustrates the characters’ need to hear themselves talking to convince themselves that they sound sophisticated and cultured.
They force themselves in the utterance of this language, and Marthaler makes this effort audible on stage. The vocalization of Horváth’s text takes on a particular tonality in Marthaler’s production. The language sounds learnt, and the actors present it as if it was imposed upon them. With a blank timbre and slow-tempo intonation, their voices seldom correspond to the spoken words in either emphasis or volume. The tone and message of the characters’ verbal expression open up comic discrepancies. The physicality of enunciation further emphasises this effect. When talking, the characters avoid looking at each other and display a general attitude of discomfort, as if they were trapped in their own skin and unable to move or speak freely. Thus, in Marthaler’s production, the nexus created between language, voice, and body exposes the artificiality of speech and the impossibility of communication. In this context, the sound of the actors’ voices not only helps deliver the language but most importantly comments on it.
226
As in Horváth’s play, the characters in Marthaler’s production also sing. In the
Wagnerbräu scenes, they join in a group rendition of the performance’s signature melodies: Solang der alte Peter, Mailüfterl, Jägers Liebslied, and Trink, trink,
Brüderlein trink. However, the content of the songs is less significant; priority is given to the singing voice. The intrinsic message of the songs relies neither on the associations of the linguistic material nor on the socio-historical contexts that they might evoke. What they sing does not seem particularly important (e.g., Solang der alte Peter) nor about what they sing (Munich and Munich-ness). What is important is how they sing. The message of the songs is linked to the particular resonance of the vocal expression that they occasion on stage. The actors’ voices sound beautifully, perfectly harmonised and convey what Fischer-Lichte’s semiotic theory calls
“presence” (2008, p. 127). According to Fischer-Lichte’s semiology, this “presence” represents “the tremendous energy” which the singing voice “spreads through the space and that physically takes hold of the listeners” (Fischer-Lichte, 2008, p. 127). It allows the “emotional experience of one’s own corporeality at its most sensual and simultaneously its most transfigured” (Fischer-Lichte, 2008, p. 127). In Marthaler’s performance, the voices united in moments of group singing enable therefore the onstage perception of a collective corporeality. They facilitate the spectator’s emotional experience of a choral “presence” out of people/characters who are seen behaving and treating each other wrongly while communicating defectively over the course of the action. Then there is a clear sense of contradiction between the atmosphere of accord and solidarity established by the choral singing of folk songs and the general atmosphere of disaccord that dominates all the interpersonal relationships in the play. Marthaler forces this dissociation in order to show that the life of people on stage could be different if they “would just listen to each other as they must do when
227 they sing together” (“Wenn Leute so genau aufeinander hören würden, wie sie es tun müssen, wenn sie miteinander singen, dann wären sie ja im Leben auch anders”
[Marthaler, 1996, p. 15]). Yet the atmosphere of accord and solidarity established by the choral singing of songs is deceptive. Marthaler emphasises this impression by setting the singing voices in an incongruous relationship with the performance’s other signs, such as the physical appearance of the actors. While they sing, they sit motionless at the tables, without relating and with fixed expressions on their faces. The group of characters provides a desolate and static image that does not match the synchronised and energetic interpretation of the songs. In the absence of a clear connection between sound and sight, Marthaler’s intention to stress the illusion of characters’ togetherness and their unfulfilled longing for harmony becomes obvious.
Silence plays a significant part in Marthaler’s staging. The absence (of words and sounds), which Horváth treats as a presence and as a meaning carrier, is not merely a dramaturgical effect. It also resonates in the performance. Marthaler treats Horváth’s indications of silence as authorial voluntary pauses, endowed by the author with specific values and with a certain role within the communicational structure of the play.
In Marthaler’s production, Horváth’s conjunctive silences operate at the internal level of dramatic communication, influencing the rhythm and perception of the dialogue, while the disjunctive silences are active at the external level affecting the dynamic of the entire performance. The conjunctive silences indicate the absence of talk, while the disjunctive silences describe the absence of any speech or sound and emptiness in the atmosphere and in human existence at large. Despite all the noise, silence is always present in the background, from the beginning to the end of the performance, and erupts suddenly, being destructive and threatening. On many occasions, the
228 harmonious sound of music ends abruptly and is replaced by silence. During these sudden moments, the atmosphere of desolation hits the spectators anew.
