Background

The last judgement of Oskar Panizza

Oskar Panizza and his dog Puzzi

Oskar Panizza and his dog Puzzi

Today marks 100 years since the death of the German writer Oskar Panizza, although his literary production was stilled some time earlier, with the one-time psychiatrist spending the last 16 years of his life in a psychiatric institution.

The Wilhelmine era, as the entire Rixdorf list indicates, offered a wealth of progressive and even radical writing which emerged from a conservative if not reactionary culture. Many writers were subject to censorship on the grounds of obscenity, blasphemy, lèse-majesté, sedition and other categories by which imperial authorities sought to contain unruly elements. Books were sometimes confiscated, publishers fined, but this could also be turned to advantage in the form of publicity. Prison, on the other hand, was rare.

Oskar Panizza, however, paid the highest price of any writer in the Wilhelmine era. While many of his works were subject to censorship, he didn’t so much as step over a line as catapult across it with his play Das Liebeskonzil (The Council of Love). Subtitled ‘A Heavenly Tragedy’, it posited that syphilis had been introduced to the world by the daughter of Salome and Satan via the court of the Borgia Pope, Alexander VI. While this would have been confronting anywhere in 1894, in Catholic Munich where Panizza was living at the time it unleashed what present-day Germans endearingly call ein Shitstorm. And it earned Panizza a year in prison on no less than 93 counts of blasphemy.

But did Panizza (who, by the way, knew a thing or too about syphilis) deliberately provoke this outcome? In the book Banned in Berlin which addresses literary censorship throughout the German Empire, Gary D. Stark suggests that Panizza ‘not only wilfully exploited the notoriety his incarceration brought, but in fact actively courted a confrontation with the authorities as a way of achieving literary fame and success.’ If so, it was a remarkably durable strategy – German director Werner Schroeter’s film version of the play was banned in Austria almost a hundred years later.

Panizza had connections with two of the authors Rixdorf Editions has published. He was close to Franziska zu Reventlow, who wrote for his ‘exile’ journal Züricher Diskussionen, and was also the subject of a flattering profile which Panizza wrote for the same organ. Anna Croissant-Rust, meanwhile, who came into contact with Panizza in Michael Georg Conrad’s ‘Society for Modern Living’, was a sympathetic and supportive friend, visiting him in prison and later on in psychiatric institutions.

A modest selection of Panizza’s highly erratic bibliography has been translated into English. The most readily available are The Pig, translated by Erik Butler, and the The Love Council, in a volume by Peter D. G. Brown which also addresses the controversy around the play and the life of the writer.

There is much more to say about Oskar Panizza and the outer limits of Wilhelmine literary production, but for now perhaps it is better to let the man himself speak. The remarkable document below is one of the last things he ever wrote before his mental incapacitation, and it offers a clipped, clinical account of his life and work. Panizza wrote it in 1904 and submitted it to authorities who were seeking to gauge his state of mind. He refers to himself in the third person throughout and evaluates himself with striking clarity, as though Panizza the psychiatrist were assessing someone who just happened to share his name. Aside from suicidal ideation, the greatest manifestation of his illness is an auditory hallucination and associated paranoid persecution complex, which – analyst cum analysand that he is – he both posits as real and suggests is of pathological origin. By the way, those parenthetical exclamation marks and interjections of ‘(Wrong syntax!)’ are in the original. The German version also reflects Panizza’s idiosyncratic spelling, with words like Pazient, Studjum and Schenie (rather than Patient, Studium, Genie).


Oskar Panizza

Autobiography

translated by James J. Conway

 

Oskar Panizza, writer, born 12 XI 1853 in Bad Kissingen, comes from a family with a history of mental illness. Uncle suffered from partial religious insanity and died after spending 15 years in the mental ward of the Würzburg Juliusspital. Another uncle committed suicide at a young age. One aunt died of a stroke, another aunt is still alive, psychologically peculiar, partly witty, partly insane. All of these degrees of kinship relate to the maternal side. Mother still alive, an angry, energetic, strong-willed person of almost male intelligence. Father died of typhus, was of Italian descent, a passionate, dissolute, angry and clever man of the world, a bad family man. Of the patient’s siblings the two younger ones, like the patient himself, were subject to incidents of melancholy in earlier years. Younger sister attempted suicide twice (perhaps complicated by hysteria). There is prevailing mental activity throughout the family with a tendency to discussion of religious questions. Mother and patient writers. Patient himself suffered from the usual teething troubles, measles, whooping cough, found it very difficult to read, showed no talent, was nicknamed ‘the fool’ by his siblings, progressed with difficulty through high school, with his fruitless, exuberant imagination and constant self-absorption preventing him from grasping the need for regulated, systematic preparation for a profession in life, turned temporarily to music and finally graduated from the classical grammar school at an advanced age, 24 years old. While ill with measles, he had a slight somnambulistic attack at the age of about 12; he left his bed unconscious during the day, ran around the sick room and was finally found kneeling at his bed praying, and rescued from his trance. After graduating from high school, he turned to medical studies with great love and zeal, became co-assistant to Ziemßen, worked under the same at the clinical institute, received his doctorate summa cum laude in 1880 and began his apprenticeship that same year. As a student he became infected with syphilis, which, although treated lege artis for years, is still manifest today in the form of a powerful bud on the right tibia which defies the most energetic treatment by iodide of potassium. After completing his military service as a junior physician in the military hospital and being appointed assistant physician 2nd class in the reserve, patient went to Paris, provided with numerous recommendations by Ziemßen, but visited only a few hospitals and instead decided to study French literature, especially drama, for which he was particularly suited thanks to the knowledge of the French language which had always been cultivated in the childhood home as a result of his mother’s Huguenot descent. Returning to Munich in 1882, he entered the Oberbairische Kreis-Mad Asylum under Gudden as 4th assistant physician and served there for two years, advancing to 4th (?) assistant physician. Impairment of his health as well as scientific and other differences with his superior led him to leave this position in 1884 and at this point, apart from some minor temporary medical services as a general practitioner, he devoted himself entirely to literature, which had been on his mind since Paris. Still feeling some after-effects of a depression of the temper which occurred in the insane asylum and lasted for almost a year, he wrote the lyrical book of verse Düstre Lieder [Gloomy Songs] (Leipzig 1885), which was influenced by Heine. Uplifted and refreshed by this literary relief, he visited England in the same year, which was preceded by an intensive study of the English language and literature under Mrs. Callway, and he spent a full year engaged in literary activities at the British Museum. Londoner Lieder [London Songs] (Leipzig 1887) was written as a result of this stay. In the autumn of 1886, after a temporary stay in Berlin, return to Munich, in 1888 poems published as Legendäres und Fabelhaftes, [Legendary and Fantastical], some of which were the fruit of his preoccupation with old English ballads. In the following years learning and study of the Italian language and literature under Sgra Luccioli in Munich, as intensive involvement with foreign languages ​​and literary productions turned out to be the best means of discharging all kinds of psychopathic impulses. Repeated trips to Italy. From 1890 onwards, as a result of acquaintance with M. G. Conrad, a series of essays, partly scientific, partly literary and artistic, appeared in the Gesellschaft, of which M. G. Conrad was the founder and director. In 1899 Dämmerungsstücke [Twilight Pieces], a collection of fantastical short stories, some of which were influenced by the American writer Edgar Poe, had already appeared. Through M. G. Conrad introduced to the Society for Modern Life in Munich; patient gave a number of lectures there, including ‘Schenie und Wahnsinn’ [Genius and Madness] (Munich, Pößl 1891), which attracted the attention of the authorities, the hostility of the ultra-montane press, resulting in ‘Sozialdemokraten im Frack’ [Social Democrats in Tails] and remonstrations of the Landwehr district command. Requested by the command to resign from the Society for Modern Life, patient refused and as a result was dismissed from a military relationship in which he had in the meantime advanced to assistant physician 1st class, with ‘a simple farewell’.

