Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made can be found[ at the end of the book].

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.

INTERNATIONAL HUMOUR.

Edited by W. H. DIRCKS.

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.

“HE WAS TOO FOND OF DELIVERING LONG SPEECHES AT THE ALEHOUSE.” [See page [410].

THE
HUMOUR OF GERMANY

SELECTED AND TRANSLATED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX, BY HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV: WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. E. BROCK.

LONDON
1892

WALTER SCOTT
LTD.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

In endeavouring to bring together examples of so significant and at the same time elusive a phase of national character—literary as well as psychological—as a nation’s humour, it were of course vain to seek to make each selection typical in itself—typical, that is, in the sense of referring to the broad basis of a nation’s individuality in respect of its humour as distinguished from other nations.

A general idea can only be obtained by scanning a broad field; here, as elsewhere, details have little meaning unless considered in their relation to the broader outlook. A constant interplay of varied influences has to be taken into account. The purely national aspect is obtruded upon by the individuality of each author, which nowhere expresses with such effect as in the literature of humour. The time of writing, considered historically, with its political tendencies, has also to be considered; its church dependence perhaps, and the peculiar trend of its social interests. It is intruded upon also by the time considered in its relation to literature as a whole, to the tendencies of form and style predominant at given periods.

Furthermore, there are strictly local peculiarities, subdividing Germany itself. It is more especially these that the student of literature, unless he be also a student of ethnological influences, is likely to wrongly estimate, while it is of the utmost importance that they be borne in mind to arrive at a just view of qualities that oversway minor differences, which are often the first to catch the eye. The more the Comic Muse is bound within the narrow limits of place, time, and personality, the more is she in her element. She of all muses is a painter of detail, versed in the art of reproducing punctiliously those petty traits which disengage her subject from all broader problems, and make it effective in proportion to its unimportance to the world’s general affairs.

Writers upon the theory of humour are apt to deplore the absence of just such local land-marks in Germany as are strongly characteristic and still recognisable to the foreigner. It would appear to me that they have done so with some injustice. The Volkscharacter of southern and northern Germany, of the lowlands, and the Franco-Bavarian and Suabian districts, even of the various centres of civilisation, the large towns, is abundant in those differentiating qualities which go to make up originality of manner. The modes of thought and feeling characterising the population of different districts bear a stamp so distinct that one is inclined to consider them more strongly marked by provincial locality than by nationality.

In these days dialect proper, having gained the prestige of comparative rarity, like a peasant’s national costume, or a bit of bric-à-brac, has been favoured by the humorist, although its reproduction in our literature has well-nigh insurmountable difficulties to cope with. The Low German, one of the most interesting of German dialects, because, historically, the most intact, and the most incapable of amalgamation with the language that has superseded it, had been left to grow rusty so far as literature was concerned, until Fritz Reuter rescued it from threatening oblivion, and made it the vehicle of a naïve and spontaneous genre of humour, to which it lent itself with singular charm and appropriateness.

The cause of the former neglect of Low German as a means of literary expression was very obvious, and there was no gainsaying the justice of it—viz., that it is used to-day only by the lower classes of Northern Germany, and that among readers there is but a very limited number to whom it is more comprehensible than a foreign language would be. It is this fact also which explains why Fritz Reuter, the most intimate and sympathetic of German humorists, although extensively read, has never attained the widest popularity.

Fundamentally, the German character appears to be averse to humour. Its mirth does not come to it spontaneously, a gift of the gods, arising out of the mere exuberance of being. This nation shares the temperament of all northern races, it moves more to the minor strains of feeling, to the Adagio which Richard Wagner found so aptly expressive of its character. It is quick to respond to things mystic, and yearns over the vague grace of twilight moods. It worships at the shrine of the hapless Prince of Denmark.—I say fundamentally, for, looking at the life of the nation as it appears to-day, in those pleasures of the lower and middle classes which have their scene of action in the out-of-door world, there would appear to be in plenty a spirit of merry-making and pleasure-seeking inherent in the German character. The mere primitive love of a good time, however, is inseparably connected with those classes representing, in a manner, a child-like stage of intellectual development the world over, and is not characteristic in any special sense of the German people.

It is safe to admit that a certain lightness of disposition, which seems indispensable to the humorous attitude, is absent among those race-qualities which go to make up the German nature pure and simple. If the nation has developed within itself those germs which have blossomed into a sense of the humorous; if it has passed through all those early stages of perception and expression which have culminated in a humorous literature of sturdy strength; if it has found at length a humorous literature (with Gottfried Keller for its prophet, and F. T. Vischer for its critic and exponent), it is due probably to a complexity of influences somewhat difficult to determine.

