How far we are away from the powerful but crass4 realism of 1880 I thought as I sat in the Lessing Theatre, Berlin, and waited for the curtain to rise on Gerhart Hauptmann's latest play, [Pg 204] The Flight of Gabriel Schilling (Gabriel Schilling's Flucht). And yet how much this poet and mystic owes to the French naturalistic movement of thirty odd years ago. It was Arno Holz and the young Hauptmann who stood the brunt of the battle in Germany for the new realism. Sudermann, too, joined in the fight, though later. Arthur Schnitzler was then a medical student in Vienna, and it was not till 1888 that he modestly delivered himself in a volume of verse, while Frank Wedekind, was just beginning to stretch his poetical6 limbs and savour life in Paris and London. (Eleven years later (1891) he gave us his most pregnant drama, young as he was, Spring's Awakening7.) It is only fair, then, to accord to the recent winner of the Nobel Prize, Gerhart Hauptmann, the credit due him as a path breaker in German literature, for if Arno Holz showed the way, Hauptmann filled the road with works of artistic8 value; even at his lowest ebb9 of inspiration he is significant and attractive.
But Hauptmann is something more than a realist; if he were only that I should not have begun my story with a reference to the Zola book sales. There were published a short time ago the complete works of Gerhart Hauptmann—poems, social plays, novels, and tales in six stately volumes. In glancing at the figures of his sales I could not help thinking of Zola. Whereas Nana stands high on the list, The Sunken Bell (Die Versunkene Glocke, translated [Pg 205] by Charles Henry Meltzer, and played in English by Julia Marlowe and Edward Sothern), has reached its eightieth edition, and remember that the German editions are sometimes two thousand or three thousand an edition. What the translation figures are I have no idea. The next in number to The Sunken Bell is The Weavers10, forty-three editions. Its strong note of pity, its picture of poignant11 misery12, and its eloquent13 cry for social justice, had much to do with the large sales. Hannele is number three in the order of sales, twenty-three editions being assigned to it. The same number stands for Der Arme Heinrich, not the best Hauptmann, and for that most moving human play, Rose Bernd—so marvellously enacted14 by Else Lehmann at the Lessing Theatre—there are eighteen editions. (These are 1913 figures.)
You can't help contrasting Parisian and Berlin taste, though the German capital is in the grip of pornographic literature and art. But it does indicate that a nation has not lost its idealism when it reads such a beautiful work, a work of such imagination as The Sunken Bell, does it not? I wish I could admire other of Hauptmann's work, such as Michael Kramer, Der Biberpalz, or the depressing Fuhrmann Henschel. And I also wish that I could include among his big works his latest, The Flight of Gabriel Schilling (written in 1906).
It is a drama, the story of slender interest, because the characters do not particularly interest—the [Pg 206] misunderstood humbug15 of a woman—but in an original setting, a little island on the east coast of Germany, called Fischmeisters Oye, the scenic16 side is very effective. The piece plays in five acts, one act too many, and is slow in action, and unusually wordy, even for the German stage, where the public likes dialogues a half-hour at a stretch. I shall not bore you with more than a glance at the chief situations. Gabriel Schilling is a young Berlin painter who is too fond of the Friedrichstrasse café life, which means wine, wenches, and an occasional song. His friend the sculptor17, Professor Maürer, has persuaded Gabriel to leave Berlin during the dog-days, leave what the text calls the "hot, stinking18 asphalt," and join him at the seaside. Gabriel has a wife, to whom he is not exactly nice, being fond of a Vienna lady, who bears the name of Hanna Elias. This Hanna Elias has played, still plays, the chief r?le in his miserable19 existence. He has promised to give her up, she has promised to go back to her husband and child (the latter supposed to be the offspring of Gabriel). So his flight to the east coast is a genuine attempt to gain his liberty; besides, his health is bad, he suffers from heart trouble. The play opens with the sculptor talking of Schilling in the ears of a young violinist, a dear friend, who is summering with him. Unconventional folk, all of them. Hauptmann gets his character relief by setting off the town visitors with a background of natives, fishermen, [Pg 207] working people. I wish there had been more of them, for with their uncouth20 accent, salt speech, and unconscious humour they are more refreshing21 than the city folk. Gabriel arrives. He looks sadly in need of sea air. I suppose Theodore Loos, who played the part, was coached by the dramatist, so I dare not criticise22 the validity of his interpretation23. I only know that he did not make the character sympathetic; perhaps that were an impossibility. In a word, with his mixture of vapid24 idealism and old-fashioned fatalism, he proved monotonous25 to me. The sculptor is a formidable bore, the antique raisonneur of French drama, preaching at every pore every chance he has. The actor who played him, Hans Marr, made up as a mixture of Lenbach the painter—when he was about forty-five—and the painter, etcher, and sculptor, Max Klinger. The violinist was Lina Lossen, and excellent in the part.
