Holz & Schlaf

Postcard from Sophienstrasse

Sophienstraße 21

A while back we visited Niederschönhausen, the town (then) outside of Berlin where authors Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf formed a bohemian community of two and fomented a literary revolution in the form of Papa Hamlet. Although set in Norway, that book was very much informed by their familiarity with Berlin’s less desirable residential areas. An even more acute study of this world comes to us in another of the duo’s texts included in our edition of Papa Hamlet, the 1890 short story ‘Die papierne Passion’ (‘The Paper Passion’). It offers not just a compelling social study, but a unique record of a building that, remarkably, is still around.

The original publication of ‘Die papierne Passion’ by Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf

The story was inspired by Johannes Schlaf’s time as a student when he lodged in the Scheunenviertel (‘Barn Quarter’), immediately north of Berlin’s historic heart, before departing to share Holz’s sylvan seclusion in Niederschönhausen. At the time (the late 1880s) the Scheunenviertel was already beset by overcrowding, with constant new arrivals, particularly Jews fleeing persecution in eastern Europe (more from Slow Travel Berlin). Like so much of Berlin, this neighbourhood was dominated by buildings arranged around courtyards, with a typical configuration offering a front block facing the street, a rear block behind it separated by a courtyard, which was often also framed by side blocks. Depending on the depth of the plot there might be up to four successive courtyards leading away from the street – often gloomy spaces which retained more noise than light.

A view of the Scheunenviertel

Each complex was a social microcosm; the apartments on the lower floors of the front block were generally reserved for the better off, with conditions deteriorating the higher and further back you went. Once you arrived at the top of one of the rear blocks you might well find apartments housing multiple families or a revolving cast of lodgers. In the most extreme cases the same bed would be occupied by different people working different shifts throughout the day. Well into the 20th century, these overcrowded spaces were notorious for appalling health and social conditions. And often the buildings weren’t solely reserved for residents. The Berliner Mischung (Berlin mix), sometimes known as the Kreuzberger Mischung, named for another working-class district on the other side of the River Spree, was a mode of urban development at the time which crammed residential, commercial, artisanal and even industrial usage into the same space with predictably poor outcomes for the people who called them home.

An image by Heinrich Zille depicting living conditions in Berlin around the end of the 19th century

Sophienstraße 21 is a prime example of this. Right behind the Sophienkirche, Berlin’s only remaining Baroque church, it presents a genteel front to the street which once concealed a teeming world of apartments, workshops and a tavern, as well as a sewing machine factory. Here Johannes Schlaf lived as a lodger in a household watched over by the loud, vulgar Mother Abendroth who ceaselessly bellowed her grievances in broad Berlin dialect. She appears unencrypted in ‘The Paper Passion’, while the student Haase, sensitive and ill-at-ease, is likely a stand-in for Schlaf himself.

An 1882 map showing Sophienstrasse 21 and the Sophienkirche

An 1882 map showing Sophienstrasse 21 and the Sophienkirche

Considering Berlin’s history it is truly fortunate that we have such a rich, closely observed literary account of a location that we can still visit today. Now known as the Sophie-Gips-Höfe, this is the very exemplar of post-reunification gentrification, with some avant-garde landscaping, walls adorned with text (but no graffiti), expensive apartments, media companies, an architectural practice, a high-end gallery, a French bookshop and a bakery (many Berliners will remember this as the former home of Barcomi’s Deli). With a bit of guesswork, here are some extracts from the text in the settings that inspired them (these photos were taken in late summer so as well as the grime, crowds and industrial activity you’ll have to imagine the snow for yourself).


‘A small Berlin kitchen, up four flights of stairs, around Christmas time …’

‘Meanwhile there is an occasional low rattling of window panes amid the muffled clatter of the factory in a rear block beyond the courtyard …’

‘From four storeys below in the cellar tavern comes the thin sound of an accordion …’

‘Another heavy, iron-laden wagon has just rattled through the gateway to the courtyard …’

‘The thin, monotonous peal from the Sophienkirche steeple can now be heard from the street …’

‘It’s the evening service. In between, from the bel étage below, a piano …‘

‘Beyond the low, snow-covered side block across the way the factory sends dark smoke into the winter sky, aswarm with fine powdery snow. Its numerous windows gaze yellowy-red through the flurry. The large black steel rails, belts and wheels in the bright squares move back and forth continuously. There is a snuffing and groaning in regular bursts …’