When reading and analysing a Horváth text, the differentiation among various types of silence and their function is supported by distinct indications of silence and their place within the dialogical structure. I agree with speech communication scholar
Nathan Stucky that variations of the stage directions of silence in a dramatic text, such as ‘pause’ and ‘short pause’, “operate by some measure other than clock time” (1994, p. 181). They should be read differently in terms of their meaningful content instead of their duration. It is not necessarily implied that a ‘pause’ is more important than a
‘short’ one; the dramatist notes them distinctively to stress and to draw attention to their particular contextual effect. Thus, the qualitative criterion differentiates silences in accordance with their emphasis on the particular verbal sequence which they interrupt or precede. However, in a performance, the variation in the meaning of silences is emphasised through the variation in their temporal extension. In Marthaler’s staging of Kasimir und Karoline, conjunctive silences are represented by short conversational pauses. They are correlated with moments of silence that can last for more than one minute (disjunctive silences) and act as a sign of caesura. Contrary to the authorial instructions of the Gebrauchsanweisung, the long disjunctive pauses are not necessarily linked to stillness in Marthaler’s Kasimir und Karoline. However, they are accompanied by slow or repetitive movements of the actors on stage. The variation in the temporal dimension of silences helps establish the form and rhythm of the production, characterised as in Marthaler’s other works for theatre by slowness
(Langsamkeit). I will return to this topic in the discussion on rhythm below.
In Marthaler’s staging of Kasimir und Karoline, conjunctive and disjunctive silence create ‘gaps’ and vacancies between different levels of communication. These 229
‘gaps’ are similar to the ones considered by literary scholar Wolfgang Iser (1976) when describing the mental work a reader must perform when interpreting a text in which certain textual relations are clear, while others are open. In silence, the readers or spectators are called upon to take part in uncovering what is going on beneath the openly uttered words. The silence functions as an ‘enabling blank’; it engages the aesthetic experience in acts of creation rather than reception.
In Marthaler’s production, silence can also be discussed considering its effects within the complex network of theatrical signs. Silence not only echoes the absence of sound and speech but rather gains its own materiality in relation to the performance’s other signs. The silence can also reinforce the meaning of its correlative signs. For example, in the Wagnerbräu scenes, the pauses between the moments of group singing reinforce the effect of the following songs. After the break, music resounds more powerfully. To increase this effect, Marthaler introduces elements of repetition, tempo, and explicit rhythmicality. Solang der alte Peter is sung three times, and each rendition that follows after a short moment of silence has a stronger impact. The third and the fourth renditions of Trink, trink, Brüderlein trink undergo a gradual acceleration of tempo while the interpretation of Mailüfterl undergoes temporal retardation. The silences also influence the reception of character speech. After the break, the absurdity of their dialogue and the artificiality of their discourse become even more apparent. Marthaler thus uses theatrical artifices in order to maximise the impact of Horváth’s silences.
Silence, speech and music are subordinated to the organising principle of rhythm, and they influence the duration of the events represented. Each of these elements contributes to the overall impression of slowness that characterises
Marthaler’s production and echoes the atmosphere of “standstill” from Horváth’s text. 230
In this regard, the variation in the duration of pauses and their constant interposition with the performance’s acoustic components are influential. Silence suddenly interrupts moments of music and speech, underlining the emptiness of their manifestation. Behind all the cheer of the Oktoberfest, there is only silence. There is also an inner rhythm to the spoken sentences and in the performers’ voices, which imposes itself on their body movements and results in a kind of slow-motion replay on stage. The patterned character of the musical insertions plays a significant role as well.
The most common structuring principle is repetition. Repetitive gestures and words along with silences impregnate a static character to the stage events. During the interludes, the orchestra interprets a musical fragment more than once, and the songs are repeatedly sung by characters in the course of the same scene. For instance, the performance’s second part starts with five renditions of the Munich hymn, Solang der alte Peter. Moreover, the accordionist’s playing constantly reiterates the main musical motifs throughout the performance. The repetition is complemented by variation in order to create rhythm. The repeated musical pieces do not always sound the same.
Sometimes they are played at a faster or slower pace than their previous rendition or on a higher note. Another deviation occurs at the visual level, when the members of the orchestra or the actors change their gestures and facial expressions while performing/singing the same melody. Marthaler also repeats a musical pattern, varying the theme. For example, the performance starts, as Horváth indicates, with the curtain down and the orchestra playing Solang der alte Peter. Marthaler extends this scene by allowing the musical moment to be repeated two more times; however, each time the orchestra interprets a different tune from the musical repertoire of the performance:
Jägers Liebslied and Mailüfterl, respectively. The interpretation of these songs in the opening scene also turns them into musical leitmotifs of the performance. Although
231 not necessarily relevant for placing the fictional events in a specific temporal context, music is inextricably linked to their duration in theatre. It imposes a repetitive pattern that induces a sense of stagnation and contributes, along with silences, to the stretching of the duration of the performance to nearly four hours.
Marthaler applies a musical approach to Horváth’s Kasimir und Karoline. He incorporates all verbal and non-verbal aspects of Horváth’s play in a performance that employs slowness as an aesthetic feature. Although following the narrative, the production emphasises the atmosphere, which evolves from Horváth’s use of the heterogeneous mix of verbal and non-verbal elements. In Marthaler’s theatre,
Horváth’s music is obsessively repeated, his silences are deafening, and people’s voices resound oddly.