However free in its purely literary aspect humour may be from all ulterior purpose and aim, the tale of its growth with us is largely interwoven with impulses received from outside sources and sources didactic and philosophical. Outwitting the devil, the theme that recurs again and again as the oldest form of farcical expression in mediæval Germany, meant dealing with the stresses of adverse circumstance. This was the first step taken on the road to humour in Germany. The Powers of Evil had all the brute force upon their side; there was no coping with them, except by sharpening one’s wits and irritating them by practical jokes until they might yield. The laugh that followed had all the hard ring of the victor’s triumphant scorn. Early satirical writings were imbued with a like spirit. There was the lash to be swung at some enemy, and derision at his downfall was tempered by no kindlier emotion. There was a grim attitude of self-defence throughout it all. Indeed, it is only in going back painfully step by step that one is enabled to discern in this early literature the germs of humour at all.

The farces and puppet-shows at country fairs and the burlesques at the early theatre began to make room for the idea of retaliation. It became a question of clown against clown. The supremacy was never yielded long to one side. Laying aside all personal interest in the matter for the time being, there was an impartial shout of laughter at him who got the most kicks and cuffs. The popular mind began to rise above the situation, to put itself in the position of an unbiassed spectator, and to take delight in merely putting down whatever asserted itself. As an instance of this may be counted the practice of granting the devil, or a person disguised as such, a hearing in church on certain days of the year instead of the parish priest.

Then the sense of discrepancy between things great and small, things important and unimportant, the world of the senses and the world of the spirit, began to enter the popular perception, the impossibility of reconciliation, and, as a consequence, the pleasure of turning this world topsy-turvy, and so demonstrating the supremacy of the individual.

Side by side with this development, or partly perhaps based upon it, went the philosophic development. Thinkers, dreamers, and philosophers went on constructing a universe according to the laws of their individual minds, a universe containing nothing at all to be laughed at, and for many decades scholars were deeply buried in obstruse problems and finely-spun theories and systems, the lighter muse of poetry and art for the most part following but humbly and timorously from afar. But when philosophy and theology had spoken at large, and the mystery and fatal contradiction at the heart of things had not been unravelled, the pale brooding of some turned to melancholy, with others it turned to boisterous living and philosophic indifferentism.

Then it was that irony, directed upon the inordinate intellectual ambitions of man, removed him half imperceptibly into the sphere of the ludicrous. Self-irony may be the result of misanthropy, but it is certainly the beginning of a cure. One finds oneself to be made up of two absurdly contradicting hemispheres, as well as the rest of the world; the sense of the universal incongruity seems to make the case less tragic. To pass through this stage into the clearer atmosphere of conscious reconciliation with the actuality of things, of placid acceptance of the ups and downs, the shortcomings inherent in things, and in human nature withal,—into the atmosphere of pure humour, unperturbed by the possibility of personal disappointment, is a long step, easy to some, to others impossible. And it would seem that German Humour—taking the term in its widest sense as signifying subjective apprehension on the one hand and artistic expression on the other—is less the result of a temperamental predisposition than the culmination of a development. With a turn for flaccid sentimentalism, and by nature inclined to take themselves very seriously, it was a reaction, a bankruptcy in metaphysical methods that inaugurated and established something of a humorous Weltanschauung. The often oppressively heavy Zeitgeist has borne along its own corrective in the literature of two centuries as on an ever-strengthening under-current. There have been silent forces at play working imperceptibly through the innate robustness of the national character. It was this undeniable robustness which could not for long brook the extravagancies of weak emotionalism. Revolt was opened upon it on the one hand by the spirit of exact science, on the other by the need of æsthetic equilibrium. These two tendencies, the æsthetic and the scientific, are still contending for the field with much ado and bustle in some quarters.

