Cover

ALSO BY ROBERT WALSER

FROM NEW DIRECTIONS

The Assistant

A Little Ramble

Looking at Pictures

Microscripts

The Tanners

Thirty Poems

The Walk

Foreword

FOREWORD

“Cinderella, she seems so easy.”
Bob Dylan, “Desolation Row”

In his hometown of Biel, where he was born in 1878 and which he left in 1895, Robert Walser discovered his passion for the theater. Inspired by Friedrich Schiller, he dreamed of becoming an actor and playwright. As a writer, Walser retained and masterfully cultivated this histrionic passion for the spoken word. He expressed, imitated, and perfectly adapted the immediate presence of speech into writing, which also complemented his arsenal for irony.

Walser is not an author who strives in the free and open. “We are so glad in dark, meditative holes,” he wrote in 1907 in his essay “The Theater, a Dream.” He loved the delimited and well-defined space. Restriction allowed him to compress and unfold his imaginarium. Since his youth, Walser knew that the magical effect of literature finds its most wonderful expression in the theater. “Are the fictions not dreams, and isn’t the open stage nothing other than its wide-open mouth talking in its sleep?”

Although Walser admired the theater, he never wrote directly for the stage. Instead, he imparted a theatrical Grundgestus in his prose (Brecht’s word meaning fundamental gesture, attitude, posture), which the fairy-tale dramolettes—translated here by Daniele Pantano and James Reidel—also demonstrate. They are short, closet plays that do not retell the familiar fairy tale but rather recall their symbols and tropes. “Whether they could ever be put on with, for instance, music is totally questionable and seems for the present utterly beside the point. They are tempered for speech and language, to a beat and a rhythmic enjoyment,” Walser wrote to a publisher in 1912.

As it turned out, Walser’s fairy-tale dramolettes found their way to the stage during the 1970s, when young troupes and little theaters discovered them. Representing a milestone in the history of their reception is Heinz Holliger’s opera Snow White (Schneewittchen), which is based on Walser’s text and premiered at the Zurich Opera House in 1998 with great success. Originally, in 1901, Cinderella (Aschenbrödel) and Snow White were published in the journal Die Insel. In 1919, Walser gathered them with other dramolettes for the volume Comedies. Around the same time he likely wrote Thorn Rose (Dornröschen), or Sleeping Beauty, which appeared a year later in the journal Pro Helvetia. The Christ Child (Das Christkind), also dates from that time and was published in Die Neue Rundschau in 1920. It can be read too as a fairy tale or, more properly, a verse morality.

During Walser’s lifetime these publications received very little real public reaction. An exception is Walter Benjamin who, in his 1929 essay on Walser, called Snow White “one of the most profound creations of recent literature and one that is sufficient on its own to show why the most playful of all writers was a favorite of the merciless Franz Kafka.” Benjamin continues, “Walser starts where the fairy tales stop. ‘And if they are not dead, they live now.’ Walser shows how they live.”

Looking at literary history, Walser’s fairy-tale dramolettes are not unique. They belong to adaptations, re-creations, collections, and studies in the field of folk and literary fairy tales that have been treated by different minds such as Carlo Collodi, Oscar Wilde, L. Frank Baum, Engelbert Humperdinck, Johann Strauss, Selma Lagerlöf, Blaise Cendrars, Carl Einstein, Franz Kafka, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, and Carl Jung.

The fairy-tale dramolettes are magical literary theater—“entirely poetry” in Walser’s words. The characters, while still fairy-tale beings, exemplify the modern individual who exists to understand the possible terms of his or her fate. For the characters, the fairy tale is the world and language out of which they are made, their nature. Walser depicts self-knowledge as an existential state of poetic exaggeration. When the characters speak of their existence, they stand as if beside themselves. Everything has already happened; time has stopped; life becomes reflectively stretched apart. It is transformed into this dream reality, which is fantastic, disillusioning, demonic, enchanting, enlightening, and uplifting. In addition to the subject matter and the metatheatrical dimension is Walser’s inimitable language that gives the dramolettes their special charm. For all its simplicity and elegance, his language is dazzling and full of surprising, ironic twists:

The language must be a weasel

falling headlong when it wishes

that it didn’t lack words for her,

but it can see her poverty.