7.4. Christoph Marthaler’s staging of Horváth’s
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, staged at Volksbühne Berlin in 2006, was not received with the same enthusiasm as Kasimir und Karoline. Critics considered that
Marthaler was more true to his own intentions than to Horváth’s text. Peter Hans
Göpfert (2006), for example, explicitly states that there is more Marthaler than Horváth in this performance. He refers to the insertion of additional scenes, to the changes operated in the text, and to the general atmosphere that recalls some of Marthaler’s previous theatrical events, such as Murx den Europäer! (Volksbühne Berlin, 1993).
Other critics draw attention to the mix of stage elements and to the overall tone of farce that gave the production a rather confused aspect (e.g., Marvin Carlson, 2009, p. 136).
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However, I argue that Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald occasions a performative event of Marthaler’s ‘musical theatre’ that involves a sense of what theatre theorist
Patrice Pavis calls “unfaithfulness” to the source text in order to assure fidelity to the target idiom (2008, p. 120). In other words, in the process of adaptation of Horváth’s play, Marthaler successfully applies the fidelity to his own form of expression and the deployment of his own language to enable it to effectively communicate the meanings of what he understood as communicatively relevant for the contemporary audience in
Horváth’s text. My analysis of the aural space of Marthaler’s Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald focuses on features that connect both Horváth’s and Marthaler’s theatrical discourse.
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald is the second Horváth Volksstück that
Marthaler has directed. In the process of staging Horváth’s text, Marthaler reconfigures the temporal and spatial dimensions of the play. They represent the main semantic axes of the performance. Although a strict historical contextualisation of the stage events is avoided, Marthaler places Horváth’s story in the contemporary present.
Horváth’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald describes the social reality of the 1920s, but, as the production’s dramaturg Stefanie Carp emphasises, it also offers parallels with the reality of contemporary Germany, particularly with respect to the economic crisis that increased the rate of unemployment and strengthened the extreme right after reunification (2007, p. 4). Marthaler slightly modifies Horváth’s text by inserting references to recent socio-political circumstances. For example, in light of Germany’s reunification, the Captain nostalgically recalls the days of the “old republic” instead of the “old monarchy”, as appears in Horváth’s play (“Rittmeister zu Oskar: Ich bin seinerzeit viel in unserer alten Monarchie herumtransferiert worden, aber ich muß schon sagen: Niveau. Niveau!” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 710]). At her toy shop,
233
Marianne receives orders for “blue beret soldiers” instead of “tin soldiers”
(“Marianne:...Wir haben doch hier das erste und älteste Spezialgeschäft im ganzen
Bezirk–gnädige Frau bekommen die gewünschten Zinnsoldaten, garantiert und pünktlich!” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 711]), an allusion to UN peacekeeping troops.
The reference to the “Jews” is replaced by the one to “foreigners” in Valerie’s line: “Do you think that I like Jews?” (“Valerie: Ja glaubens denn, daß ich die Juden mag?”
[Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 718]), as by 1992, a new wave of xenophobia had surfaced in the former East and lead to violence against Vietnamese and Turkish people in Berlin.58
Moreover, at the intermission, the characters disappear behind two grey factory gates on which is written: “the restaurant is closed from 01.09.05”. As the opening night took place on 30 November 2006, Marthaler’s intention to create a disaccord between the fiction’s and stage’s temporality becomes obvious. On the one hand, this contradiction calls the present of the represented events into question, in the sense that the action might take place any time before September 2005, and, therefore, in the spectators’ although recent still past time. On the other hand, it points to the absurd character of the stage situation. The problematical sense of time is employed in order to suggest that the petty bourgeoisie behind the restaurant’s gates have not yet realized that they do no longer exist, as theatre critic Matthias Heine suggests in a review of the production (2006). The date written by hand and with chalk on the restaurant’s gates plays a similar role to the clock that hangs on the wall in Murx. They both indicate a problematical time in order to suggest that, in Murx as in Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald, the characters keep living in the world of their affective memory, where the past is still present and the present is suspended or questioned.
58 See, for instance, Jerome S. Legge, Jews, Turks, and Other Strangers: Roots of Prejudice in Modern Germany (Chapter 2 and 3, pp. 32-78, 2003). 234
The introductory scene reveals from the outset this dominant metaphor. An old lady is seen entering a cinema hall and taking a seat in front of a small and outdated TV screen placed on the stage floor. Viebrock visually incorporates the world of Horváth’s
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald with Oskar’s, Zauberkönig’s, and Valerie’s shops into a set that resembles a cinema foyer. With walls covered up in floral wallpaper and black and white photos of movie stars of yesterday, Viebrock’s stage arrangement evokes the atmosphere of Bellaria, a cinema in present-day Vienna that shows exclusively German films of the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s. According to the German documentary entitled Bellaria–So lange wir leben! (Bellaria–As long as we live! written and directed by Douglas Wolfsperger, 2001), Bellaria is a place that enables people to relive the morals and taste of olden days.59 It offers to its regulars the opportunity to see the movies of their youth as well as to cherish the illusion that nothing has changed since then. Only after the old lady enters the Bellaria-style cinema, Horváth’s narrative starts developing.
Thus, Marthaler’s production encloses the “tales of Vienna Woods” into a metaphorical frame meant to direct the audience’s perception of the represented events.