Though a nation counting Heine and Lichtenberg among its own, it is not in the spielende Urtheil, as Jean Paul has called inspired sallies of wit, that German humour specially distinguishes itself; now and again there it has its moods of riotous absurdity; but where it is most characteristic is in the telling of the humorous tale, lovingly handled in its details, the pathetic verging very near upon the comic, finally succumbing in a ripple of good-natured laughter at somebody or other who is really not so very bad, but only very human, and for whose misfortunes—poor devil!—we may have a kindly feeling. Then we have a mastership in spectral stories, uncanny and imaginative, leaving the reader’s mind in a delightful condition of doubt as to their actual meaning and significance; and we have also the expression of the spirit of poetic adventure,—a determination to have fun at all hazards, either with the public or else at the public, if perchance it should prove too dull to be taken into partnership. There is much of this in Chamisso’s Peter Schlemihl, which, in the face of many dizzy structures of elucidation that have been based upon it, remains so truly humorous and so profoundly touching.

It is by no means always the funny element that predominates in German writings of a humorous tendency. Their office seems to be more to suggest the effect which these lighter moods of fancy have upon the serious affairs of life, and in studying the humour of Germany in a spirit of literary criticism it is indispensable to take these two aspects in their action and reaction upon each other. There is a psychical development of the individual which runs parallel to that of the nation. In confirmation of the theory of humorous development here faintly outlined, it may be said that in Germany, humorous perception is for the most part not the possession of youth. It is not until the need of a corrective to a habit of speculative brooding has been felt that imperceptibly and unconsciously healthful minds rise to those dispassionate heights whence the Occidental Brahmin gazes upon a motley world.

HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV.

[For Acknowledgments to Authors and Publishers, see page [430].]

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.

MASTER FOX, THE CONFESSOR.

THEY overtook the Ass, and so

All three to Rome together go.

And when they saw the city near,

The Wolf said to his cousin dear:

“Reynard, my plan I’ll name to you:—

The Pope, we know, has much to do;

I doubt if he can spend his time

To hear our catalogues of crime.

’Twill spare some trouble for the Pope

(And also for ourselves, I hope,

As we may ’scape with penance less),

If to each other we confess.

Let each describe his greatest sin,

So, without preface, I’ll begin.

To notice trifles I disdain;

But one fact gives my conscience pain.

’Tis this—there dwelt beside the Rhine

A man who lived by feeding swine.

He had a sow who rambled wide

While all her pigs with hunger cried.

I punished her in such a way

That never more she went astray.

Her little ones, deserted now,

Oft moved my pity, I’ll avow;

I ended all their woes one night—

Now let my punishment be light!”

“Well,” said the Fox, “your sin was small,

And hardly can for penance call;

For such a venial transgression

You’ve made amends by this confession.

And now I’ll do as you have done—

Of all my sins I’ll name but one:

A man such noisy fowls would keep,

That no one near his house could sleep;

The crowings of his chanticleer

Disturbed the country far and near.

Distracted by the noise, one night

I went and stopped his crowing quite.

But this feat ended not the matter—

The hens began to crow and chatter;

And so (the deed I slightly rue)

I killed them and their chickens too.”

“Well,” said the Wolf, “to hush that din

Was surely no alarming sin;

Abstain from poultry for three days,

And, if you like, amend your ways.

But now the Ass must be confessed.

Donkey! how far have you transgressed?”

“Ah!” said the Ass, with dismal bray,

“You know I have not much to say;

For I have toiled from day to day,

And done for master service good,

In carrying water, corn, and wood.

But once, in winter time, ’tis true,

I did what I perhaps must rue:

A countryman, to keep him warm

(We had just then a snowy storm),

Had put some straw into his shoes;

To bite it I could not refuse;

And so (for hunger was my law)

I took, or stole, a single straw.”

“There! say no more!” the Fox exclaimed;

“For want of straw that man was lamed;

His feet were bitten by the frost;

’Tis probable his life was lost.

’Twas theft and murder.—No reply!

Your penance is, that you must die.”

Hugo von Trimberg (1260-1309).

“BUT NOW THE ASS MUST BE CONFESSED.”

“THE GOAT RUNS ON AND NEVER TIRES.”

ST. PETER’S LESSON.

THE young goat had a playful mind,

And never liked to be confined;

The apostle, at a killing pace,

Followed the goat, in a desperate chase;

Over the hills and among the briers

The goat runs on and never tires,

While Peter, behind, on the grassy plain,

Runs on, panting and sighing, in vain.

All day, beneath a scorching sun,

The good apostle had to run

Till evening came; the goat was caught,

And safely to the Master brought.

Then, with a smile, to Peter said

The Lord: “Well, friend, how have you sped;

If such a task your powers has tried,

How could you keep the world, so wide?”

Then Peter, with his toil distressed,

His folly, with a sigh, confessed.