An essay by the patient ‘Das Verbrechen in Tavistock Square’ [‘The Crime in Tavistock Square’], recalling his time in England, appeared in the Sammelbuch der Münchner Moderne [Anthology of Modern Munich] (Munich, Plößl, 1891) and led to a judicial charge of ‘offences against morality’, which was nonetheless dismissed by the criminal chamber of the District Court of Munich I. In 1892 the tragic, humorous Aus dem Tagebuch eines Hundes [From a Dog’s Diary] was published, illustrated by Choberg in Leipzig. The following year Visjonen [Visions], a collection of short stories, again partly in the fantastical style and outlook of Edgar Poe. In 1893 Die unbefleckte Empfängnis der Päpste [The Immaculate Conception of the Popes] (Zurich, Schabelitz) appeared, a theological attempt to extend the proclamation of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary by Pius IX in 1894 to the popes with all due embryological, anthropological and theological consequences, which was executed in an ostensibly most serious style and which according to the title page the patient had translated from Spanish. This writing was confiscated by court order as a result of a denunciation in Stuttgart and in so-called ‘objective proceedings’ banned throughout the German Empire. This was followed by harsh criticism from the Catholic and Protestant ecclesiastical press as well as public warnings against purchase. In 1894 Der teutsche Michel und der römische Papst [The German Michel and the Roman Pope] appeared with a foreword by M. G. Conrad, in which the gravamen of Germany against Rome were tendentiously summarised in the form of theses, but based on historical information and with extensive references to sources. This work was also confiscated in ‘objective proceedings’ in 1895, that is, after the expiry of the period in which charges and prosecution might be brought. In 1894 there was also Die Himmelstragödie das Liebeskonzil [The Tragedy of Heaven, the Love Council] (Zurich, Schabeliz), in which, in accordance with a quotation by Ulrich von Hutten, syphilis appeared in Italy at the end of the 15th century; based upon the depraved escapades at the papal court of Alexander VI it is executed in the form of a medieval mystery play under modern lighting. This book drama brought the patient to the (!) Munich Assizes in the spring of 1895, where he was sentenced to one year in prison under Par. 166 of the Reich Penal Code, a verdict that was upheld by the Imperial Court in Leipzig soon after. The patient served his sentence in the Amberg prison, where the defence counsel’s subsequent assertion of an objection on the basis of mental illness (without questioning the prisoner) was followed by a summary examination of same quoad psychen intactam – ‘Are you mentally ill?’ – ‘No.’ – which produced a negative result. After serving his sentence, patient farewelled Munich with the small brochure ‘Farewell to Munich’ (Zurich 1896), which resulted in confiscation and a warrant for prosecution of the author, who had in the meantime moved to Zurich. That same autumn the patient published the moral history Die bayrischen Haberfeldtreiben [The Bavarian Haberfeldtreiben; a form of informal moral court] (Berlin, G. Fischer), in which, at the request of the anxious publisher, some passages of the text as well as some verses of the ‘Haber Protocols’ originally appended to it, which the patient had published a few years earlier in an article for the Neue Rundschau (by the same publisher) without objection, were replaced by dots in the typeset which was already ready for printing.

Patient had meanwhile given up Bavarian indigence with the intention of acquiring Swiss citizenship after spending two years in Zurich. In the following year, with Schabeliz now also causing difficulties in Zurich, patient founded his own publishing house under the title of the journal established at the same time, Züricher Diskussionen, and published Dialoge im Geiste Huttens [Dialogues in the Spirit of Hutten], which was written in the prison in Amberg, which sought to discuss public conditions in the fresh and uninhibited style of early XVI century polemics. In the following spring of 1898 patient wrote the political satire Psichopatia criminalis (Zurich, Verlag Zür. Diskussionen) about his persecution at the hands of the German public prosecutors, satirised as suffering their own political insanity, one which had gripped the German public. (Wrong syntax!) It was followed by the drama Nero based on purely historical studies (Zurich 1898). In the same late autumn, patient was ostensibly charged with intercourse with a puella publica who had just reached the age of 15 – in Switzerland, sexual intercourse with girls under the age of 15 is a criminal offence, and by popular decree, the toleration of prostitution in the canton of Zurich was abolished – expelled by the police, branded as a ‘dirty individual’ in Swiss papers, and at the same time informed at the Zurich police headquarters that his expulsion from the canton of Zurich was extended to the whole of Switzerland. Patient responded to this act of violence in the next issue of the Züricher Diskussionen with open, unreserved disclosure of the facts, which exposed himself and the wrong he had committed, but at the same time pointed to the highest authority in Berlin, whose influence the patient believed to have discerned in the whole process. In Paris, where the patient had now settled, the Züricher Diskussionen, despite its now contradictory local title, continued in an intensified tone, especially in the political field, and around Christmas of the following year the fruit of a most withdrawn life and the freshest, finest and most immediate impressions of the French capital emerged, the collection of poems Parisjana, in which the personal adversary of the author, Wilhelm II, is portrayed as the public enemy of mankind and its culture, and where the line of thought and form of expression were exploited to the utmost aesthetic limit. As predicted, this writing was confiscated in Germany and a new warrant issued against the author, but at the same time what could not have been foreseen was that his assets, which had been pawned in Germany, were confiscated under the most twisted motivation – that he had fled. After a year of perseverance in the most distressing conditions, patient was forced to surrender to the court that issued the warrant, Munich – April 1901 – was imprisoned here, then after four months transferred by order of the Criminal Chamber to the Upper Bavarian Insane Asylum for six weeks with the aim of examining his mental state, and then released a few weeks after his return to prison with no notification of a court order. According to newspaper notes and a verbal statement to a private person by the first public prosecutor at the Munich I district court, Baron von Sartor, which could not be verified, the case of mental illness against the patient was suspended in response to the expert opinion of the Senior Physician of the Munich District Insane Asylum, Dr. Ungemach. After returning to Paris, patient published several more issues of Züricher Diskussionen (up to no. 32) and then, from November 1901, in the absence of a printer discontinued his journalistic activities, if not his writing activities. – In November 1903, the patient, who lived in the most absolute seclusion, was subject to a sequence of harassment which, given the extent of the operation (quere-la?), indicated the cooperation of a large number of detectives. And since the French government had exhibited, if not exactly benevolence, at least no form of hostility towards the patient, this was almost certainly the work of foreign detectives or a command issued in another country to disrupt the life of the patient through French private detectives recruited locally. Since, as already mentioned, he had not published anything for two years, there was always the possibility that another party, which was even less (!) disposed to the views of the patient, would be secretly monitoring his manuscripts, perhaps copying them and, if they corresponded to the views of this new party, ultimately publishing them, in the end even using the title, company, print and paper of the Züricher Diskussionen. This is the only way to explain the new hostilities against the patient, who at any rate was taken to be the author and responsible editor of the supposed publications. This was because the patient was even less inclined to believe that anyone in his proximity, Frenchman or foreigner, would have ever considered him to be anything other than entirely mentally sound, than the declaration of insanity made two years earlier in Munich would ever be taken seriously, such that any political party either favourable or hostile would have been disinclined to concern themselves with his manuscripts. The harassment, however, essentially consisted of minor things, such as extinguishing the hearth fire, clogging the fireplace, cutting off the water, damaging the apartment locks (!!), in sophisticated whistling intended to cause the most excruciating damage to the nervous system, molesting the auditory nerves with the most sensitive instruments, which sometimes came from a house opposite in the rue des Abbesses, sometimes on the street, and even here and there in the forest of Montmorency, where patient regularly went every Sunday. The simple fact that the whistling stopped the moment patient covered his ears, which would certainly not have been the case had it been of cerebral origin, indicated that these were no auditory delusions. Later in Munich, where the whistling that the patient regarded as directed against himself continued, it was confirmed by the unimpeachable witnesses Ludwig Scharf and the Comtesse zu Reventlow, with only its interpretation at times called into question. But in regard to the latter this was scarcely likely to be a case of misinterpretation after a ¾ year of sufferance and perseverance. – In addition to these attacks, which were carried out with the utmost precision, there seemed to be a smaller, less hazardous operation being carried out, this one in the immediate vicinity and in the subordinate hands of concierges or femmes de chambre (syntax!) – an operation that no ageing bachelor could elude – that of the marriage of the patient. As soon as he detected the operation, he quickly dealt with the local gossip and wrote to his mother, who lived in Munich, whose links to certain Parisian circles could not be dismissed out of hand, to say that given the current financial situation of her son, marriage was out of the question, that he had neither the inclination nor the time for marriage, and that he certainly would not – if the whistling and other harassment reported should ultimately be related to this project, which in fact struck himself as almost impossible – allow himself to be forced to choose a spouse by such ignoble means. The matrimonial intriguers fell away in response to this, while the other molestations continued. Since the former came to light again later in Munich, in the most grotesque and bizarre form, it must be mentioned that the patient had concealed the most serious reasons against entering into a marriage in his letter to his mother for reasons of consideration and propriety. The history of mental illness on his mother’s side, which was not to be dismissed, the syphilis which was still manifest in the form of a bud on his tibia dextra would today, when the statutes seek to prevent the mentally ill, the consumptive and the syphilitic from entering into matrimony, be considered a crime, a flippant means of producing decrepit offspring. In addition, the practice of his literary activity required the patient to spend the greater part of the day in absolute solitude and seclusion, in good weather on long lonely walks, habits that are certainly incompatible with marriage. And even if the products of this literary activity should be tarnished by the public or critics, for the patient they are not the expression of a whim or caprice, but an absolute necessity for relieving the brain. So he must take the safe route and maintain his psychic equilibrium, advance further along the old, tried and tested track, and not chase after fantasies which, although they appear highly expedient to those concerned, strike him as a danger to his health.