These days we have learned to deal with the ambivalence of the tableau. Together with innovation, making the unreal means a threatening alienation as well. Walser, however, belongs to a generation that welcomes illusion. Fiction appears as a romantic power that allows one to transform a mundane reality:

Isn’t reality a dream too?

Aren’t we all, even when awake,

going about a bit like dreamers,

sleepwalkers in the light of day,

who play around with caprices

and act as if awake?

While they are jubilantly playful, the fairy-tale dramolettes are little teaching plays too. The characters behave as if in a poetic purgatory, twisting and turning until they confess, which in the end is precisely their purpose. They are messengers of a poetic existence who bear witness to the human longing for being without boundaries while rooted in a center. As an enlightened poet, Walser knew where the power of poetry exists. This is revealed by the Fairy Tale, as a character herself:

The people don’t believe in me,

but so what when just my nearness

makes them think a little again.

RETO SORG

ROBERT WALSER-ZENTRUM, BERN

Translators’ note

TRANSLATORS’ NOTE

The source text for these translations is Robert Walser, Komödie: Märchenspiele und szenische Dichtungen (1986). Occasional notes are provided to enhance reading and understanding. The order of the first three plays is not chronological, but rather that of a dramatic or cinematic trilogy-triptych, one that allows the reader to challenge, in a small, Walserian way, the culturally hegemonic Disney cartoon adaptations of the past midcentury (and reinforced once more with the 2014 film Maleficent).

As to the titles, Snow White is a virtual cognate of the German title. Cinderella, however, is from the familiar French version of the tale by Charles Perrault — Cendrillon — which means the same as the German word Aschenbrödel, a scullion maid. (The second part of the word/name is from the verb brodeln, or prudeln, literally to seethe, boil, sputter, and figuratively to talk too much, which Walser exploits here.) Thorn Rose — which alludes to the heroine’s “thorny” quality — would be lost in the title that has supplanted it over time. Thus, “Sleeping Beauty” appears in the translation’s subtitle.

The inclusion here of The Christ Child is our inescapable assertion that Walser intended it as a fairy tale, too, given all the devotion to the original text as the other three.

J.R. & D.P.

Snow White

SNOW WHITE

A garden. To the right the palace entrance. In the background rolling mountains. The Queen, Snow White, the foreign Prince, the Hunter.

Queen:

Say, are you sick?

Snow White:

You would ask since you wanted death

on the one who ever stung you

in the eyes as too beautiful.

How you look at me so composed.

This kindness, showing in your eyes,

so full of love, is just made up,

the serene tone just counterfeit.

Hate really does dwell in your heart.

You dispatched the Hunter to me

and told him to draw his dagger,

to point it at this despised face.

You ask me whether I’m sick now?

Such sport sounds bad from a soft voice.

Indeed, softness becomes sly sport

when it is so fearlessly cruel.

I’m not sick; I’m very much dead.

The poison apple was painful,

O, O so painful, and Mother, you,

you’re the one who brought it to me.

So why joke about my being sick?

Queen:

Fair child, you are wrong. You are sick,

no, gravely, very gravely ill.

There’s no doubt this fresh garden air

will do you good. I beg of you,

just don’t let your weak little head

give in to the idea. Be still.

Don’t mull things over and over.

Get some exercise, skip and run.

Shout racing for a butterfly.

Scold the air for not making it

warm enough yet. Become a child.

Soon you’ll leave this color behind,

which is like a pale winding sheet

draped over your pink complexion.

Think not of sin. The sin should be

forgotten. Perhaps I did sin

against you many long years ago.

Who could remember such a thing?

Unpleasant things are easily

forgotten if you consider

who’s near and dear. Are you crying?

Snow White:

Yes, I must when I realize

how quick you are to wring the past

by the neck the way you wanted

mine wrung. Crying, of course, over

the sinful absent mind that wants

to sweet-talk me. O how you give

this sin such wings, and yet it flies

terribly with this new pair

that do not fit. It lies so close

to me and you, this thing you want

bantered away with a sweet word,

so close, I’d say, close to the touch,

such that I can never forget it,

nor you who committed it.

