Berlin Stories by Robert Walser Read Free Book Online Page B

receding swiftly from the eye. The distant and the near lie side by side in the theater. Two scoundrels are always whispering too loudly; the noble gentleman hears it all, and yet he pretends utter ignorance. This is what is so dreamlike, so truly untrue, so poignant, and in the end so beautiful. How beautiful it is when two men whisper to each other at the top of their lungs while the expression of the other one says to us: how quiet it is all around me!
    Such things are like the gruesome and beautiful stories in dreams. The stage does its utmost to terrify; it does well to have such aims, and we do well to foster that something within us that allows us to be receptive to the pleasure and frisson this terror brings.
    1907

A Person Possessed of Curiosity
    What plays will be put on this winter, what protagonists will walk the stage, what manner of authors will be heard from, and with the help of what sorts of wires will performances be launched in all the theaters of the capital? That is the—once again, as it appears to me—not entirely uncrucial question. Probably there will be a play by Hauptmann, one by Sudermann, and one by Wedekind, and apropos one by Hofmannsthal, and I must confess that it didn’t cost me much mental exertion to be compelled to trumpet out all of this. But will there also be some new name emerging from the vast shadows of as-yet-unknownness, will novelties be served up? Let me venture to assume so and to believe that we shall have sparks rained down upon us by luminaries in the southeast. What will Reinhardt be putting on? Will he have some good trumps to play, and what are our best-known critics currently up to? Are they still sitting at the edge of the woods reading books or smoking pipes? Soon they will have to come flitting this way at a proper clip, for things here are about to heat up, and we shall have heartfelt need of this cooling fire brigade. What are the actors doing? Where are their not yet burnt-out Vesuviuses of creative verve to be found? Be careful there with your sunshiny high spirits and flames of enthusiasm! People are already standing here in formation with their pointy water hoses—i.e., pens—behind their ears, ready to give you a good squirting should you overestimate your own achievement. Where is youth, and where are the undiscovered talents, and where, if this query meets with approval, are the esteemed high- and lowborn dramaturges currently traveling? I believe I see one of them strolling up and down the lively streets of Copenhagen on the arm of a pretty wench. They should watch out or someone might take them down a notch. Soon this luxuriant summer world will, thank God, have come to an end, and what I meant to ask was: When is the first important premiere, on what day will it take place, and will it be thrilling? I do hope so, for I am of the sort who lick their lips at the prospect of premiere night, which they quite possibly expect to be a banquet. Not that I’d say I enjoy it when a playwright is hissed and decried, but I do enjoy it all the same, as there is always some enjoyment to be found in the lamentable.
    When will the curtain rise for the first time to allow us to gaze down upon uplifting scenes? Will there be much that uplifts? I’d like to hope there will also be, now and again, something degrading to be seen, something shameless, so to speak, since it must after all be reckoned among the secret pleasures of a theatergoer to be permitted to find sufficient grounds to blush. Things should prick and prickle a bit, otherwise it might get dull, and after all, there are always people who enjoy this, as well as some who are swiftly inclined to find everything tedious. Did the stage-set painters give their brushes a proper cleaning during the vacation? Is there oil in the lamps? Are there innovations with regard to the lighting? But this is perhaps significantly less important than the breathless question of how things stand with the