“No, Master! ’tis for me no play

To rule one goat for one short day;

It must be infinitely worse

To regulate the universe.”

Hans Sachs (1494-1576).

A RAID ON THE PARSON’S KITCHEN.

THE commandant at Soest looked at me with approval, and said, “Tut, little huntsman, you shall be my servant, and wait upon my horses.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I should prefer a master in whose service the horses wait upon me. As it is not likely I shall find such a one, I am going to be a soldier.”

“Hoity-toity,” he said, “you have no more hair on your lip than a tree-frog. You are too young.”

“Oh, no,” I replied, “I will venture to brave any man of eighty. The beard does not make a man, else the he-goats would be in high esteem.”

He said, “If you can show courage as well as you can wag your tongue, so be it.”

I answered, “The first opportunity shall furnish the proof.”

And so the commandant made over to me my dragoon’s old trousers, in which my master had sewed a goodly number of ducats. Out of their vitals I provided myself with a good horse and the best fire-arms I could get; I thereupon polished up my belongings to their utmost possibility of brightness. I got me a new suit of green, for I delighted in the name of “huntsman,” and gave my old garments to my boy, as they had grown too short and too tight for me. I sat on my horse like a young nobleman, and did not think small beer of myself. I took special delight in decorating my hat with a smart bunch of feathers like an officer. There were enough to envy me, and soon words and blows were the order of the day. But no sooner had I given proof to two of my enemies as to the nature of the thrusts I was skilled in, than I was left in peace, and my friendship was much sought for. In our raids upon the enemy I threw myself forward like bubbles in a boiling kettle, to be always the first in the fight. Whenever it was my good fortune to lay hands upon a desirable bit of pillage I shared it freely with the officers. The consequence was that I was allowed to plunder even in forbidden places, and could be secure of protection under all circumstances. So I was soon looked up to by friend and foe, and my purse grew as great as my name; even the peasants I managed to keep upon my side by fear and love, for I took vengeance upon those that tried to hinder me, and gave rich rewards to all who were helpful. I did not confine myself to large schemes, and never despised small ones if there was praise and admiration to be won thereby.

At one time we had been vainly hoping for some waggons with provisions to come into our way at the Castle of Recklinkhausen, and the pangs of hunger were upon us. And when I and my comrade, a student just run away from school, were leaning out of one of the windows, and hungrily gazing out into the country, my companion sighed after the barley-soup of his dear mother, and said: “Ah, brother, isn’t it a shame to think that after having studied all the arts, I should not be able to supply food for myself? Brother, I know for certain, if I were only allowed to visit the parson in yonder village—you can see the church steeple just beyond the poplars—I should find a most excellent feast.”

After a short parley the captain gave us permission; I exchanged my clothes with those of another, and the student and I betook ourselves to the village on a very roundabout way. The reverend gentleman received us civilly. When my companion had greeted him in Latin, accompanying his words with a profound bow, and briskly conjuring up a fine array of lies how the soldiers had robbed him, a poor student, of all his provisions, the parson gave him bread and butter and a drink of beer. I passed myself off as a painter’s apprentice, and acting as if my companion and I had never met before, I told them both I should go down the village street to the inn for refreshment, and would then call for him, as we seemed to be going the same way. So I went away in search of anything that might be worth the trouble of coming for the following night, and I was so fortunate as to meet a peasant who was plastering up an earthen oven in which large loaves of brown bread were to lie and bake for twenty-four hours. I thought, “Go ahead; plaster away! I’ll find you a customer for these delicious viands.” I made but a short stay at the inn, knowing this cheaper way of getting bread, and returned to my companion, who had eaten his fill, and had told the parson that I was on my way to Holland to perfect myself in my art. The parson asked me to go and see the church with him, as he would like to show me some paintings that were in need of restoration. As it would not do to spoil the game, I consented. He conducted us through the kitchen, and when he opened the night-lock on the strong oaken door which led to the churchyard, I saw a wonderful sight. From the black heavens of this kitchen violins, flutes, and cymbals were pendent—in reality they were hams, sausages, and slices of bacon. I looked at them with happy forebodings, and they seemed to smile irritatingly upon me. I wished them in the castle to my comrades, but in vain; they were obstinate, and remained hanging where they were. I mused on ways and means of bringing them under my plan regarding the peasant’s loaves of bread, but there were serious difficulties in the way, as the yard of the parsonage was surrounded by a stone wall, and all the windows were well protected with iron bars. Moreover, there were two large dogs in the yard that certainly would object to having that stolen the remnants of which was, in the course of time, to be the reward due to their watchfulness.