After more than six months of the molestation described above, which ultimately confined the patient to his apartment in the middle of summer and made him forego the necessary exercise in the fresh air, and after intensive occupation with scientific work failed to provide the necessary distraction, he made up his mind to depart without warning and on 23 June left Paris on the evening express train from the Lyon station and arrived in Lausanne (Switzerland) via Dijon the following noon. To his great astonishment, the whistling was also to be heard in Lausanne, if not at all to the same extent. The inevitable conclusion was that Paris was not the only source of hostility against the patient. The real reason for these manifestations remained concealed from him. He largely recovered on Lake Geneva and in the surrounding forests, where, unlike Paris, he was never bothered, but as the attempt to find a modest country apartment failed, after eight days he continued his travels to Munich via Bern, Zurich and Lindau. Since the molestations began here too, he presented himself to the Munich District Insane Asylum with a request for admission to furnish himself and others with evidence that he had not erred in his view that this was a matter of external, planned hostilities against himself; but he was rejected, allegedly because of overcrowding. He was persuaded by the director Vokke to enter the private insane asylum in Neu-Friedenheim. But the realisation that he was being harassed in unmistakable fashion led to a severe argument with the director, Dr Rehm, in the course of which the latter asked the patient to leave the institution. Patient then rented a modest room at Feilitzschstrasse 59/II (right), waiting to see what would come. During the ensuing ¼ year July to October patient completely avoided the city, assiduously walking in the Englischer Garten and surrounding areas, and with the onset of the adverse season visiting the State Library in the mornings, but in all other respects remaining entirely reserved and passive, recognising that a change in his external conditions could only be occasioned by his opponents rather than himself (?). His literary works in prose and bound form, which were created on his travels and in Munich and which are quite extensive, would not, unless the patient is most mistaken, be judged as pathological expectorations by any literary or psychiatric expert. Conditions were aggravated to the extent that now, in contrast to Lausanne and even Paris, severe harassment persisted at night through long-range pipes and flutes of a metallic character with the most intensive affront to the auditory organ. With suicidal tendencies having manifested once before in Paris, once in Lausanne and once in Neufriedenheim, (!) on 9 October, in a seizure of desperation and hopelessness (!), following the rapid writing of a will, there began the execution of an intention to commit suicide by hanging in a secluded spot of the Englischer Garten. But at the last moment faint-heartedness spoiled the decisive jump from the tree that he had climbed and the patient, who had not consumed nourishment in 24 hours, returned to his apartment in the deepest shame. On 19 October patient resorted to a last remedy which was related to the previous, ridiculously stupid attempt, yet perhaps effective in its consequences. After he had been unmistakably whistled at six times that day on his way to the State Library and then on his lonely walk through Oberföhring and the surrounding area, he went home, stripped down to his shirt and, taking advantage of the mild weather, ran down Sterneck-Maria-Josefa-Strasse to Leopoldstrasse at five o’clock in the afternoon with the intention of being caught and apprehended on suspicion of being mentally ill and taken to a public institution and there examined by experts, thus achieving what he had had sought in vain three months beforehand in the Upper Bavarian insane asylum. This ruse was successful. Seized and led to the nearest house, he gave the policeman who had been summoned a false name, Ludwig Fromman, stenographer from Würzburg. An ambulance carriage was requisitioned and the patient taken to the police, where, after a brief examination by the district physician, he was transferred to the psychiatric ward of the I/J city hospital.


‘Autobiography’ by Oskar Panizza was written in German in 1904 (dated 17 November) as ‘Selbstbiographie’ and first published posthumously in In memoriam Oskar Panizza, Friedrich Lippert and Horst Stubbe (eds.) in Munich in 1926.

This translation © 2021 James J. Conway

Postcard from Niederschönhausen

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A few kilometres due north of the historic heart of Berlin you will find the neighbourhood of Niederschönhausen, where many of the streets surrounding the narrow Panke waterway and the salmon-coloured Baroque palace Schloss Schönhausen are named for writers. This drive-through pantheon remembers the likes of Hermann Hesse, Heinrich Mann, Boris Pasternak, Richard Dehmel and Leonhard Frank (a total wurst fest, as you will note). Hans Fallada was actually a resident, and the last street he lived on now bears his (original) name, Rudolf Ditzen.

Head down Ossietzkystrasse past Klaus Simon’s poignant statue of namesake journalist (and Nobel Peace Prize winner) Carl von Ossietzky, take a left after the Panke and you come to the centrepiece of this ensemble – a looped road named for Russian writer Vladimir Mayakovsky. During the Cold War the Majakowskiring was a power base for the inner circle of the East German regime, home to Erich Honecker and other senior leaders, with accommodation for state guests in a white neo-classical villa as well as the Schloss (the purple GDR bathrooms are a particular treat). Slow Travel Berlin can tell you more about Niederschönhausen’s Politburo ghosts.

Majakowskiring was once split into Viktoriastrasse and Kronprinzenstrasse, but under the East German regime’s cultural policy, streets previously bearing the names of royalty and Prussian generals were renamed for writers. But curiously, two writers who not only lived and worked in the late 19th century on what would become Majakowskiring, but also created a revolution in German letters here, are entirely absent from the map: Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf.

Greater Berlin, showing Niederschönhausen north of the centre

Greater Berlin, showing Niederschönhausen north of the centre

Niederschönhausen, showing the location of Holz and Schlaf’s summer house

Niederschönhausen, showing the location of Holz and Schlaf’s summer house

In the mid-1880s, Arno Holz was a writer with huge ambitions, one of a dynamic Berlin clique seeking new ways, not just in literature but – with the late arrival of bohemianism to the city – life itself. Holz tasted early critical success in 1885 with his verse collection Buch der Zeit (Book of Time). But even for a bohemian he was low on funds. Along with his material deprivation he was experiencing a grave creative crisis, and longing for a retreat. He was already lodging in Niederschönhausen, then a town outside of Berlin, when a moneyed acquaintance offered the use of his summer house just around the corner on Viktoriastrasse in 1887. He leapt at the chance.

There he started working on an autobiographical novel and pondering how to reshape literature in his own image (Holz was never burdened by modesty). At first the work was heavy going; Holz complained to a friend of his joyless routine – rise at 8:30, walk in the Schloss park, work, walk to Wedding to have lunch with his mother, work, a nap, then more work until midnight. The house was only intended for habitation in the warmer months so winter was particularly hard.

At the time Holz’s friend Johannes Schlaf was facing his own crisis, depressed about the imminent end of his studies, uncertain if his path lay in writing. In 1888 Holz invited Schlaf to live with him in Niederschönhausen and collaborate. Schlaf describes the bells tolling for the death of the first Kaiser just as they set to work. This not only puts a precise date stamp on the beginning of their collaboration – Wilhelm I died on 9 March 1888 – it also has huge symbolic resonance considering the two men were intent on overthrowing the old order and finding new forms to replace the literary orthodoxies of their day.

Former GDR guest house, Majakowskiring, adjacent to the site of Holz and Schlaf’s summer house

Former GDR guest house, Majakowskiring, adjacent to the site of Holz and Schlaf’s summer house

Holz was the dominant character, both personally and creatively, Schlaf a ‘willing and malleable ally,’ in the summation of scholar Raleigh Whitinger. Conditions in the summer house were now, if anything, worse; at one point Holz complained of having absolutely no money nor means of securing any, and nothing beyond a slice of bread and dripping for sustenance. Holz and Schlaf’s greatest indulgence seemed to be smoking, and their darkest moments struck whenever the tobacco ran out.

But: there was some alchemy in the combination of these two brooding malcontents that actually produced something akin to joy from these unpromising elements. Here between the palace and the Panke, Holz and Schlaf created a a humble yet convivial hideaway, a writer’s residency in semi-rural seclusion, a bohemian community of two. Their later conflict appeared pre-programmed, but Holz referred to their collaboration and cohabitation as a ‘precious idyll’ and even at the time Schlaf made the poignant, prophetic observation: ‘We know these are the happiest days’.

Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf

Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf

This quiet town on the edge of a heath was a long way from the smoky taverns and chronically overcrowded tenement apartments of central Berlin. But Holz and Schlaf were still regularly drawn – whether for work, for pleasure or for cheap meals – to the centre (it wasn’t walking distance, but walk the distance they would whenever they couldn’t afford the horse-drawn tram). This ambivalent relationship with the city was a typical bohemian trait. Think of the encampment of non-conformists in Montmartre at the time – semi-rural still, but in reach of central Paris. To the east of Berlin, writers and artists were starting to visit Friedrichshagen, and would soon establish a colony there.