Hunter, speak, you did swear my death?

Hunter:

Of course, princess, a grisly death,

just not performed as loud and clear

as the fairy tale made public.

The humble way you begged touched me,

your face, lying there sweet as snow

beneath the kiss of the sunlight.

I sheathed that which I intended

for your murder, stabbing the deer

that leapt across our path. I sucked

the blood out of him greedily.

Yours, however, I left untouched.

So don’t say I swore you should die.

I took pity and broke my oath

before I did you any harm.

Queen:

So what are you crying about?

He drew his dagger as a joke.

He’d have to stab what’s soft in him

before he could ever stab you.

But he didn’t. The soft in him

is alive like the morning sun.

Come give me a kiss and forget.

Look up with joy and show some sense.

Snow White:

How can I kiss the lips of one

who pushed this Hunter off, kissed him

into doing the bloody deed.

I’ll never kiss you. With kisses

you fired the Hunter to murder

and my death was seconds away,

because he was your sweet lover.

Queen:

What did you say?

Hunter:

Me with kisses?

Prince:

I really believe it’s all true.

That man in the green jacket has

far less respect than befits him

in the presence of this great Queen.

Snow White, O how evilly have

you been played by such ruthless hate.

It’s a wonder that you’re alive.

You survived poison and a knife.

From what stuff are you made,

for you’re dead and yet so lovely

alive, indeed, so little dead

that life must be in love with you?

Tell me, did this Hunter stab you?

Snow White:

No, no, there beats in this fellow

a good heart filled with compassion.

If the Queen had this heart, she would

be a better mother to me.

Queen:

I mean to be much better with you

than your keen suspicion suggests.

I did not send the Hunter off

after you with kisses. Blind fear

has made you too apprehensive.

In fact, I have always loved you

as my sweet, innocent child.

Why would I have any reason,

cause, or right to hate one as dear

to me as a child of my own breast!

O do not believe that coy voice

that whispers of sin, which it’s not.

Believe your right, not your left ear,

I mean that false one telling you

that I am this evil mother

green-eyed at beauty. Don’t be fooled

by such an absurd fairy tale

stuffing the world’s greedy ears full

of these newsy bits that I am

mad with jealousy, by nature

evil. It is just idle talk.

I love you. To admit this has

never been said more sincerely.

That you’re so lovely gives me joy.

Beauty in one’s own child is balm

for a mother’s love gone weary,

not the goad to some heinous deed,

like the fairy tale has laid out

for this story line here, this play.

Don’t turn away. Be a dear child.

Trust a parent’s word as your own.

Snow White:

O I believed you with pleasure,

for believing is quiet bliss.

But how much faith is going to make

me believe when no faith exists,

where a roguish malice lurks, where

injustice sits with a proud neck?

You speak as kindly as you can,

and yet you still cannot act kind.

Those eyes, flashing so scornfully,

wince at me so threatening, so

unmotherly, laugh with menace

at the affection on your tongue,

with derision. They speak the truth,

and they alone, those proud eyes, I

believe, not the backstabber’s tongue.

Prince:

I believe you see right, my child.

Queen:

Must you keep helping, little prince,*

feeding more flames to the fire, where

a flood of healing is needed?

A stranger clad in motley clothes

should not step too close to a queen.

Prince:

Why not dare to rise against you,

you fiend, for the princess’s sake?

Queen:

What?

Prince:

Yes, and while I look small and weak,

I’ll echo this a thousand times,

ten—a hundred thousand times for you:

a dreadful crime’s taken place here,

and one that points to you, the Queen.

Poison was strewn for this sweet child,

set out as though she were a dog.

Why not admit your wickedness,

your good conscience! You, fair child,

let’s go up for a little while

and contemplate this grievous thing.

If you’re too weak, just lay your head

upon my faithful shoulder here,

which would cherish such a burden.

From you, Queen, we shall take our leave

for now of a short span of time.

Then we’ll continue our talk.

(To Snow White) Come,

permit me this sweet liberty.

He leads her inside the palace.

Queen:

Just go, broken mast and rigging.

Go newlyweds, married to death.

Go misery, lead weakness away,

and be very dear arm in arm.

Come, fair Hunter, let’s have a talk.