Whether these events are part of a film screened in Bellaria or not, they do not belong to the past but rather to the continuous present of memory time. As Bellaria’s visitors, the people on stage are trapped between layers of memory and fictional worlds they treat as forms of parallel reality. In the course of the performance, the characters do not only participate in the action of Horváth’s play but also sit in their cinema seats (e.g.,
Alfred’s mother and grandmother, the respectable lady and Fräulein Emma) watching movies on the TV screen, knitting, and talking about the olden times and their lost values. Either longing after the days of the monarchy as exemplified by Horváth’s text
59 www.german-films.de/filmarchive/browse-archive/view/detail/film/bellaria-as-long-as-we-live/, n.d. 235 or after the days of the “old republic” as in Marthaler’s stage version, the characters are all living dead, stranded in the state of a continuous affective oscillation between the nostalgic recollection of the past and the insubstantial experience of the present.
The action of Horváth’s play is placed in the outskirts of Vienna and its surroundings and thus it was regarded at its premiere as a criticism of the Viennese spirit of Gemütlichkeit, the sense of petit-bourgeois snugness. In a similar manner,
Kasimir und Karoline was considered a criticism of Munich and Oktoberfest.
However, Horváth clearly expressed his intention to unmask neither an individual nor a city in his Volksstücke, rather to portray “the vast masses” (“Will ich das Volk schildern, darf ich natürlich nicht nur die zehn Prozent schildern, sondern als treuer
Chronist meiner Zeit, die große Masse” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 662]). Marthaler’s performance serves Horváth’s intent. The set juxtaposes heterogeneous spaces, which although concrete in detail and autonomous in presence throw open the sense of locality. Viebrock visually proposes a collage of Berlin backyard pub, “At the Happy
Farm”, and the entrance of the old Viennese cinema Bellaria. She designs a multipurpose room, a mixture of cinema foyer, toy store, bar, tobacconist, and pub with wooden benches. While keeping the original setting of the play, Vienna, the creators of the performance also looked into the possibility of transposing the action to Berlin, the place where Marthaler’s production was performed. The stage is split in two, its left side being dominated by the “Austria Tabak” sign, while the right side by a Berlin brewery (Schultheiss) beer commercial. Thus, Viebrock’s set proposes two places
(Vienna and Berlin) and two epochs (Horváth’s time, as it is evoked in the films screened in Bellaria in the present-day Vienna, and contemporary Berlin) as the spatial and temporal backdrop of the represented events.
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Marthaler’s performance brings on stage people found in the state of a permanent conflict with themselves and societal structures, who are guided by self- deception, superficiality, and materialistic interests. Marianne’s question “What is love?” remains suspended on stage being followed, as in Horváth’s text, by a long moment of silence. The discussion about money and human relations based on financial interests are clearly emphasised from the first scene. Cultural references, patriotic slogans, and Latin quotations are misconstrued or pretentiously used. Jiu-
Jitsu, next to Buddhism and Fascism are considered forms of ‘intellectual fashion’.
Marthaler’s production amplifies the grotesque picture of Horváth’s characters by arranging them in couples with genuine ludicrous potential. For instance, Oskar and
Zauberkönig, Marianne’s fiancée and father, both incarnations of foolishness and emptiness, form such a pair. A plump Marianne and a weary Alfred serve as another example. Marthaler also exploits comic resources by representing the characters in laughable situations: such as leaving them naked on stage in the “An der schönen blauen Donau” (“On the shore of the beautiful blue Danube”) scene.
The effect of their funny as well as preposterous appearance is intensified by their slow-motion gestures and slow-tempo speaking. Marthaler emphasises rather the slapstick side of these people who wrap themselves up in self-deception and selfishness. The opportunists in Kasimir und Karoline are replaced by the egoists in
Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald. Self-oriented figures, they exhibit forms of autistic behaviour. Their broken communication and incapacity of establishing honest relationships is reflected by the actors’ non-Stanislavskian manner of interpretation.
More rarely than in Kasimir und Karoline are they allowed to face each other. They do not look at each other, even when paired. The characters’ patterned behaviour
237 manifests itself in sessions of obstinate and exhausting repetition of songs, during which some of them (Alfred’s grandmother, for example) fall asleep.
As in Kasimir und Karoline, the conjunctive silences punctuate the characters’ speech, marking interruptions of the dialogue’s flow. Their effect is intensified by the disjunctive silences, which, doubled by moments of stillness, suspend the onstage communication, perform caesura and break the stage illusion. There is a permanent interchange of music, speech and silences. However, silences do not contribute with the same intensity as in Kasimir und Karoline to the creation of dramatic tension; the role of music becomes predominant. In Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald their main function changes. Here silences do not suggest mainly the characters’ lack of perspective, the emptiness of their existence as in Kasimir und
Karoline, where the protagonists experience a mood of constant and indefinite longing for something that will never come. In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, silences are rather related to the characters’ lack of spiritual and emotional development. The conjunctive next to disjunctive silences signal the inertia of figures’ inner processes, their spiritual and emotional vacuity. They assist the characters’ onstage representation while also imposing a decelerated dramatic rhythm on the entire production that describes a world of stasis and immobility.