Holz abandoned his novel and the two put their bold plans into action. Their first joint work was a closely observed story about a young woman fending off a sexual assault by her uncle, demonstrating not just their fearlessness in the face of taboo but also their alertness to female experience. What little this work owed to the literary conventions of the day was entirely swept away by their next venture. In January 1889 writer Gerhart Hauptmann came to visit them and they read him a new work, Papa Hamlet. This radical and unsettling work marked the explosive launch of Naturalism in Germany and foretold literary developments decades into the future.

Behold! The mighty Panke.

Behold! The mighty Panke.

The title novella of Papa Hamlet depicts a bohemian existence clearly informed by the writers’ own experience, but their experiment offered nothing of the claustrophobic mania and constant imminence of disaster which haunt their odious protagonist Niels Thienwiebel and his little family. Before their bitter split they recalled both the hardship and the happiness of their sanctuary:

Our little ‘shack’ hung as airy as a bird’s nest in the middle of a wondrous winter landscape; from our desks, where we sat wrapped up to our noses in large red woollen blankets, we could walk out over a snowy patch of heath which was teeming with crows, study the most wondrously coloured sunsets every evening, but the winds blew on us from all sides through the poorly grouted little windows, and despite the forty fat coal bricks that we put into the stove every morning, our fingers were often so frozen that we were forced to temporarily stop our work for this reason alone. And sometimes we had to quit for completely different reasons. For example, when we returned from Berlin, where we always went for lunch – taking a whole hour, through ice and snow, because it was ‘cheaper’ there – we would crawl back into our little nest, still hungry …

Those red blankets, by the way, reappear in Papa Hamlet. This recollection appeared in an 1892 anthology which brought together their entire collaborative oeuvre, around 300 pages in total – the three parts of Papa Hamlet, the drama The Selicke Family, along with the ‘The Paper Passion’ and three other short stories. This lowered the slab on their experiment; by the time the anthology was published they had fallen out and gone their separate ways. Not only did they never reconcile, through their writing they exchanged barbs for decades, each disputing the other’s contribution to the works that appeared under their names. Holz and Schlaf were each troubled in their own ways, and neither seems to have ever recovered the productive contentment they found in Niederschönhausen.

A time-travelling Holz would find little change in the Schloss and the linden-shaded pathways of its elegant gardens where he would take his pre-coffee constitutional. And on the adjacent Panke – a waterway inconspicuous to the point of invisibility on its route through Berlin’s north – you can see what Holz and Schlaf saw, and understand its appeal. But Majakowskiring is an odd, slightly careworn place today; it clearly has some expensive real estate, yet its roadway has seen better days and its pavements are strangers to weeding. On the site of Holz and Schlaf’s summer house now stands a modern home surrounded by CCTV cameras. There is nothing here to suggest that on this spot, in the late 1880s, two querulous outsiders were already dragging German literature into the 20th century.


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Papa Hamlet by Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf (translated by James J. Conway) will be published in English for the first time on 18 October 2021. More information here.

Naturalism: dispatches from the gutter

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The next Rixdorf Editions title is Papa Hamlet by Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf, due out in October. Originally published in 1889, it is a work that rewards examination from numerous different perspectives – as a mirror to the authors’ bohemian subculture, as a premonition of Postmodernism, or as an example of the surprisingly rich tradition of pseudo-translation. But let’s start by zooming out with some literary history context and examining Holz and Schlaf’s works as key examples of Naturalism. In particular, I want to show the transformation that the movement underwent as it arrived in Germany, a process in which Papa Hamlet was pivotal.

Naturalism is frequently misunderstood. First, the term is often used interchangeably with Realism, the movement from which it emerged (and in truth the demarcations are at times unclear). Second, the designation of ‘Naturalism’, referring to a particular style in a specific period, is also sometimes mistaken for small-‘n’ naturalism, as applied to means of expression – acting styles, filmmaking, visual arts – which appear to forego artifice. And third, the reception of specifically German Naturalism is dominated by a handful of works, particularly the heavy-handed dramas of Gerhart Hauptmann, which belie the richness and experimentation of the wider movement.

Arno Holz

For much of the second half of the 19th century, Realism was the predominant form of serious literature in Germany (and much of the rest of Europe). After the 1848 pan-European revolts, Realist writers like Theodor Fontane, Gottfried Keller and Adalbert Stifter rejected explicitly political concerns and the tempestuous subjectivity of Romanticism in favour of works which depicted life with a degree of impartiality. But there were limits; writers tended to stick to the bourgeois milieu of their readers, reluctant to shock them with psychological extremes, sexual license or the lives of the underclass.

Industrialisation and in particular urbanisation, which pressed different societal groups into confronting proximity, made it harder to overlook shocking disparities in living conditions, the ways in which both nature and nurture influenced character and social standing, or the rapidly changing status of women. Beginning around 1880, European writers otherwise classed as Realists – such as Émile Zola, Fyodor Dostoevsky and Henrik Ibsen – started admitting these vexed elements into their writing. This new engagement with uncomfortable realities, partly inspired by the objectivity inherent in the study of natural sciences, was termed ‘Naturalism’.

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German writer Arno Holz followed these foreign developments avidly, but he came to feel that even the panoramic social novels of Émile Zola didn’t go far enough. He distilled his conception of literature into a succinct formula: art = nature - x, and he believed that the nearer x was to zero the better. That is, creative works should reflect reality as closely as possible. He was intent on capturing real lives, and especially human speech patterns, with all their repetition, disruption and hesitation, with coarse, colloquial forms, and with the distinct regional dialects and sociolects which persisted in unified Germany. The minute attention to speech patterns reflected the influence of emerging mechanical recording devices. In contrast to Realist writers, who often kept their characters on mute during whole pages filled with descriptive text, Holz believed dialogue was the engine of literature.

Johannes Schlaf

Johannes Schlaf

Along with Johannes Schlaf, Gerhart Hauptmann, John Henry Mackay and brothers Julius and Heinrich Hart, Holz was a member of the Berlin literary group ‘Durch!’ (Through!). It was a name that reflected the dynamism of the age. Their 1886 manifesto contained statements like ‘Our highest artistic ideal is no longer antiquity, but modernity’ and ‘Modern writing should depict people with flesh and blood with all their passions in pitiless truth.’ But for the members of Durch!, these ideas went beyond the page, and they experimented with new forms of living, forming Berlin’s first major bohemian community. There was considerable cross-over between Naturalism and anarchist groups, as well as early advocates for gay rights. The movement also found an outpost in Munich, where Michael Georg Conrad established the influential journal Die Gesellschaft (Society) and the literary group ‘Society for Modern Living’ to further Naturalist ideals.

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Arno Holz first met Johannes Schlaf, then an unpublished writer, in the mid-1880s and in 1889 the pair issued the first German book to incorporate these new ideas: Papa Hamlet (although initially credited to ‘Bjarne P. Holmsen’, an invented Norwegian writer). It signalled the arrival of Naturalism in Germany, but arguably went even further than its foreign reference points. Its crudity, its fragmentary exposition and its exploration of the darkest human impulses shocked contemporaries, although some, such as Gerhart Hauptmann, saw its potential for opening up new means of expression. That same year Hauptmann dedicated his breakthrough play Vor Sonnenaufgang (Before Sunrise) to ‘Holmsen’; to circumvent censorship, it was performed for subscription-only audiences at the Freie Bühne, a theatre closely associated with the Naturalists. This was also the venue for the first production of Die Familie Selicke (The Selicke Family, 1890), Holz and Schlaf’s sole play, a radical break with dramatic convention which attracted praise from the likes of Theodor Fontane.

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As well as censorship, the Naturalists’ frank treatment of subjects like crime, poverty and prostitution brought them enemies in high places – the highest office in the land, in fact. In 1894, when Berlin’s prestigious Deutsches Theater decided to stage Hauptmann’s Die Weber (The Weavers), a raw account of an uprising in Silesia, Kaiser Wilhelm II was so incensed that he cancelled his box at the theatre and ordered his coat of arms removed from the auditorium.

But what did these plays offer the people who did see them? Were they anything more than a vicarious opportunity for the bourgeoisie to peer into the lives of the underclass, to enjoy the frisson of slumming, to still their nostalgie de la boue? Did these works actually bring change to the lives of the people they depicted? These questions are at the heart of later criticism of the movement. Bertolt Brecht, for one, felt that the Naturalists had presented the squalor of the working class as immutable, a law of nature, something he described as ‘criminal’.

Gerhart Hauptmann

Gerhart Hauptmann

Hauptmann’s plays remain the most widely known examples of German Naturalism to this day, but they aren’t the whole story. The best Naturalist works were bursting with energy and invention, and Holz and Schlaf represented the capacity for vigorous experimentation that dwelt within the movement. As well as Papa Hamlet, their collaboration produced works like ‘The Paper Passion’ (included in our edition). Set in a Berlin tenement, its spoken sections – at times astonishingly vulgar – are largely in Berlinerisch, making it one of the first examples of serious literature rendered in the metrolect. In ‘The Paper Passion’ Holz and Schlaf’s radical rethinking of means extends to the very typesetting, with spoken passages printed in a larger font, descriptive text reduced to something like stage directions.