Once in church, it appeared that the parson generously intended to entrust me with the restoration of his old pictures. As I was exerting myself to find some plausible subterfuge, the sexton turned to me and said: “Fellow, you look more like a disreputable soldier-lad than like a painter.” I was no longer accustomed to such speeches, and yet there was nothing for it but to swallow the taunt. I shook my head softly and replied, “Oh, you knave! give me a brush and colours, and I will paint a fool in a twinkling who shall resemble you throughout.”

The parson made a joke of the matter, and reminded both of us that it is not meet to tell each other unsavoury truths in so holy a spot. Then he gave us another drink, and we departed. But I left my heart with the sausages.

Returning to our people, I picked out six reliable fellows to help me carry home the bread. About midnight we entered the village and quietly took the bread out of the oven, and as we were about to pass the parsonage I could not bring myself to go on without the bacon. I stood still and looked up and down to discover some way into the parson’s kitchen, but there was no opening except the chimney. We stored our guns and our treasured booty of bread in the charnel-house of the churchyard, managed to get a ladder and rope out of the barn, and I and my crony Springinsfeld climbed up on the tiled roof. I twisted my long hair into a top-knot, and let myself down by the rope to the objects of my desire. Once there, I did not delay, and tied ham after ham, and sausage after sausage to the rope. Springinsfeld fished everything out skilfully from his post on the roof and handed it down to the others. But, alack-a-day! as I was just going to give myself a holiday and come out, the pole that I was standing on gave way, and poor Simplicisimus was suddenly precipitated, and found himself in as bad a fix as need be—in fact, it was like a regular man-trap. Springinsfeld tried to help me by letting down the rope, but that also broke. I said to myself, “Now, huntsman, you are in for a chase in which there will be small mercy for your hide.”

Sure enough, my fall had waked up the parson, and he called his cook and bade her strike a light. She appeared in night-attire, her petticoat around her shoulders, and stood close beside me. She seized a coal from the hearth, held her candle up close to it, and began to blow. At the same time I blew much stronger than she, which frightened the poor body so that she dropped both candle and coal, and retreated near her master. Now the parson himself struck a light, while the woman was telling him there was a horrible two-headed ghost crouching in the kitchen; she had probably mistaken my top-knot for a second head. When I heard this I quickly rubbed my face and hands with ashes and soot, until I doubtless bore small resemblance to the angel I had figured for at the nunnery. And if the sexton could have seen me thus occupied, he would certainly have given me credit for being a rapid painter. Thereupon I began to make as much noise as I possibly could, throwing pans and kettles about. I hung the ring of the large kettle about my neck, and took the poker in my hand, to have a weapon in case of need. All this did not put out the pious parson, who approached as if he were heading a procession, his cook behind him, carrying two wax tapers and a stoup. He was attired in his surplice, and had a book in one hand and his holy-water sprinkle in the other. He read some ritual of exorcism aloud before me, and then asked me who I was, and what was my business here. Seeing that he was labouring under the impression that I was the Evil One, I thought it but fair that I should act in accordance with my new rôle, and I answered him as I had once answered the robbers in the woods, “I am the devil, and I have come to turn your neck, and your servant’s as well.” He thereupon tried his most potent charm, “All good spirits praise the Lord! I conjure thee, return from whither thou comest!” I replied that this was impossible, happy though I should be to comply with his request.

Meanwhile my boon-companion Springinsfeld was indulging in spectral revelries upon the roof. When he heard what was going on in the kitchen below, and how I was passing myself off for the devil, he began to hoot like an owl, then barking like a dog, neighing like a horse, bleating like a sheep, crying like a donkey, cackling down the chimney like a hen about to lay an egg, and then again giving forth unearthly music like a hundred serenading cats; for this fellow was clever in imitating the voices of animals, and could howl as naturally as if a pack of wolves were standing about the house.

During the consternation of the parson and his charming feminine choir-boy I had time to look about me, and, to my joy, I made the discovery that the night-lock had not been put on the back door. Quick as a flash I pushed back the bolt, slipped out into the churchyard, where my companions were standing with triggers drawn, and left the parson to conjure devils as long as he pleased. And when Springinsfeld came down from the roof, bringing my hat along, and we had packed our spoils upon our shoulders, we returned to our party, not having anything more to do in the village, though I admit that we might have returned the borrowed ladder and rope.