‘Heavy, dull blows from the courtyard. Between each, a shrill woman’s voice …’

‘Outside windows warped with frost are being thrown open, a few women are calling down into the courtyard, there is already a confused frenzy of buzzing and shouting down below …’

‘The women scream, a thick knot of people has gathered in front of a ground floor apartment. The whole courtyard is in uproar …’

‘A black knot of people comes through the front door. In their midst is a man, staggering; they are dragging him out …’

‘The factory chimney looming tall and black into the dirty grey snowy sky casts a red flame fluttering high into the whirling white-grey flakes …’


 
 

‘The Paper Passion’ by Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf was originally published in German as ‘Die papierne Passion’ in the anthology Neue Gleise. Gemeinsames von Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf by F. Fontane in Berlin, 1892. This translation © 2021 James J. Conway, included in Papa Hamlet.

A Farewell

Today is publication day for our seventh print title, and an English-language debut for its two authors: Papa Hamlet, by Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf. As well as the title novella, the book contains other works by the pair who formed a writing partnership between 1888 and 1892. They include a short story about a young man dying after a duel (that’s not a spoiler by the way – the title is ‘A Death’). As he succumbs to his wounds in shabby student lodgings, his fragmentary, confused babbling is meticulously rendered, and it reads like post-war experimental poetry.

Our edition also contains the short story ‘The Paper Passion’, which recounts the fractious social mix of characters in lodgings in a poor part of Berlin, based on Johannes Schlaf’s own experience of living in the Scheunenviertel. Here Arno Holz’s belief in the importance of dialogue is expressed in the very typesetting, where the spoken passages are rendered in a larger font.

Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf

Arno Holz and Johannes Schlaf

Like Papa Hamlet itself, both of these shorter works show Holz and Schlaf’s fearlessly experimental side. But there was another side; just as socially critical but more subtle, even sentimental, as seen in their ‘Emmi’ cycle, the last part of which is translated below; consider it a DVD extra. These tales illustrate not just the authors’ skill in communicating a sense of place and the sentiments of those who dwell within, but also their particular alertness to the experience of women. First published in 1892 in the anthology Neue Gleise (New Tracks), the three stories are bound by the character of Emmi, a young woman. In the first of the three, ‘Krumme Windgasse 20’, we find Emmi working as a maid in student lodgings, where she meets Heinz. Despite the acutely observed differences in their social profiles, her flirtation with the student blossoms into a relationship. The next part, ‘Die kleine Emmi’ (Little Emmi), finds Emmi fighting off an attempted sexual assault from her uncle. This was actually the first piece that Holz and Schlaf wrote together; it was originally to be published with Papa Hamlet, but the publisher judged it too contentious a choice.

In the last piece, ‘Ein Abschied’ (A Farewell), Emmi and Heinz are reunited, only to part. Summoned by his father, Heinz will pursue the opportunities of a young man of his class while Emmi is fated to stay behind. A consistent feature of Holz and Schlaf’s work is an awareness of sound – the idiosyncrasies of human speech patterns but also the incidental sonic backdrop that accompanies their characters’ lives. In ‘A Farewell’ they include snatches of folk and popular songs throughout the narrative, functioning almost like a Greek chorus, dramatically highlighting the diverging destinies of the two characters. The song that Emmi requests from Heinz – ‘Wo ein klein’s Hüttle steht’ (Where a Little Cottage Stands) suggests domesticity and settled family life. The other songs, by contrast, are associated with young men going out in the world, including ‘Frei ist der Bursch’ (Free is the Lad) and ‘Am Brunnen vor dem Tore’ (At the Well before the Gate), also known as ‘Der Lindenbaum’ (The Linden Tree), which Schubert incorporated into Die Winterreise. And one song in particular may be familiar – the folk song ‘Muss i denn’ (‘So must I …’), in which a young man takes leave of his beloved. It was recorded by Marlene Dietrich but also became the basis for Elvis Presley’s ‘Wooden Heart’ which incorporated some of the original lyrics in Swabian dialect. Links to recordings are included if you want to multi-mediatise your reading experience.