As already stated, music is the most important feature of the aural space of
Marthaler’s production. Musical moments constitute independent scenes while they are also used to accompany the characters’ verbal and physical interaction. The group of old ladies who sit in Bellaria form a small choir and the murmur of their voices accompanies various moments of action. During the performance, music is played live
238 on instruments (piano, keyboard, violin, and guitar), sung, hummed, and whistled by the actors, representing an almost uninterrupted presence.
The moments of group singing abound. Unlike in Kasimir und Karoline, where the interpretation of songs occurs merely in accordance with Horváth’s stage directions, in his production of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Marthaler takes
Horváth’s indications merely as guidance and extends the importance of the singing moments. The songs are not concentrated only in the scenes that take place at the
Heuriger, as in Horváth’s text, but are rather dispersed systematically throughout the entire performance. They ‘help’ people on stage to externalise their emotions (e.g.,
Dolly Parton’s “The Pain of Loving You”; the song also signals the changes in the amorous triangle Alfred–Valerie–Erich) or provide them with self-conscious moments regarding the impossibility of a happy and romantic ‘union’ (Carl Michael Ziehrer’s In lauschiger Nacht, sung by Oskar, Zauberkönig, and then the others). Moreover, when the characters sing together, their group identity is asserted. Their voices synchronise and the result is an over-the-top harmonious and ironic interpretation of the musical material. However, as in Kasimir und Karoline, this form of collective identification is only apparent. Marthaler’s people, just as Horváth’s, are isolated, they are individuals unrelated to each other who sit side by side on the pub’s benches–everyone for themselves. In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald too, the songs seem to originate somewhere else; there is a clear sense of discordance between their agreeable sound and the dull expressions on the faces of those who sing them. The songs are repeatedly, dully and sullenly sung, until they are abandoned or the interpreters, exhausted, fall asleep (e.g., Es wird ein Wein sein in the Heuriger scene). The characters’ scattered attempts to sing alone end dissonantly in a sort of desperate effort
239 to impose their voice upon the others (Oskar’s, for example, when he sings In lauschiger Nacht or Es wird ein Wein sein).
In Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, music helps tell stories about people lost between times and places. As also indicated in the stage directions of Horváth’s play, Johann Strauss’s waltzes represent the main musical theme. Geschichten aus dem
Wiener Wald, An der schönen blauen Donau and Wiener Blut are repeatedly heard in the course of the performance next to other popular waltzes of the interwar period, such as Juventino Rosas’s Über den Wellen and Carl Michael Ziehrer’s In lauschiger Nacht.
From the array of references to classical music included in Horváth’s text, Marthaler remains truthful to “Wie eiskalt ist dies Händchen” from Puccini’s opera La Bohème and “Träumerei” from Schumann’s Kinderszenen. He also includes a potpourri of traditional Viennese songs that are referred to in the play: Arnold Ernst’s Das Lied von der Wachau, Rudolf Sieczyński’s Wien, du Stadt meiner Träume, Ludwig Gruber’s Es wird ein Wein sein, and Carl Lorens’s Mir gengan heut nach Nußdorf h’naus. The harmonious melodic line of all these songs incites a wistful mood. Moreover, they propose an incursion into historical and cultural memory. They almost metonymically signify the moment of the time between the two World Wars. In the performance’s context, like the films screened at Bellaria, these popular melodies are supposed to provoke nostalgic recollections of the past. Through their use, Marthaler addresses the original time of the narrative, as set by Horváth (“the play takes place in our days”–
1930s).
However, as I emphasised earlier, Marthaler does not allow this to be the only sense of temporality introduced in the performance. He brings into contemporaneity the contexts of Horváth’s story and resorts to music in this endeavour. In contrast to
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Kasimir und Karoline, where the musical interventions correspond in quality and quantity to Horváth’s indications, in Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Marthaler includes additional musical material to the one given in the play’s stage directions. He includes more recent popular songs, such as “The Pain of Loving You” by Porter
Wagoner and Dolly Parton (1971), “Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues
(1967), “You Are so Beautiful” by Joe Cocker (1974), “Yesterday” by the Beatles
(1965), and “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions (1991). The occurrence of these songs changes the temporal dimension of Horváth’s story by imposing a new sense of time upon the represented events. Their interposition among the other musical references suggests a form of dialogue between the present and the past that is musically carried out in the performance. Although modern (hits of the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s), these songs are already outdated in comparison to the time of the staging, which is 2006.
The sense of present time that they recall is therefore questionable. Here too, as always in Marthaler’s theatre, the present is shown as a time that has just passed, or, as Carp describes it, “shifted into yesterday” (Geträumte Realräume, 2000, p. 42). The temporality of the story told in the performance remains indefinite. It can be understood as an ahistorical moment of present in which Horváth’s characters are trapped by their haunting impressions of the past. They are caught between layers of their affective memory, where the present and the past mingle in an unfruitful way, obstructing the way to personal development. As in Horváth, there are no developments in Marthaler’s theatre and the Beatles’ song (“Yesterday”), with its line:
“I believe in yesterday”, best describes the situation of Horváth’s/Marthaler’s characters.