Christoffel von Grimmelshausen (1620-1676).

THE REVOLT IN THE THEATRE.

(From Act I. of “A Topsy-Turvy World.”)

Scaramuccio.[1] Poet.

SCARAMUCCIO.

No, Sir Poet, say what you please, talk as you wish, make as many objections as you can possibly make, it shall in no wise alter my purpose, to listen to nothing, to consider nothing, to insist upon having my own way,—so there!

POET.

Dear Scaramuccio!

SCARAMUCCIO.

I listen to nothing. Look, Sir Poet, how I am stopping up my ears.

POET.

But the piece——

SCARAMUCCIO.

Nonsense! the piece! I am a piece too, and I have a perfect right to say my say. Or do you suppose I have no will of my own? Do you poets labour under the delusion that a gentleman actor is called upon to do just as you say? My dear sir, know you not that the times are changing?

POET.

But the spectators——

SCARAMUCCIO.

And because there are spectators in the world, would you make me unhappy? Nice principles those!

POET.

Friend, you must listen to me.

SCARAMUCCIO.

Very well then, if I must. Here I sit; now talk like a sensible man, if it is in your nature so to do. (Sits down on the ground.)

POET.

Most esteemed Sir Scaramuccio! Your Grace has been engaged at this theatre for a special rôle—in a word, to express myself briefly, you are the Scaramuccio. It is not to be denied that you have reached a degree of excellence in this your speciality, and there is no man in the world more willing than myself to do justice to your talents; but, my dear sir, for all that you are not possessed of the qualities fitting you for a tragedian; for all that you will never be able to play a lofty character.

SCARAMUCCIO.

The impudence of it! By my soul, I’ll play you a loftier character than you will be able to write. I take your remark as a personal insult, and I challenge the whole world to out-do me in the high and lofty.

SCAEVOLA (one of the spectators).

Oh, Sir Scaramuccio, we’ll all take up your challenge.

SCARAMUCCIO.

How so? What now? I confess I am struck dumb by this insolence.

SCAEVOLA.

My dear sir, there is no cause for that. I am here for my money, Sir Scaramuccio, and I can think what I please.

SCARAMUCCIO.

You are free to think as you see best, but you are not allowed to speak here.

SCAEVOLA.

So long as you may speak, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.

SCARAMUCCIO.

Well, then, what have you done that was so noble?

SCAEVOLA.

The day before yesterday I helped my spendthrift of a nephew out of his debts.

SCARAMUCCIO.

And yesterday I saved the prompter from talking himself hoarse by leaving out a whole scene.

SCAEVOLA.

I was in a merry humour at table one day last week, and gave a whole shilling in charity.

SCARAMUCCIO.

The day before yesterday I quarrelled with my tailor, who came to dun me, and I had the last word.

SCAEVOLA.

A week ago I helped get a tipsy man home.

SCARAMUCCIO.

Sir, I was this tipsy man; but I had been drinking my sovereign’s health.

SCAEVOLA.

I confess myself vanquished.

(Enter Pierrot in a state of excitement.)

POET.

What’s the matter, Pierrot?

PIERROT.

What’s the matter? I will not play to-day. On no account will I play.

POET.

Why not?

PIERROT.

Why not? Because it’s high time for me to become a spectator. I’ve been a mime long enough.

(Enter Wagemann, the manager.)

POET.

You are just in time, Herr Wagemann. There is confusion abroad.

WAGEMANN.

How so?

POET.

Pierrot will not play to-day. He wants to be a spectator, and Scaramuccio insists upon taking the rôle of Apollo in my drama.

SCARAMUCCIO.

And am I not right, Herr Wagemann? I have played the fool long enough, and I should like to try my hand at the wise.

WAGEMANN.

You are too severe, Sir Poet. You must give the poor fellows a little more liberty. Let them have it their own way.

POET.

But the requirements of the drama, of art——

WAGEMANN.

Oh, all that will come right enough. Look you, my way of thinking is this—the spectators have paid their money, and with that the most important thing is regulated.

PIERROT.