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Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf

A Farewell

translated by James J. Conway

‘Well aren’t you dull today!’
Little Emmi bent her fine, round head low over her coarse, grey wool stockings once more. The slender steel needles in her hands jingled softly, the moonlight reflected in them gleamed.
Her small, red lower lip was protruding slightly. She was pouting!
Heinz had not even answered. He was still standing at the other window, looking down at the laneway.
He had bent the flower pots slightly to one side.
Their black, grotesque shadows stood out behind him on the scrubbed floorboards. Next to them, to the right and left, the two curtains wove their lacy garlands.
How fine the little nest was! How fine!
His forehead was now pressed firmly against the panes.
In the distance, on a small, octagonal oriel, he could clearly distinguish a large, coal-black weathercock. It looked as though it had just this moment crowed. A small hole had been punched into its round, iron head as an eye, and its strangely ornate tail feathers jagged sharply into the moonlight.
Behind it a cat was climbing up a drainpipe. Now it disappeared behind a chimney. Below it was a withered tuft of grass waving like a tongue from a tin dragon head …
Heinz now let the myrtle stem snap back again without thinking.
A small black bat had just touched the pane with its wing.
The old, shrivelled nest had never seemed so strange to him.
Downstairs, outside, there were still plenty of people. Women gossiping about their dear neighbours, philistines smoking their long pipes, children who had already fallen asleep on their mothers’ laps.
The small, round master baker Klüsener had made himself comfortable on a garden chair. His broad, red apple face was clearly visible diagonally across the laneway. His coat was white, snow white. Just like his apron.
Before him stood fat Ramschüssel, chatting with him. The silver-plated tip of his helmet gleamed every time he turned.

‘Well you could at least play me something on the piano!’
Heinz winced a little, instinctively.
She looked over at him in astonishment.
What was wrong with him today? She couldn’t make sense of him at all!
He was now seated on the small, round swivel armchair which was covered in black patent leather. The moonlight reflected in the black sheen of the instrument. It dripped like gold from the fantastical arabesques of the two rotating brass candle holders. It lay like plated silver in the small disc in between. From its centre hunched Beethoven’s angular medallion, black as a black man’s head. Little Emmi instinctively dropped down deep into her aunt’s large, rattan armchair. Her round, white hands lay casually on her lap. She looked over at him with her eyes wide open, as though she were dreaming.
Heinz now bent down. The lid was folded back. The slight vibration that ran through the metal strings reverberated throughout the whole room.
For a moment all was still. The regulator ticked. The quaking grasses nodded in the two vases above.
Then his fingers slid over the keys. The melody was soft, muted.
‘At the Well before the Gate!’ Little Emmi sat there, motionless. How pale he was today!
He looked out the window as he played, the moonlight was now falling full on his face.
Little Emmi instinctively bent forward again.
His hands now slid off the keys.
The last note faded away.
The regulator ticked again and the quaking grasses nodded.

‘“At the Well before the Gate!” But that is so sad! You really are horrid today!’
Little Emmi said this in a very low voice.
‘Why don’t you play …’
She put the knitting needle thoughtfully to her little red mouth.
‘Wait! … Why don’t you play … something really jolly! … Well? For instance … “Where a Little Cottage Stands” or something like that!’
Heinz played. Once more he had not replied.
The moonlight now filled the whole room …
Suddenly little Emmi shuddered. A shrill, ragged sound rang out through the room, and the back of the small, leather swivel armchair hit the floorboards. Heinz leapt up.
‘Damned music!’
He was now standing again, his hands in his pockets, by the window.
Little Emmi was trembling all over.
The poor, poor boy!
She felt herself turning pale.
Now she lay her hand lightly on his shoulder.
‘Tell me!’
She could not continue.
‘There!’
Heinz had torn the damned letter from his pocket.
‘There!’
He held it out to her, facing away.
Then he pressed his head against the window frame again and looked down at the quiet, moonlit laneway …