Naturalist writers like Richard Dehmel, Otto Julius Bierbaum and Anna Croissant-Rust fused previously discrete forms; witness the latter’s uncompromisingly alien 1893 title Prose Poems (included with our edition of Death). Her friend Oskar Panizza took Naturalism to the edge of rational thought – and beyond. Other Naturalist writers produced short, sharp sketches which defied categorisation, or collage-style narratives which mimicked the tumult of impressions offered by busy city streets. Among the innovative techniques that emerged from the movement was Sekundenstil (a term first coined in connection with Papa Hamlet), which rendered scenes in real-time analogue, second by second. Naturalist writers were dismantling the familiar infrastructure of literature and exploring the occluded recesses of the human psyche in ways we more readily associate with Modernism.

Anna Croissant-Rust

Anna Croissant-Rust

Naturally these radical, jagged works were no more welcome to conservative critics than Hauptmann’s dramas of proletarian misery. In any case the reign of Naturalism was relatively brief and non-exclusive. It ran in parallel with late Realism, and in 1891 – just two years after Papa Hamlet and Before Sunrise – writer and critic Hermann Bahr was already talking about ‘Overcoming Naturalism’, the title of one of his most famous essays. The movement was soon eclipsed by a complex set of inter-connected styles – Symbolism, Decadence, Neo-Romanticism – summarised in Germany under the French loan term ‘Fin de siècle’, with Expressionism looming beyond the horizon of the new century, waiting to claim the attentions of Germany’s avant-garde. In 1901 Wilhelm II gave a speech in which he took aim at ‘gutter art’, widely assumed to include Naturalism, but by then it was already history.


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Papa Hamlet by Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf (translated by James J. Conway) will be published in English for the first time on 18 October 2021. More information here.

The Countess

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Franziska zu Reventlow was born 150 years ago today in Husum, on Germany’s North Sea coast. Her story – aristocrat born in luxury who ran away from her family to dwell among the ragged bohemians and live a life of daring, free love and independence before dying young in exile – is irresistible. She was captured in numerous contemporary and retrospective accounts and also appeared lightly fictionalised in a number of prose works – including her own, such as The Guesthouse at the Sign of the Teetering Globe, which I translated in 2017.

One of the most interesting profiles of the Countess comes to us from the anarchist writer Erich Mühsam, published as a newspaper article in 1928 then collected in his memoirs in 1931. While fragmentary, it is particularly valuable because Mühsam, uniquely, knew Reventlow in all three major stations of her life – Lübeck, Munich and Ascona, Switzerland. Mühsam was born in Berlin but like Reventlow, he moved to Lübeck with his family in infancy. Like her, too, he gravitated to bohemian Munich in the closing years of the 19th century. And, like her and a number of other idealistic refuseniks from Germany and beyond he ended up in Ascona prior to World War One. Hermann Hesse, Hugo Ball, Isadora Duncan, Paul Klee, Mary Wigman and Max Weber were all in Ascona and its proto-hippy ‘Monte Verità’ colony at one time or other. One of the most eccentric figures of this community features, briefly, in Mühsam’s text – Otto Gross, the pro-matriarchy, polyamorous neo-pagan bohemian, coke addict, anarchist, psychiatrist cum psychiatry patient. And it was in Ascona and through Gross that Mühsam, as he relates, was instrumental in the absurd episode of Reventlow’s second marriage, which she fictionalised in her novel Der Geldkomplex (The Money Complex).

Mühsam was serving time in prison for pacifist agitation when Reventlow died, in the last summer of World War One. Less than a year later, in 1919, he was involved in the extraordinary ‘Räterepublik’, when a group of writers and utopians established a socialist government in Bavaria (see Volker Weidermann’s Dreamers for more). It lasted only a few weeks but earned Mühsam a much longer prison sentence; he was finally released in the 1924 amnesty which also put Adolf Hitler back on the streets.

As a Jewish anarchist who had been instrumental in a left-wing takeover, Mühsam was high on the Nazis’ hit list when they came to power in January 1933. The Reichstag fire the following month signalled a new intensity in persecution of the new regime’s enemies; the parliament building was literally still smouldering when Mühsam was arrested. Over months he was subjected to horrific torture and finally executed in July 1934.


Erich Mühsam

The Countess

translated by James J. Conway

 

As children we had been neighbours. But in Lübeck, Franziska zu Reventlow was no more a playmate of mine than her brothers. We knew each other by sight, I knew that the old count had been in Schleswig’s Landdrost until the Prussians deposed him in 1864. It was said that he remained entirely Danish in disposition and withdrew to non-Prussian Lübeck in protest against the annexation of Schleswig-Holstein. But this may all be small town gossip. In any case, I remember that such things were said of Count Reventlow. The Countess, his daughter, never confirmed it to me; nor did I ever ask her anything of the sort. Anyone interested in the family history of the Reventlows should read the Countess’s autobiographical novel Ellen Olestjerne, a book which incidentally she did not enjoy being reminded of; ‘sentimental rubbish,’ she called her début.

The young Franziska zu Reventlow

The young Franziska zu Reventlow

From my high school days I very clearly remember the dazzlingly beautiful blonde seminarian whom they used to refer to then as ‘Komtesse Reventlow’. She walked the same route to school as me, so I saw her every day and greeted her politely – whether out of an early suscepitiblity to feminine charms – the Countess was, after all, several years older than me – or out of respect for her fine, noble name, which critical experience had not yet driven out of my fifteen-year-old self, I can no longer say. What is certain is that the admiration was entirely one-sided and it was only about twelve years later that I finally confessed the puerile sentiments of distant veneration to their object.

Café Luitpold, Munich

Café Luitpold, Munich

I don’t remember exactly how our acquaintance came about in Café Luitpold in Munich; I probably sat down with friends of hers and she joined them, or it may have been the other way round, that Maya or someone else who appeared in the Countess’s diaries dragged me to her table. Our shared home town provided material for all sorts of amusing reflections, and I believe it was at our very first meeting that the Countess told me that those of us from Lübeck who were scattered across the fields of literature, art, and bohemia were the subject of anxious conversation at an evening hosted by the mayor of our town. Thomas Mann had grievously offended Lübeck’s decency with Buddenbrooks, Heinrich Mann with Professor Unrat, Fritz Behn was not yet a professor and, he too the offspring of a senatorial family, had thrown himself into the poor man’s art of sculpture, and even Reventlow, a countess, was the mother of an illegitimate child, and I not only wrote highly immoral poetry, but was also a propagandist for anarchism and had preoccupied the police and the public prosecutor – it was a lot all at once, and His Magnificence, as the Countess had heard from an ear witness, was most concerned by this woeful state of affairs; shaking his head sadly he said: ‘That they all should be from Lübeck – what must the people in the Reich think of us!’

The young Erich Mühsam

The young Erich Mühsam

As for the Countess, it was of absolutely no account to her what people in the Reich, people in Lübeck, and especially people of the caste from which she came might think. She went her way and lived as it suited her and as she believed she owed to her life’s work. This life’s work, however, was focused almost entirely on caring for and bringing up her child. Among all the rich qualities that distinguished Franziska zu Reventlow, her wondrous courage in facing life despite eternal illness, eternal misfortune and agonising poverty, the way she subjected her words and deeds solely to the laws of her own moral conscience as a matter of course, unconcerned about conventions and social prejudices, the energy for work which enabled her to do simple sewing work one day, glass paintings the next, and in between precious translations from French and to write her superior, humorous, stylistically excellent novels – among all these virtues, the woman’s spiritual stability rested entirely on her motherly love. Admittedly, she was far too hungry for life and artistically animated not to surrender to the whims of her sensual desires without hesitation, with a character that was far too cheerful not to disregard the vexatious misery of existence with incomparable ease, exuberance even. But she drew her inner happiness solely from the riches she gained from the growth, from the physical and mental prosperity of her child, her Bubi. It is only from her diaries that one learns the pain to which the high-spirited heart of this mother was subject, what turmoil of longing every brief separation from the child aroused in her. I believe that the amicable favour the Countess showed me through all the years of our acquaintance was essentially a reflection of the joy that working with children inspires in me and which earns me the trust of all children. The friendship that tired little Rolf extended to me was shared by his mother and I fulfilled the role of father confessor in her many hardships and worries, as witnessed by numerous letters which I keep which reach back to 1907.