Act II is a capitally arranged interior of the inn, with the wooden shoes of the servant maid clopping around, where the inevitable26 happens. Hanna Elias, accompanied by a young Russian girl—whose German accent furnishes mild humour—promptly swoops27 down on the an?mic painter. There is brief resistance on his part. She tells him she can't, can't live without him—oh, thrice-familiar feminine music!—and with a double sob28 that shakes you in your seat the pair embrace. Curtain. The next act is frittered away in talk, the principal object seemingly [Pg 208] to show how much the sculptor hates Hanna. In Act IV Gabriel is ill. He has had a fall, but it is really a heart attack. A doctor, an old friend, is summoned from a neighbouring island. Unfortunately Mrs. Schilling, the neglected wife is informed by the not very tactful doctor that her husband is ill. She rushes up from Berlin, and the best, indeed the only, dramatic scene then ensues. She is not permitted to see the sick man. She demands the reason. She is naturally not told, for Hanna is nursing him. She can't understand, and it is the difficult task of Lucie Heil, the violinist, to get her away before the fat is in the fire. Unfortunately, at that critical moment, Hanna Elias walks calmly from Gabriel's sleeping chamber29. The row is soon on. Hanna was enacted by an emotional actress, Tilla Durieux, whose personality is forthright30, whose methods are natural. (Her Hedda Gabler is strong.) She dressed the character after the approved Friedrichstrasse style. You must know that the artistic Bohemienne wears her hair plastered at the sides of her head à la Merode. The eyes are always "done up," the general expression suggested, if the lady is dark, being that of Franz von Stuck's picture, Sin. To look mysterious, sinister31, exotic, ah! that appeals to the stout32, sentimental33 German beer heroes of the opera, theatre, and studio. Fr?ulein Durieux is entirely34 successful in her assumption of a woman who is "emancipated," who has thrown off the "shackles35" of [Pg 209] matrimony, who drinks beer in the morning, tea in the afternoon, coffee at night, and smokes cigarettes all the time. It is a pronounced type in Berlin. She talks art, philosophy, literature, and she daubs or plays or models. She is the best portrait in the play, though a thrice-familiar one. The poet showed this "misunderstood woman" in one of his early works, Before Sunrise.
Hanna Elias stands the reproaches and berating36 of Evelin Schilling until her patience fades. Then the two women, despite the warning of the doctor that his patient must not be disturbed, as it might prove fatal, go for each other like a pair of fishwives. It is exciting, though hardly edifying37. If you have ever seen two chickens, two hens, fight over the possession of a shining slug in a barnyard, then you will know what kind of a quarrel this is between the outraged38 wife, a feeble creature, and the bold, strong-willed Hanna. And the disputed booty is about as worthless as the slug. Gabriel appears. He is half dead from the excitement. A plague on both the women, he cries, and the scene closes with his whispered request to the doctor for poison to end his life. You remember Oswald Alving and his cry: "The sun, mother, give me the sun!" Act last shows the first scene, the beach, and a figurehead from a brig which had stranded39 during a storm some years before. This carved head and bust40 of a woman with streaming hair serves as a symbol. Gabriel is [Pg 210] attracted by the wooden image, as is Lucie. The painter is fascinated by the tale of the shipwreck41. He has escaped the nurse and is out on the dunes42 watching the figure as it is intermittently43 illuminated44 by the gleam of a revolving45 lighthouse further up the coast. He is in an exalted46 mood. There is some comic relief in the grave-digger manner between him and a joiner, who is also the undertaker of the island, a well-conceived character. A storm is rising. Gabriel, after many wild and whirling words, leaves a message for his friends. He is bathing. And so he makes by suicide his last flight, his escape from the horns of the dilemma47, too weak to decide one way or the other. The ending is ineffective, and the sudden repentance48 of the middle-aged49 sculptor (fat men with forty-five-inch waists never do seem wicked), who promises to marry his Lucie, the fiddle50 player, is very flat. Nor does the storm strike terror as it should. What the moral? I don't know, except that it is dangerous to keep late hours on the Friedrichstrasse. A clock can't always strike twelve, and The Flight of Gabriel Schilling, notwithstanding some striking episodes and at moments poetic5 atmosphere, is not a masterpiece of Hauptmann.
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1
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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5
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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6
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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7
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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10
weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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12
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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13
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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14
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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16
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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18
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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19
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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22
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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23
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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24
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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25
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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27
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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29
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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30
forthright
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| adj.直率的，直截了当的 [同]frank | |
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31
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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33
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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36
berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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37
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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38
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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40
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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41
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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42
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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43
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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44
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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45
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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46
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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47
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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48
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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49
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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50
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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