Little Emmi stood there with the letter for a moment, perplexed. Then she returned to her window and held it right up to the pane. The moonlight now fell full on the solid black lines.
‘Dear boy!’ …
The paper in her hand trembled slightly.
… ‘Dear boy! When you come for your long holiday, pack all your things with you this time.’
She felt her heart pound!
‘I believe I am only doing you a favour, by … by taking you … out of that nest.’ …
Her arm had sunk down limply on the window sill. She had to support herself. She pressed the letter against her chest.
‘I believe I am only doing you a favour by taking you out of that nest!’
Now she looked over at Heinz. He was still leaning against the window frame. She thought she saw him shrugging his shoulders slightly.
‘For a few semesters I plan… to you send to Berlin’ …
To Berlin!
Mechanically she read on.
‘You will have the best experts for your disciplines there. And beyond that, it would not hurt you to stick your nose into the wider world a little.’ …
Oh yes! Into the wider world! The wider world!
Outside there was a slow rumbling over the bumpy old cobbles up the steep laneway.
So must I, so must I, leave the village with a sigh?
The postilion blew his horn into the quiet evening. Far, far above the pointed bay windows and roofs a few white stars were shining.
‘The purpose of your stay in the nest – to give you a few jolly semesters – has, I feel, been sufficiently accomplished.’ …
‘I cannot imagine, apart from your studies, what other major advantages for your further education might derive from your continuing to stay there. Your mother and your siblings send their greetings.
                               Your father.’
The page slid out of her hands and rustled on the floorboards. It lay there like a garish white spot in the middle of the image of the window that the moon had painted on the floor.
It was deathly quiet in the room. Only the dark brown regulator ticked; evermore, evermore! The round, shiny brass disc of the pendulum moved evenly back and forth. The lacquer sticks on the windowsill exuded a numbing fragrance. The frame and the glass of the wide, round mirror above the mirror and the green tiles of the large stove shimmered indistinctly in the half light. Gentle reflections of the moonlight shone from the curved backs and the yellow wickerwork of the chairs.
Little Emmi sank back into the big armchair. She stared at the gold-plated, woven sewing basket next to her on the window sill between the flower stems.
Her hands lay limp on her lap.
Suddenly she came to again. Heinz had thrown himself down before her. His black curly hair lay on her knees …
‘Emmi!’
She could not respond. She closed her eyes tightly.
After a while, once more, quietly, timidly:
‘Emmi!’
She was trembling all over.
Heinz now quickly raised his head. There were warm drops on his hand …
‘Dear, dear Emmi!’
He now embraced her and kissed her full on her round, small mouth.
‘No! …’  No!’
She turned red all over. He wasn’t listening to her.
He now hugged her very tightly and kissed her. On the cheeks, on the mouth, on the forehead. Over and over! …
Suddenly little Emmi looked at the window, startled. Something had knocked softly on the window.
A night butterfly! …
A shiver ran through her. Gently she pushed Heinz back.
In the alleyway below several doors closed. Someone shouted distinctly across the street: ‘Good night!’ Now someone was coming round the corner, singing: ‘Free is the lad!
They were both listening.
‘Emmi! I will stay! I will stay!’
He took both her hands and squeezed them.
‘But if your father wills it?’
‘Oh, it is so fine here! So fine!’
The singing continued. From a distance. From far, far away …
She did not respond. Heinz was still clutching her hands. Now she looked sideways at the floorboards. Her eyes had just fallen on the letter. It was still lying motionless like a garish white spot on the floor, on the image of the window. The solid black signature stood out clearly from the white paper: ‘Your father!’
‘Do you see? It’s no use! It’s no use!’
Heinz looked at her, most frightened.
‘I will not forget you! Never!’
‘Forget! Forget! How you talk! How stupid we are anyway! How stupid! As though we were saying goodbye forever! Forever!’
Without meaning to he now followed her gaze. Now he too saw the letter.
‘Oh! That damn letter!’
He leapt back to his feet now.
He picked up the paper.
‘There! Well? There! There!’
He tore it into a thousand pieces. The small, white flakes swirled all over the dark room. Little Emmi watched him, very frightened.
He was now standing upright before her.
‘Not forever!’
He embraced her again.
‘Not forever, dear Emmi! We will write to each other every week! Several times! No?’
She just nodded.
‘Emmi! … Tell me!’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘And for the last semesters I will come back here! And then … and then … you know! … Emmi! No? You see?’
‘Quiet! Quiet!’
She leaned over him now. She kissed his forehead.
Again she looked at him with her large eyes. So strange!
Outside the evening wind was now blowing through the quiet little moonlit laneway. The metal sign below creaked. At times it creaked against the window pane. Softly, softly. So softly …


‘A Farewell’ by Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf was first published in German as ‘Ein Abschied’ in the anthology Neue Gleise. Gemeinsames von Arno Holz & Johannes Schlaf by F. Fontane in Berlin, 1892.

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.