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1 Johanna Loewenherz(1857-1937) Source: Kreisverwaltung Neuwied, Spurensuche. Johanna Loewenherz: Versuch einer Biografie; Copyright: Johanna- Loewenherz-Stiftung 2 Prostitution or Production, Property or Marriage? A Study on the Women´s Movement by Johanna Loewenherz Neuwied. Published by the author, 1895. [Öffentl. Bibliothek zu Wiesbaden, Sig. Hg. 5606] Translated by Isabel Busch M. A., Bonn, 2018 Translator´s Note: Johanna Loewenherz employs a complicated style of writing. The translator of this work tried to stay true to Loewenherz´ style as much as possible. Wherever it was convenient, an attempt was made to make her sentences easier to understand. However, sometimes the translator couldn´t make out Loewenherz´ sense even in the original German text, for instance because of mistakes made by Loewenherz herself. Loewenherz herself is not always consistent in her text; for example when using both the singular and plural forms of a noun or pronoun in the same sentence. The translator of this work further took the liberty of using the singular and plural forms of “man” and “woman” rather randomly, whenever Loewenherz makes generalising remarks on both sexes. Seeing that Loewenherz uses a lot of puns in the original text, the translator of this work explains these in the footnotes. It is to be noted that whenever Loewenherz quotes a person or from another text, the translator of this work either uses already existing translations (e.g. from Goethe´s Faust) or translated them herself. In the former case the sources of these quotes are named in footnotes. The other translations are not specifically marked. 3 A Visit to the Night Caféi What is it that drives a man to the harlot?—How can he bring himself to touch such a woman?— Allow me, Gentlemen, the wholehearted sincerity which convenience usually does not forgive a woman. Convenience, I say; no, it is not correct: it is not a free agreement, the women never gave their consent to not being allowed to talk about certain things, it is a terrorisation of our thoughts and our tongue, an abuse of your power, a deplorable custom, that you call habit, practice and even virtue, and from these pretty things you have wound a fool´s rope, with which you lead us astray, until we are dizzy and do not question your doings any more. And yet—I think you should at least be c u r i o u s to learn how some of your institutions, which no “lady“ is permitted to know, on pain of losing this title, otherwise bestowed on her, in a gentlemanly manner, paint inside a woman´s head, if there even is a head. And there a r e women with heads, certainly, Gentlemen! There are even—alas! It is difficult for me to get separated from this material; all those thousands of bad jokes are buzzing around in my soul, which have already been made by you with respect to this matter—but I won´t mention them! However, I want to take the high ground from you and make even worse ones, precisely b e c a u s e this is not easy and practically impossible. It is enticing to raise difficulties, and making bad jokes is a sublime task under certain circumstances. But I tear myself away by force to return to the topic. So I confess and I cannot stop myself: the omnipotent gentlemen´s morals have also slavishly bent my sense, I would not dare to talk with you about this eye to eye; but my talk is indignant, v e r y indignant, Gentlemen! Away with the fool´s cap! We do not need to hide our shame and our pain beneath it. What is it that drives a man to the whore? I paid a visit to one of the more well-known night cafés of Berlin. For the first time in my life I entered such a place, and it seemed to me that its horrors exceeded all the tales. At least: everything that was possibly bearable in my imagination—at that moment, where I saw the reality in front of me, I was subject to the impression. I suffered. My feelings and thoughts were all confusion and torture. My mind went numb, and I was grateful for the beneficent numbness. This way, I saw all these ugly things at least only through a veil of mist, and sometimes it seemed to me as if they c o u l d not be r e a l—as if I was watching a mummer´s show, performed by ghosts risen from Orcus gone mad— satyrs, fauns and their ladies. — — — — Unreal! Inanimate! A delusion, a wild figment of a delirium. — — It was eventually the b a n a l i t y, the full l a c k o f p o e t r y of the brutality, which revealed itself to me, and which told me: what you see is the present, it is the horrible and alas! so sad reality. 4 My first emotion was anger and shame at the humiliation of my own sex. I felt myself degraded in every single one of these poor creatures. I shared their shame. However, who is it who c a u s e s their, m y shame?—that is what I wondered. It was the man— that was the answer. I began to feel wrath and outrage against him. And why, to what purpose does he create this m o s t h i d e o u s of all hideous phenomena of the world? Seeing that he craves beauty, truth, the sublime, justice—seeing that his soul storms through all worlds and heavens to chase the ideal—why does he voluntarily create this lie, this baseness, this injustice, these atrocities of the lowest depravation? — And the answer: He wants to amuse himself. — — In that moment I cried out in disbelief: is it possible for him to even touch such a woman? — There they sit, these 40-50 girls in rows, at tables, and offer goods on a market. But the goods they offer on the market are their bodies. Someone can purchase meat, human meat, here. For money, even for very little money. Who are the buyers? There they sit: the sharp electric light reveals the make-up, the powder, the colour on the cheeks, forehead and eyebrows—the line underneath the eyes. Who kisses the smear from their cheeks and lips? There they sit, The body has lost its natural nobility, the bust has either developed a deformity, has gone fat, or the whole shape has become haggard, deteriorated. Who enjoys this disgusting body? — And do the men not see the cheeky look, the stare in the eye? Don´t they see the mouth twisted in scorn? The face, for the most part dumb and expressionless?! What do the men care about the look, what do they care about the scorn, what do they care about the expression! The men want meat. But don´t they find the lack of grace disgusting, they, who crave grace? Where is it now? How the fine clothes, the ball gown, the fan lack this! They are not melted into one with the appearance, not worn by the figure, not letting it forget about itself, but alien, unnaturally borrowed. There! How the white satin of the dress tightens over the spread knees! And this one, how she fans herself with the half-naked angular arm, and how at the same time her eyes are staring into nothing! I have always heard about the beauty of sin—it is not here. Certainly not beauty, perhaps not even sin. Here there is exchange, trade, baseness. But not every woman is looking in a cheeky and cynical manner, no, many are looking so infinitely sad, so heartbreakingly miserable. Because it is a trade, this one, which costs the tradeswomen their self-respect. Alas! Not everyone bears self-contempt lightly. Don´t the men feel pity? Oh— — they are paying them. And then there´s the champagne the man is buying—it makes her forget. And when she´s alone, and the champagne is too expensive, well, then she can have—hard liquor. What is it inside the men, that does not allow for disgust and pity!? Why do they feel so differently than the women? Is that what nature intended, or have they violated their better natures? And how? And when did they do it for the first time? And the harlot´s laughter! — Over there, the blonde woman at the small marble table, opposite of me, who is so ugly and looks so tired. She´s laughing, throwing back her head, the throat rearing, shrill sounds coming from her 5 open mouth, like out of the mouth of a locomotive, while her facial expression remains unchanging, rigid like a machine. Two old men and a girl are in her company; the latter is speaking eagerly, overly eagerly, and the drunken men are looking at her bosom. But she, the blonde one, is sitting there apathetically; she only rises from time to time, as if she remembers, horrified, a forgotten duty—and laughs. A horrible, unnatural laugh! Starting in the highest pitch, sinking as if on the chromatic scale, sometimes shrilly staying in one pitch—I felt the compassionate need to call to her: “But you! This is done very, v e r y badly. Every idiot realises immediately that this laughter is not real. You are risking your wages. Have another drink and then laugh more r e a l i s t i c a l l y, with a more natural and less artificial rawness.“ But I comforted myself, the two old men were drunk, they did not notice anything.

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