Music does not only support the creation of a confused sense of time but also of a confused sense of space in Marthaler’s production. It helps telling stories between 241
Vienna and Berlin and contributes to a vague sense of locality that ultimately underpins the parodying of nationalism and patriotism, which is a recurring theme in Marthaler’s theatre. As in Horváth’s play, Strauss’s waltzes and the Wienerlieder, such as Das Lied von der Wachau, localise the action in Vienna and its surroundings. However,
Marthaler introduces new musical excerpts that alter the perspective on the location of the stage events. For instance, the protagonists repeatedly interpret the leitmotif of a
German Schlager: O, du wunderschöner deutscher Rhein (a popular song of the 1930s, composed for the Rhenish Carnival), which praises the Rhine as an iconic German symbol.60 This musical reference would be particularly meaningful to a German audience that is also aware of the refrain’s verses: “O, du wunderschöner deutscher
Rhein/Du sollst ewig Deutschlands Zierde sein!” (“O, thou beautiful German
Rhine/Thou should always be Germany’s jewel!”). Yet Marthaler operates a slight but characteristic change in the lyrics, which throws open the sense of locality and national identity that the song conveys. In Marthaler’s stage version, the text ironically states:
“O, du wunderschöner Wiener Wald/Du sollst ewig Deutschlands Zierde sein!” (“O, thou beautiful Vienna Woods/Thou should always be Germany’s jewel!”). As the theatre critic Peter Hans Göpfert has emphasised, in Marthaler’s interpretation of
Horváth’s play, where the beautiful blue Danube flows becomes less a problem of location than one of vision (2006). The confused nationalism of Horváth’s characters echoes in the defective feeling of national identity that characterises Marthaler’s characters. They inconsistently refer to either Vienna or Berlin when evoking maternal images of homeland.61 It is not very important whether their discourse refers to Vienna or Berlin, Rhine or Vienna Woods, the Danube or the Spree, as long as it serves their
60 O, du wunderschöner deutscher Rhein by Rudolf Förster (1931). 61 According to Jarausch (1997), the masculine connotations of the term “Fatherland” were considered acceptable by fewer than 32 per cent of voters in a survey conducted in 1975 (p. 45). 242
Heimat nostalgia (the concept of Heimat, as, for instance, appropriated by the Nazis, as part of their “blood and soil” ideology) and responds to slogans of questionable patriotism as illustrated by Mister’s intervention. Marthaler intentionally modifies
Mister’s original lines: “da drinnen klopft noch das alte biedere treue goldene Wiener
Herz–das ewige Wien–und die Wachau–und die Burgen an der blauen Donau” (“in there, still beats the old, honest, and loyal golden Viennese heart–the eternal Vienna– and Wachau–and the castles on the blue Danube” [Horváth, 2015, vol. 2, p. 744]) in order to paradoxically include references to Berlin and its surrounding landscape: “da drinnen klopft noch das alte biedere treue goldene Wiener Herz–oh, ewiges Berlin–und die Wachau–und die Burgen über den Spree an der schönen blauen Donau” (“in there, still beats the old, honest, and loyal golden Viennese heart–of, eternal Berlin–and
Wachau–and the castles over the Spree on the beautiful blue Danube”). The nationalist ideas and sentiments are the result of a self-induced enthusiasm confounded with local patriotism. The term “here” used to identify the place where Marthaler’s protagonists
“feel at home” and “want to die” is thus devoid of a clear sense of location as well as of a socio-cultural or ideological context. For Marthaler’s as for Horváth’s characters, the notion of Heimat implies the reference to a utopian space and time, a romantic ‘bubble’ that nurtures their self-centred dreams of hope and protection.
Furthermore, mixing Viennese and German songs or musical references to
Austrian and German icons, such as Vienna Woods and Rhine, Marthaler adds a significant commentary to Horváth’s text. While the play, written before 1933, presents the social background that lead to the rise of Fascism in Germany, Marthaler’s performance points to the social milieu that nurtured the Nazi ideals. He brings on stage people who shared, for example, the nationalist dream of establishing a German
Reich to include all Germans, which resulted in the annexation of Austria (Anschluss) 243 in 1938. As illustrated by the figure of Mister, the sense of being an Austrian citizen was by no means incompatible with a sense of German national identity, not only for the German nationalist constituency but also for other Austrians. Marthaler implicitly brings into discussion Austria’s Nazi past. The song “O, thou beautiful Vienna
Woods/Thou should always be Germany’s jewel!” offers, therefore, multiple layers of interpretation. It supports Marthaler’s theatrical investigation of history and cultural memory. The fact that this song represents a central musical piece of Marthaler’s performance is signalled by the long duration of the singing moment that it occasions.