Reventlow and son Rolf (‘Bubi’)

Reventlow and son Rolf (‘Bubi’)

In the letters there is much talk of the ‘good Lord’. Under this umbrella term the Countess collected everything that made her life bitter: illness, debts, misfortune of all kinds; and I have scarcely known anyone so incessantly pursued by misfortune as this woman, who truly deserved every joy, possessed to the point of genius as she was by the ability to enjoy and utilise happiness. I think wistfully how she sat in her room for weeks, hundreds of glasses all around her, decorating them with painted landscapes of Oberammergau, the theatre, the most touching scenes of the Passion of Christ and other pious things. She had come up with the idea of ​​relieving her hardship by selling souvenirs at Oberammergau where the Passion Play was imminent. She did in fact go there, sitting in a wooden booth in front of the theatre from morning to evening, waiting for the American millionaires who would buy her glasses. But it rained the whole time, and besides, the souvenirs were far too cheap for rich people to buy. So she came back to Schwabing with almost the whole stock and increased debt. The Countess could no longer stand the sight of the glasses which had been completely devalued by painting, so she decided to drown them in all their splendour. She hired a boat in the Englischer Garten, rowed to the middle of the Kleinhesseloher See and was about to launch the massive package with the Passion glasses overboard when a park attendant appeared and yelled at her that dropping objects in the lake was forbidden, with a high penalty. The fact that she could not even carry out the death sentence on the souvenirs crushed the poor Countess even more than the whole failure of Oberammergau.

Reventlow in Munich

Reventlow in Munich

In my publication ‘Ascona. A Brochure’ I dealt extensively with one of the most peculiar personalities who enlivened the beautiful landscape there on Lake Maggiore. He was a Baltic baron named Rechenberg, a huge fellow who had lived a bold sailor’s life all over the world and as a gold panner in the Urals, had completely lost his hearing on some adventure or other and stood out from the abstinent vegetarians in particular because he devoured enormous amounts of meat at every meal and was constantly drunk. This man dearly loved an Italian washerwoman who, however, wished to have nothing to do with the deaf drunkard because she lived quite happily with her husband. Rechenberg had a wealthy father who still lived in his native Courland and he was constantly calculating how he would change his life when he eventually came into his inheritance, which he estimated at around two hundred thousand marks.

Alexander von Rechenberg-Linten

Alexander von Rechenberg-Linten

In the last years of her time in Munich, Countess Reventlow’s circle of friends included the psychoanalyst Dr. Otto Gross and the economist Professor Edgar Jaffé, who later became finance minister in Eisner’s revolutionary government. Gross wanted to help the Countess, in his ingenious and fascinating way, by having her view all of her worries and suffering as the effect of mental complexes and thereby dissolve them; Jaffé offered her a position as private secretary. She fluctuated, back and forth, between the strong impressions of psychoanalysis, which she ironised most humorously, as well as the prospect of maintaining a stable existence on the one hand, and on the other an offer to take up a position as a cashier at an art exhibition in Paris that would to some extent slake her thirst for experience. In the end she decided to go to Paris. During this time – around the autumn of 1910 – a friend of mine arrived in Munich from Ascona and told me the following: the father of Baron Rechenberg had just set up in Ascona and wished to see his son married. This apparently gave Rechenberg junior the idea of helping the beloved washerwoman, as he could not have her, by making her little daughter his heir. Under Russian law, if he died unwed his father’s inheritance would pass to his siblings after his death. But if he were married, he would have testamentary disposition. So Rechenberg apparently wanted him to ask me whether I knew a woman who might like to enter into a fictitious marriage contract with him. As soon as he took over the inheritance, she would receive half of the property immediately, but could not make any claims on the other half, which would be reserved for the washerwoman’s child. Naturally there would be no further obligations arising from the marriage.

When I heard the proposal, I immediately cried: ‘The Countess!’ I had said goodbye to her that morning because she was going to leave for Paris the next day. I rushed to her apartment immediately and left her a note stating that she had to come and see me. She came in the evening.

Monte Verità

Monte Verità

‘You know what, Countess,’ I said, ‘you’re going to be a baroness.’ – ‘You must be crazy,’ she replied, and then I explained the story to her. ‘What’s the chap’s name?’ she asked after a moment’s thought, and then said: ‘Rechenberg is very practical. I won’t even need to re-stitch the monograms on my handkerchiefs.’ She instructed me to investigate the legal situation under Russian law, to get in direct contact with the Courlander and to do everything that might further the cause. She left, and I went to work, glad of the chance to help the most precious woman I knew out of poverty and failure once and for all, while at the same time creating a comfortable future for a poor Italian child of the proletariat and gladdening the heart of the well-meaning drunkard.

Erich Mühsam

Erich Mühsam

It may suffice to know that the marriage actually took place. The Countess described the ceremony in the church at Locarno in a charming letter; she appeared in a beach dress, her husband in a sailor’s uniform, and her father-in-law in a frock coat and top hat; he had no idea that the whole thing was a farce and was overjoyed that his failure of a son had even been bagged a real Countess. By the time he found out what was behind the marriage, it was too late.

Then – I think it was in 1912 – I received a card stating that the inheritance was due. ‘I hope the harvest isn’t bad.’ Well, there were long proceedings and finally not hundreds of thousands, but around four thousand francs, still a fabulous sum for the Countess.

Mühsam (r.) and bohemian friends in Ascona.

Mühsam (r.) and bohemian friends in Ascona.

What happened next the happy heiress herself hinted at in her sumptuous novel The Money Complex. In a letter to me in which she reported the episode, she complained merely of her own folly in the fact that for the first time in her life she had done something that was perfectly, correctly bourgeois, namely, handing the money over to a bank. She went to Nice with a small sum. From there she quoted from an alarming telegram, and when she arrived in Locarno, the bank, one of the most important Swiss institutions, had just collapsed and the entire inheritance had gone to the devil. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been a blessing attached to the money,’ she said ruefully in her letter to me, but at the same time felt the whole story was very much in keeping.

Reventlow in Ascona, shortly before the First World War

Reventlow in Ascona, shortly before the First World War

After that I only saw the Countess once, when the war was already under way. Her marriage made her a Russian and therefore an ‘enemy alien’. Now she came to me and complained that her boy, who was sixteen at the time, wanted to sign up. ‘He thinks the war is Cowboys and Indians,’ she said disconsolately. Fortunately her Bubi wasn’t accepted at the time, and when he was conscripted two years later the brave Countess outdid herself in maternal love by bringing him to safety at her own risk. How that transpired, however, does not belong in my memoirs, least of all apolitical memoirs.

Rolf, Franziska zu Reventlow

Rolf, Franziska zu Reventlow

In the summer of 1918, when I was interned in Traunstein, I received the news that Franziska zu Reventlow had died. It was hard to believe. This dead woman I greet with deep admiration. Except for her name, nothing about her was undermined by the mustiness of the past. Her life, her vision, her thinking were directed towards the future; she was someone who knew the meaning of freedom, a person without prejudice, without fetters of tradition, with no diffidence before the philistinism of her surroundings. And she was a joyful person whose joy came from the most profound gravity of character. When she laughed, her mouth and her whole face laughed, and it was a pleasure to behold. But her eyes, her large, deep blue eyes, remained grave and immobile amid her laughing features. The Countess was a beautiful woman, with radiant physical appeal, and her heart was filled with the longing for a beautiful, free human existence.


‘The Countess’ by Erich Mühsam was first published in German as ‘Die Gräfin’ in the Vossische Zeitung, Berlin, no. 295, 24 June 1928; first book publication in Unpolitische Erinnnerungen by Offizin Haag-Drugulin, Leipzig, in 1931.

This translation © 2021 James J. Conway

Unimagined delight: August Endell 150

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Architect, designer and theorist August Endell was born in Berlin 150 years ago today. In 2018 I translated and published his major text, The Beauty of the Metropolis, Endell’s love-letter to Berlin and to cities in general. Originally published in 1908, this visionary essay presented readers with new ways of looking at the urban environment. Also included in this edition were six articles that Endell wrote for the journal Die neue Gesellschaft in 1905 which show him arriving at the theses in his main work through meticulous observation and profound reflection.

What struck me when I first read The Beauty of the Metropolis and these articles was their force of prophecy, describing a way of seizing aesthetic ownership of our surroundings that felt extraordinarily contemporary. Lyrical and insightful, his words expressed thoughts I had harboured about the city, about belonging, about an engagement with culture and habitat that transcended nationhood. To mark Endell’s sesquicentenary I want to go even further back to two similarly oracular articles (plus a snippet), originally published either side of the beginning of the 20th century.

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In 1897, August Endell was living in Munich, then Germany’s hub for avant-garde arts and letters, and was best known for a work of outspoken art criticism he had issued the year before, Um die Schönheit (On Beauty). In it Endell held that ‘those who learn to give in to their visual impressions completely, without associations, without secondary objects of any kind, those who just once feel the emotional impact of forms and colours, will find them to be an inexhaustible source of extraordinary, unimagined pleasure.’ Endell set out his primary aesthetic theories which remained remarkably consistent throughout his career, and attracted praise from the likes of Lou Andreas-Salomé.