Adieu, Sir Poet. I go to join the illustrious assembly of spectators. I will venture the bold leap over the footlights, to see if I can be cured of being a fool, and graduate to a spectator. (Sings.) Fare-thee-well, thou old love; a new life is dawning for me, and most sensible impulses are moving my heart. No footlight shall affright me, no prompter can hold me. Ah, I would taste the peaceful bliss of being an auditor. Receive me, wild waves; stage, fare-thee-well, my spirit yearns to be drawn beyond thy precincts. (Jumps into the parterre.) Where am I? Oh heavens! do I still breathe? Ah! is it possible I stand here below? The rays of the footlights shine over yonder. Ye gods, ye behold me surrounded by people. Who gave me this life, this better life?

THE AUDIENCE.

Monsieur Pierrot is one of us. A hearty welcome to thee, Spectator Pierrot. We greet thee, thou great man!

PIERROT.

Can it be, ye noble ones, that you will count me as your brother? Ah, my gratitude will last as long as there is breath within this bosom.

GRÜNHELM (one of the spectators).

Glorious, glorious! By my soul he speaks well! But as for me, I should like to take a part on the stage for a change; it would do my heart good. To be sure I tremble and stammer, and my wit is not of the quickest, but I am never so happy as when I am making a little joke. (He scrambles up on the stage.) And so, Sir Scaramuccio, leave your funny rôle to me, and then, for all I care, you may play the Apollo.

POET.

And what then is to become of my excellent drama?

AUDIENCE.

Scaramuccio shall play the Apollo. It is a unanimous decision.

POET.

’Tis well. I wash my hands of it. The audience may bear the responsibility. I am deeply miserable. Ah, yes, it is the fate of Art to be misunderstood and travestied, and it is only then that it finds its public. In vengeance for the judgment passed upon Marsyas, Poetry herself is flayed alive to-day. My sorrow is greater than I can endure. Herr Grünhelm, so you undertake to do the joking?

GRÜNHELM.

I do, Sir Poet, and I will hold my own against any rival.

POET.

How will you do it?

GRÜNHELM.

Sir, I have been one of those whose chief business it is to be amused long enough to know what will please. The people down there want to be entertained. At bottom that is the only reason they stand there so quietly and patiently. The good-will of the public is the principal thing, I know that as well as you do. True art is to keep this good-will on the surface.

POET.

Yes, of course, but by what means do you propose——?

GRÜNHELM.

Let that be my care, Sir Poet. (Sings:)

“A fowler’s trade is mine, heigh-ho,” etc.

AUDIENCE.

Bravo! bravo!

GRÜNHELM.

Are you pretty well amused, gentlemen?

AUDIENCE.

Excellently, most excellently!

GRÜNHELM.

Do you feel a longing for anything reasonable?

AUDIENCE.

No, no; but by-and-by we should like to have our feelings worked upon.

GRÜNHELM.

Patience, you can’t have all good things in a lump. Do you miss the genuine Apollo?

AUDIENCE.

Not in the least.

GRÜNHELM.

Well, Sir Poet, do you still object to granting the excellent Scaramuccio’s request?

POET.

Not in the least. I withdraw all my objections.

AUDIENCE.

But we don’t want him to give us nothing but nonsense.

SCARAMUCCIO.

Mercy on us! We would not be guilty of such a sinful thing. What kind of an Apollo were I if I should admit of that? No, gentlemen, there shall be an abundance of serious things—things to think about, things to train one’s intellectual faculties.

SCAEVOLA.

Is it to be a tragedy?

PIERROT.

No, gentlemen, we actors have all sworn that we will not die, so it won’t be a tragedy, whatever the poet may have in his mind.

SCAEVOLA.

I am relieved to hear it, for I am possessed of a very soft heart.

PIERROT.

Hang it, sir, neither are we made of stone and iron. I have the honour of assuring you that my susceptibilities are uncommonly delicate. The devil take all inelegancies.

SCAEVOLA.

That is what I say. There is nothing above being a spectator. It is the highest thing one can be.

PIERROT.

Ay, that it is. Are we not more than all the emperors and princes that are but acted?

SCARAMUCCIO.

Thunder and lightning! Where, in the hangman’s name, is my Parnassus?

GRÜNHELM.

I will go and get it. (Exit.)

WAGEMANN.

Now all is in order. Adieu, Sir Scaramuccio.

SCARAMUCCIO.

Your humble servant. Beg you to express my respects to Madam, your wife. (The manager exit. Three attendants enter, carrying the Parnassus.) Put it down here,—a trifle further to this side, so that I can hear the prompter. (He climbs up and takes a seat.) A pleasant mount this. What revenues does it yield? Can any one tell me? Send for the treasurer.

(Enter the Treasurer.)