The refrain is repeated eight consecutive times, and each time with more enthusiasm, louder, and in a crescendo tempo. The allusion to the use of songs as political slogans and manipulative instruments is thus obvious. Another musical moment that supports the discussion above is occasioned by the characters’ rendition, this time, of a famous
Viennese song: Wien, du Stadt meiner Träume. While its catchphrase is repeatedly sung: “Wien, Wien, nur du allein/Sollst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein” (“Vienna,
Vienna, you alone/Will be the city of my dreams”), Mister insists with a rhetorical call for Berlin that questions the initial straightforward message of the song.
Either played with instruments, sung or hummed, music is the most important feature of the aural space of Marthaler’s Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald. Horváth’s indications of music as well as silence are incorporated in a performative event of
Marthaler’s ‘music-theatre’. Its musical structures, its particular mixture of tonalities, rhythm, and music has proven not only compatible with Horváth’s text but rather highly effective in its interpretation.
244
CONCLUSION
Ödön von Horváth’s Volksstücke is a collection of plays that consist of a careful orchestration of musical and silent moments next to the spoken word. Horváth gives precise indications about what type of silence (e.g., Schweigen, Pause, Stille,
Totenstille) or music (specific musical genres or orchestral pieces/popular songs) should interfere within the dialogue and clearly specifies their place within the text’s layout. An examination of the significance of Horváth’s stage directions for music and silence was the central focus of this study. The present thesis posed the question as to whether there is a connection between Horváth’s use of music and silence and his creation of a new form of socially critical Volksstück. The analysis showed that there is a direct relationship and revealed that Horváth employed sounds and silences to refashion the traditional Volksstück, “both in its form and in its ethos” (“Mit vollem
Bewußtsein zerstöre ich nun das alte Volksstück, formal und ethisch” [Horváth, 1972, vol. 8, p. 663]). My research responds to a certain neglect in the literature when it comes to the full implications of Horváth’s use of music and silence with a comprehensive and innovative analysis of their role within the plays of the Volksstücke cycle.
First, the study found that music, a constitutive element of traditional
Volksstück, becomes defining for Horváth’s new version of the genre. However, in
Horváth’s new Volksstück, music no longer fulfils an ornamental role and does not serve the purpose of entertainment, rather it facilitates the expression of Horváth’s socially-critical ideas by providing additional commentaries to the text. My analysis of the role of music in Horváth’s Volksstücke draws on the sociological perspective that claims the social aspect of musical meaning. I argue that Horváth resorts to certain 245 pieces of popular music for the subliminal messages that they carry, as a result of the
‘socialisation’ process, and demonstrate that the content of these messages enriches the semantics of the plays. Music also influences the reception of Horváth’s Volksstücke by arousing the anticipation of a genre that remains unfulfilled. Against the tendency in the critical literature to connect Horváth’s use of music with Brecht’s, I argue that the effect of music in Horváth’s plays is not based on “distantiation” but rather on familiarity. Horváth uses the effect of popular music, as was emphasised by Adorno in his studies on the sociology of music and on culture industry (Adorno’s first articles on this topic were published between 1930 and 1932, the years when Horváth completed the Volksstück cycle; see Note 5), to encourage the spectators’ subconscious surrender to a world of illusion only in order to subvert their expectations. The analysis of the use of music in each play of the cycle showed that Horváth’s choice of popular music is linked to the psycho-didactic function of his theatre, which aims at ‘unmasking consciousness’ (Demaskierug des Bewußtseins).
Second, the present study found that silence is directly involved in the process of genre reformation that Horváth intended. It regards silence not as an absence but rather as a presence, a meaning-carrier and an element, as important as words, in the communicational structure of the Volksstücke. My thesis extends the previous critical discussions by differentiating between various types of silence in Horváth’s plays.
Borrowing the terms ‘conjunctive’ and ‘disjunctive’ from theatre scholars Mick Wallis and Simon Shepherd, who applied them to stage directions in a dramatic text (Wallis,
2010), this study develops the new concepts of conjunctive and disjunctive silence in relation to the role of silence in the Volksstücke. It found that the stage directions
“Pause” and “Schweigen” are indicative of a silence that brings nuances to the dialogue and structures the characters’ communication (these directions representing the
246 category of conjunctive silence). Meanwhile, “Stille” (representative of Horváth’s disjunctive silence) creates caesura and has more profound implications within the semantics of the text. In Horváth’s Volksstücke, “Stille” indicates the ‘silence’ that lies behind all ‘noise’ in the unevenly industrialising society of his time. It signals stagnation, value vacuum, and a lack of personal development and of human relations.