Endell was in touch with the most progressive currents of Munich through his friends Anita Augspurg and Sophia Goudstikker, partners in business and life who ran a photo studio (the first solely female-owned business in Germany) from where they also operated a salon. For the November 1897 edition of Munich-based journal Dekorative Kunst (Decorative Art), Endell wrote ‘Freude an der Form’ (Joy in Form), a momentous text that made the case for abstraction in art – ‘forms that mean nothing and represent nothing and remind us of nothing’ – before artists themselves. He also equated this new art with music, the kind of association Wassily Kandinsky would apply when he actually made the first works acknowledged as non-figurative art on the eve of World War One, with titles referencing ‘compositions’ and ‘variations’ (even earlier abstract works by the likes of Hilma af Klint were not recognised at the time). Kandinsky, it should be noted, was active in the same bohemian Munich circles as Endell; in the late 1890s they lived on the same street in Schwabing, the city’s alternative centre of the time, and it is probable yet not conclusively proven that they knew each other.

‘Joy in Form’ was actually the opener of a three-part series under the rubric ‘Formenschönheit und decorative Kunst’ (Beauty of Forms and Decorative Art), which explains the inconclusive conclusion. The two other parts of the series were similarly ahead of their time, addressing ‘the straight line’ and ‘linear structures’ respectively. Endell then distilled his thoughts on this coming art into a highly potent dose – just one paragraph, under the heading ‘Formkunst’ (Art of Forms) stuck at the end of the March 1898 edition of Dekorative Kunst like an afterthought. Endell’s theories were still just theories, but not for long.

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We catch up with Endell again in 1902, after he has returned to Berlin with bride Else Plötz (who later found cult renown as the ‘Dada Baroness’, Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven). He has been very busy in the intervening years. He has left Munich behind, but also left it with a hugely radical structure, the most conspicuous and contested example of the new style known as Jugendstil – a refurbishment of the photo studio owned by his friends Augspurg and Goudstikker, the Fotoatelier Elvira. Its façade boasts a striking design resembling a dragon, a wave, or – nothing; art historian Erich Franz calls it ‘the first abstract work in art history’. Endell has also designed a sanatorium on the island of Föhr and the Buntes Theater in Berlin, writhing with the vegetal forms which were his specialty. In each case Endell insists on designing everything, including wall fixtures and furnishings, right down to individual door handles, in line with Jugendstil’s conception of itself as an all-enveloping solution to the built environment.

But the style was not widely adopted, and never threatened to unseat historicism as the dominant mode of public and private architecture in Germany. This was not just something in the air – it was a top-down command from Kaiser Wilhelm II himself, who loathed modern forms and was never shy of intervening in the cultural life of his subjects. Art and architecture, he held, had been perfected in the past, so all that was left for the creative professional was to combine these inherited forms in new ways; seeking to replace them, on the other hand, was ‘hubris’. Endell, who disdained historicism with comparable zeal, targeted the big guy himself in an open letter in February 1902.

Shortly after this, Endell turned his thoughts to ‘Originalität und Tradition’ (Originality and Tradition) for the journal Deutsche Kunst und Dekoration (German Art and Decoration). His piece was illustrated with his designs for the Buntes Theater and items of furniture, amid numerous other examples of high-end Jugendstil in the issue. In his article Endell renews his attack on historicism and defends modern currents in art and culture; the astute contemporary reader may have picked up on the reference to ‘hubris’ and other callbacks to the Kaiser’s pronouncements. But Endell also considers how new styles might be codified and communicated to create a new tradition that would replace vacuous pastiche.

Here, before Walter Gropius had even begun studying architecture, Endell calls for a fearless embrace of new forms, rejection of unreflective national pathos, an approach to design that reflects its age. He advocates a fusion of art, design and architecture stripped of mystical reverence, ‘concentration on forms and colours’, and a means of defining, refining, and consolidating new creative principles and transmitting them to the next generation. These are all qualities that the Bauhaus would come to embody almost two decades later. Endell comes close to ‘form follows function’ (the maxim coined by architect Louis Sullivan in 1896) but pulls away, unable to relinquish the inspiration of nature in ornament, refusing to see it as ‘brute barbarism’ – almost ten years before Adolf Loos equated ornament with crime. Yet here, as in his writings at the close of the previous century, he advocates a radical reduction and reassessment of means.

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Two years later, Endell opened his own small ‘Formschule’ out of his apartment in Berlin, where he also wrote The Beauty of the Metropolis. By the time the First World War broke out Endell had enriched his city with a hotel, a racetrack and a design for the main courtyard of the Hackesche Höfe, which showed the growing concision of his design vocabulary. During the war, when the art and design school in Weimar was looking for a new director, August Endell was on the short list. Yet the job went to Walter Gropius, who transformed the school into the Bauhaus and sparked an aesthetic revolution in the young Weimar Republic and the entire world under principles which, even if they weren’t aware of it, had been proposed by August Endell.

Endell, meanwhile was granted directorship of a similar institution in Breslau (Wrocław) but, with his ever-fragile health declining further, he retired to Berlin, where he died in 1925.


August Endell

Joy in Form

translated by James J. Conway

 

In the increasingly vehement demand for a new style in architecture and applied arts, for a new, unique and autonomous means of decoration, we hear discordant voices of warning from cautious individuals who, from the lofty height of their mature experience and their perception, elucidated and deepened by extensive historical studies, smile pityingly at the foolish doings of the young and are always willing to show the public the one true path. They teach us that there can be no new forms, that all possibilities have been exhausted in the styles of the past, that all art consists in the use of all these forms with individual nuances. Yes, they even sell us the pitiful eclecticism of the last few decades as the new style.

To those who know, this want of courage seems merely ridiculous. Because they clearly see that we are not only at the beginning of a new stylistic period, but also at the beginning of the development of a completely new art; art with forms that mean nothing and represent nothing and remind us of nothing, which stir our souls as deeply, as strongly, as only music can do with sound.

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The barbarian hates our music; it takes culture and education to enjoy them. And the joy of form must be attained; you must learn to see it, to immerse yourself in the form. We have to discover our eyes. It is true that people have long unconsciously delighted in form, its development can be clearly traced in the history of the visual arts, but it is not yet a permanent, captive possession. Painters have taught us much; but their primary goal was always colour, and wherever they looked for form, they mostly looked for the intellectually characteristic through an exact reproduction of its object, not the aesthetically characteristic which nature seldom offers in the dimensions a painter requires, and only accidentally.

If we wish to understand and measure formal beauty, we must learn to view it in isolation. It is to the details that we must direct our attention, to the shape of a tree root, to the base of a leaf, the stem, to the structure of tree bark, the lines forming the turbid foam on the shores of a lake. We must not glide carelessly over the forms, we must follow them closely with our eyes, witness every bend, every curve, every expansion, every contraction, in short every change in form. Because we only see precisely with one point in our field of vision, and only what we can see clearly can affect our emotions. But when we see in this way, a new, hitherto unknown world of enormous richness arises before us. It awakens a thousand moods in us. New sensations all the time with new nuances, unexpected transitions. Nature seems alive and we now understand that there really are such things as grieving trees and mischievously malicious branches, chaste grasses and terrifying flowers. Admittedly, not everything exerts such an impression, there is no lack of the dull, insignificant and ineffectual, but the watchful eye will perceive everywhere, in every field, forms of wondrous stimuli that shake our entire soul.

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This is the power of form over our mind, a direct immediate effect with no intercessory links, certainly not the consequence of anthropomorphism, or personification. When we speak of a grieving tree, we by no means think of the tree as a living being that mourns, we merely believe that it arouses the sensation of grieving in us. Or if we say a fir tree is striving upwards, we are not investing it with a soul; expressing the occurrence of ‘striving’ merely makes it easier for the mind of the listener to generate the successively emerging image of the upright. These are simply linguistic stopgaps to replace the lack of words and to more readily evoke vivid perception.

Nor is it memory that gives forms their significance for our emotions. A circle may bring to mind the ring, and thus fidelity and eternity, but it can just as easily evoke bondage, serfdom and slavery, and so the circle arouses first one, then another sensation in us. But such sensations have as little significance for the art of forms as the memories that an individual associates with the notes of a flute have in music.

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Also, one needn’t believe that the unconscious idea of the essence of an object only appears meaningful to us in its form. However, there is a certain parallelism between essence and appearance. A big tree seems strong to us, and it is. But it appears so to us long before we know its true strength. And form and inner being do not always correspond. An angry man often looks amusing enough and a hollow tree just as strong as a healthy one, stronger, even, and more colossal with its torn bark. The path does not lead from essence to appearance, no, it’s the reverse – the appearance offers us initial insight into the essence. We transfer the impression created by the form to the inner being of the object and, through the above-mentioned parallelism, we are usually correct. Think for instance of the instinctive fear felt by animals and children. The form immediately arouses the sensation, there is no intervening psychological event of which we are aware. And unconscious events explain everything and precisely for that reason – nothing.