Critics have typically not considered “Stille” in relation to the social criticism that is a manifest feature of Horváth’s Volksstücke. In my view, it is crucial to see that “Stille” describes not the absence of talk but rather the silence of the atmosphere that relates to the emptiness of the characters’ existence and their social alienation. I consider “Stille” an indicator in Horváth’s process of genre reformation, and in the turn towards a socially critical theme of his new Volksstück. The persistent use of “Stille” in the most representative plays of the cycle (Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald and Kasimir und
Karoline) is a clear example in this sense. Here, “Stille” becomes a major dramatic device that supports Horváth’s endeavour to portray the changes in consciousness of his contemporaries, as well as forms of collective anxieties and neuroses brought by the ongoing process of urbanisation and industrialisation in the Weimar era. Horváth’s
“Stille”, with these implied social connotations, announces Beckett’s and Pinter’s silent tension, which–in the aftermath of the Second World War–refers to isolation, emptiness and alienation, and to both the refusal and inability to speak. Thus, one of the main contributions of my study is to provide a more precise catalogue of the types of silence operative in the plays, and a more elaborate understanding of their implications in the
Volksstücke than available thus far.
The findings of my study contribute to Horváth scholarship with a new perspective of his theatre as one of multiple ‘voices’. While Horváth’s theatre is generally perceived as one of language, this study shows that the music and silence are
247 integral elements of Horváth’s playwriting technique. They are not merely accessories of the dramatic texts: their function is not a decorative one. They represent extradialogical features with important ramifications within the semantic structure of the new Volksstück that Horváth envisaged. Moreover, they highlight Horváth’s interest in the theatrical orchestration of his plays and in the effect they aimed to produce on stage. An analysis of Christoph Marthaler’s contemporary productions based on Horváth’s texts (Kasimir und Karoline and Geschichten aus dem Wiener
Wald), which concludes this thesis, provided an example of the ways in which
Horváth’s stage directions of music and silence function in a concrete theatrical context. Thus, this thesis examined Horváth’s Volksstücke and offered an extended and innovative perspective on the role of music and silence in the plays of this cycle, while also attempting to indicate their resonance within the contemporary theatrical context.
The findings of my study are particularly relevant in the context of contemporary staging and performance practice that has taken a turn towards musicalization. They invite new readings of Horváth’s Volksstücke that might be of interest to contemporary theatre scholars and practitioners. For example, they invite new readings that would reconsider the staging implications of Horváth’s creative use of the non-verbal features of the theatre, and would reassess the potential theatrical power of his drama. More precisely, they show that the staging potential of Horváth’s use of music and silence becomes even more relevant within the theatrical practice of the last few decades, which–according to Hans-Thies Lehmann–is characterised by a
“scenic dynamic as opposed to [a] dramatic dynamic” (Postdramatic Theatre, 2006, p.
68). Marthaler’s productions, for example, are centred more on the atmosphere of desolation in Horváth’s plays and less on the narrative thread. The key features of
248
Marthaler’s staging–slowness and repetitiveness–are connected to Horváth’s use of
“Stille” and music in his plays.
The findings of this research could also benefit drama semiotics from the perspective of the newly developed concepts of conjunctive and disjunctive silence.
They open new possibilities with regard to the analysis of the role of silence in a dramatic text according to its place within the communicational structure of the play.
The analytical model that underlies my examination of various functions of silence in
Horváth’s Volksstücke and which affirms the implications of silence at different levels of dramatic communication could be useful for the analysis of dramatic texts that include silence next to speech as a fundamental structural principle.
Despite my study’s endeavour to offer a comprehensive understanding of music and silence as characteristic features of Horváth’s playwriting technique, I also need to acknowledge its limitations. My research limits itself to the plays of the
Volksstücke cycle and does not explore the possible connections between this cycle and
Horváth’s other plays, especially his later dramas, with regard to his use of non-verbal elements. Also, it does not attempt to thoroughly investigate the implications of music and silence for the stage reception of Horváth’s plays. It only signals that Horváth’s preoccupation with non-verbal dramatic material resonates with the preoccupations of contemporary theatre creators. Taking into consideration my findings as well as the limitations of the present study, it is hoped that it might provide an incentive for further research into drama and theatre.
As a result of my research, further investigation can be conducted on the role of music and silence within Horváth’s entire work for theatre. It would be interesting to find out whether there is a sense of continuity in this regard. Are there structural and
249 stylistic patterns that recur throughout all of Horváth’s plays and that connect them as a unified group of works? I hope that the findings of my study will open further discussion on the staging implications of Horváth’s use of the non-verbal resources of the theatre. Although contemporary theatre creators have shown interest in Horváth’s theatre and in the ways in which various levels of verbal and non-verbal communication are interrelated within his drama (see, for example, Christoph
Marthaler), there are no studies dedicated to its analysis within the wider context of a theatrical communication that implies the author–performer–audience transaction. A comparative analytical approach of various recent stagings of Horváth’s texts would facilitate a better understanding of their contemporary resonance.62 Such studies would further my research and also reveal from different perspectives the role that music and silence play in the contemporary reception of Horváth’s dramas.
62 Martin Kusej’s Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald (1999) and Stephan Kimmig’s Kasimir und Karoline (2008), both staged at Hamburger Thalia Theater, are other examples of theatre productions that exploit and project in a contemporary fashion Horváth’s indications of music and silence. 250
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