‘But then how do we explain the sensation of form?’ – it is the ones who have never experienced it who ask this the loudest. I could answer, but this is not the place for that; you can enjoy music without knowing how chords and chord progressions are able to rouse us so powerfully. However, in order to calm the sceptics and make it easier for them to enter the world of forms, I will attempt to describe the effects of sensation in their formal elements and compositions and at least suggest a psychological explanation, to the extent that one may do so without lengthy discussion.


August Endell

Art of Forms

translated by James J. Conway

 

There is an art which nobody seems to know about yet: the art of forms, which stirs people’s souls solely through forms that do not resemble anything known, that do not represent or symbolise anything, which operate through freely found forms like music through free sounds. But people don’t wish to know about it, they cannot enjoy that which their intellect fails to understand, and so they invented programme music, which means something, and programme decoration, which resembles something, to prove their right to exist. And yet there will come a time when monuments will rise up in parks and public places that are neither people nor animals, fantastical forms which will transport people to intoxicating rapture and unimagined delight.


August Endell

Originality and Tradition

translated by James J. Conway

 

The advocates of newer artistic endeavours stand accused, ad nauseam, of disregarding all traditions, of seeking to start from scratch with no models whatsoever, of looking down on all past artistic practice with contempt, and refusing to profit from past experience as a matter of principle. Over and over we hear that art and proficiency existed before our times and that to ostentatiously set oneself above these past treasures is a ridiculous craving for originality, arrogance and boundless hubris. Well, the evil moderns are not as bad as all that, but it cannot be denied that they in fact have made it their ambition to invent the forms they use themselves, although not by assembling them from books or even with the help of photographs or casts. But is that really so outrageous? We would readily mock a poet, a composer, a painter or sculptor if he were naive enough to copy existing art works in whole or in part and then issue them as his own. In architecture, however, not only are we to allow this, it is to be the only possible form of artistic work. Admittedly, work in architecture and the applied arts more often leads to the use of alien forms than other areas; partly because the need for such work is infinitely large by comparison, and also because truly original artists are as rare here as anywhere else.

Added to this is the technical difficulty and the high cost of execution, which greatly restrict if not nullify the opportunities for trying out case by case, and it stands to reason that once someone has found the artistic solution for overcoming a technical difficulty – for instance in a door lintel or a vault – others will readily follow in the same direction. And so there is indeed a greater stability of forms in architecture than in other arts. That is why we only speak of styles, in the true sense, in architecture and applied arts. But closer inspection reveals this stability to be merely illusory, and in times of vibrant artistic spirit, innumerable variations can be found within a given style. We know, for example, that in the mid-19th century the lone master carpenter would make it his ambition to give each new customer a new shape of chair. This was an entirely healthy form of applied arts and one could never seriously object to this kind of re-creation; it is in the nature of things. But it is not here that the moderns direct their polemic, but against the hideous, ‘scientifically precise’ imitation of old stylistic forms. For the reproduction will seldom be precise and the want of love in the creation will scarcely escape the attentive eye. There is a difference between giving of your own and stealing something else. Stealing is not a creative activity. But even if ‘the perfected means of the present day’ should render the imitation precise, this still leaves the incongruity between the stolen and the self-fashioned, because unfortunately in earlier times they were not kind enough to build model houses and cupboards that reflected the needs of their grandchildren. And so we are left with no alternative but to at least design the form of our rooms and their sequence ourselves. Our external life alone differs in a thousand ways from the life before us, through our changed relations with each other, our commercial life and not least the lighting we have developed. Even more important are the completely distinct social stratification, the unique pace of our life and the fundamentally different balance to our life and our happiness.

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All of this requires individual expression and truly it is better to be awkward and clumsy in expressing your own longings and desires than to feign artistry with stolen forms or to erect ostentatious buildings which, through their mendacity, are suited only to revealing the saddest qualities of our time. So there’s nothing for it, we really do need new forms.

In the past they responded by claiming that all forms were exhausted and that it was simply impossible to create anything new. No one would dare say that now. But the erstwhile devotees of these ideas declare simplicity, elegantly unadorned, to be the only worthwhile goal worth striving for. Ornament is secondary, brute barbarism even. Sadly the heralds of this doctrine offer little that is pleasing, and that little is stolen from the Biedermeier style, from the English and from the Americans. Naturally, the smooth angularity of these forms in combination with fine materials is astonishing. But after a while one senses this blasé scepticism, essentially too cowardly to live and to create, to be a sterile aberration. Inventing simple forms is not at all easy, and such forms cannot be the inception but only the fruit of long and intensive endeavour. First we have to learn to operate through complicated structures until we are sure enough to express a lot even with simple means. Of course, the supporters of that direction accuse the newer style of gimmickry and obtrusion. It is quite clear that every new thing that was created without models and on the basis of principles that had never before been followed is surprising in its effect, quite apart from any artistic element. The unfamiliar is simply conspicuous, and the viewer lacks all prerequisites and criteria by which to judge the congruity of the individual piece, since the very aim is newness by principle, and this principle is neither recognised nor acknowledged. But it is a rather disdainful tactic to interpret this fact as a base craving for admiration on the part of the new. Naturally every artist wishes to be noticed, but one must not forget that it also takes a little courage to apply a new, alien principle as a statute for one’s own work when no one can judge the effect in advance and everything is called into question; artistic reputation – not to mention material subsistence. For the rest, however, we don’t always need to conflate these questions with moral considerations right from the start.

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Of course, the moderns will often fail, exposing them to the ridicule of older colleagues. This results from the enormous difficulties in seeking your own salvation on a new pathway. We lack all support and, above all, every tradition. Because in reality the matter is this: it was not the moderns who destroyed tradition; tradition was destroyed by the conscious copyists of the 19th century, by the imitators of the Hellenic and the Renaissance, the Gothic and the other historical schools. This is because formulae for assembling new buildings in endless variations from drawing templates, photographs and casts really have nothing in common with artistic tradition; there is only one tradition for the artist and that is the tradition of artistic creation. One must see in person how an artist overcomes problems and obstacles. Only through such direct transferral can artistic sensibility and artistic proficiency be passed down from generation to generation and develop over time to ever greater richness, greater sharpness and surety. The passing down of rules and laws of craft, a perfect, precise, detailed handicraft tradition; for art is craft, a highly complex craft, yes, but one that by all means can be taught and learned through teaching. We must emphasise this, particularly nowadays, when time and again art is raised to the heavens as a mystical achievement, as a miracle and – despised, a view that has caused the most grievous damage to our entire artistic life. Art is nothing but work; it requires nothing more than a complete, detailed knowledge of the artistic effect; it demands unconditional, passionate devotion and awe. But it is not the product of erratic genius or even of unexpected ‘moods’. You can always tell dilettantes by their need for mood.

Certainly, learning arts and crafts is made far more difficult by the fact that we have no traditional rules and laws, and it must therefore be our most earnest endeavour to gain them and to ensure their general dissemination. This should first include a precise description of the tools and methods for studying nature, for seeking inspiration from past and foreign cultures, and above all a systematic knowledge of forms and colours. And naturally no more generalised phrases, not even the aesthetic phrases repeated ad nauseam about ‘construction’, about ‘simplicity’, about ‘material authenticity’, about ‘practicality’, the golden ratio or similarly fine things. Also no doctrines of male or female art, of the representation of ideals or the embodiment of historical ideas or even of the cosmos itself and the creation of the world. Instead we need clear, sober answers to the questions that the work presents to us. How you make a line hard, how you make it soft, calm, noble, smooth, elegant, how you make an ornament appear lighter and how you make it heavy. How heavy elements can be brought into harmony with each other. How you transform a vertical orientation into a horizontal orientation. How you make an outward protruding ornament float in the opposite direction. How you enrich a line, how you branch it out, how you arrange a bundle of lines, how far you can go in detail without negating the overall effect, and so on. In short, sure training of the eye for the effects of shape and colour. Only systematic practice and rigorous training will lead us there. Of course, initially we moderns can only pass on our own experience.


‘Joy in Form’ by August Endell was originally published in German as ‘Die Freude an der Form’, part of the series ‘Formenschönheit und dekorative Kunst’ (Beauty of Form and Decorative Art) in Dekorative Kunst, vol. 1, no. 2 (2 November 1897); ‘Art of Forms’ by August Endell was originally published in German as ‘Formkunst’ in Dekorative Kunst, vol. 1, no. 6 (6 March 1898). ‘Originality and Tradition’ by August Endell was originally published in German as ‘Originalität und Tradition’ in Deutsche Kunst und Dekoration, vol. 9, no. 6 (March 1902).

These translations © 2021 James J. Conway