Change of scene. A room inside the palace. The Prince
and Snow White.

Prince:

I would talk away the whole day

with you and do so arm in arm.

How strange this language is to me

that comes from that sweet mouth of yours.

Your mere word, how alive it is.

My ear hangs rapt on its richness

in a hammock of harkening,

while dreaming of a violin strain,

a lisp, a fair nightingale’s song,

of love’s twittering. In and out

the dreaming goes like ocean waves

washing onto our garden shore.

O speak, and I’m ever asleep,

a prisoner of love this way,

in chains, yet infinitely rich,

free as no free man ever was.

Snow White:

You speak such noble princely speech.

Prince:

No, let me listen instead,

so that the love I swore below

in the garden, in that playpen,

never blows away in vain words.

I only want to listen and respond

to your love that sounds in my head.

Speak, that I am ever silent

and true to you. Unfaithfulness

comes quick with words. It speaks rashly,

a fountain in the wind, being whipped,

to froth over into babble.

No, let me be silent, true to you.

In this sense I shall love you more

than with love. Then wholeheartedness

knows itself no more. It showers

me in wetness the same as you.

Love is wet the way the night is,

such that dry dust never clouds it.

So speak, such that when you speak

it falls like dew upon our love.

You’re quiet. What do you see there?

Snow White:

You do talk like a waterfall

of silence, yet you’re not silent.

Prince:

What’s wrong, speak! You look so somber,

so plaintive right down to your toes,

as if you were searching for words

that whisper love. Do not sulk there.

Speak up when something troubles you.

Unroll it just like a carpet

on which we will merrily play.

To dally in heartache does one good.

Snow White:

You talk forever and promise

silence though. What are you saying,

talking headlong on and on?

Confidence is not so quick-tongued.

Love fancies it soft and serene.

O if you’re not devoted

to my bliss in every sense,

then say so. Say it, for you say

unfaithfulness would talk away

eagerly, talkative, so fast.

Prince:

Let us drop that.

Snow White:

Yes, let’s make small talk, be merry.

Let us banish from love’s kingdom

melancholy and dolefulness.

Let’s jest and dance and cheer aloud.

Why worry of the pain of now,

which commands us to be silent!

Well, what see you in the garden?

Prince (looking out the window):

Alas, what I see is fair and sweet

to the naked eye that but sees.

To feeling, which takes in this scene

with its fine net, it is sacred.

To intellect, which knows the past,

it’s disgusting, a dirty flood

of muddy water. Oh, it takes

a twofold view, sweet and terrible,

thoughtful and beautiful. Look there,

with your own eyes, see for yourself.

Snow White:

No, say, what’s going on? Just tell me.

From your lips then I could gather

such a picture’s subtle detail.

If you paint it, surely you will

cleverly, prudently temper

the view’s poignancy. Now, what goes?

Rather than look, I’d rather hear.

Prince:

It is the most lovely passion

that ever inflamed two lovers.

The Queen kisses the Hunter’s lips,

and he gives kiss after kiss back.

They sit beneath the willow tree,

whose long branches flutter downward

on both their heads. The grass kisses

the tangle of interlocked feet.

The wood bench sighs under the press

of their bodies making one body

in the rapture of their embrace.

O, so a tiger pair would mate

in the jungle, far from the real world.

The sweet bliss makes them one, tears them

apart just to bring them closer

all over again. I’m speechless,

imageless at such an image.

Will you see it and be speechless?

Snow White:

No, such a thing would disgust me.

Come away from that filthy scene.

Prince:

The colors barely release me

from its spell. It is a painting,

and sweet love is its painter.

O, how she lies down there, this Queen,

being crushed inside his strong arms.

How she cries from passion and how

her beau smothers her with kisses,

like one smothering a bowl of food,

no, a sky, this mouth opening

on heavenly passion itself.

That rogue is utterly shameless.

He thinks his green hunting jacket

protects him from barbs. Here’s a barb,

what seems to bewitch me up here.

O, I’m furious. It’s this woman!

Not this wretch. O, just that woman!

Something does wrong to that crude wretch.

Alas, this sweet, this sweet woman.—

If I could only lose the sense

of what I saw. Now I’m lost.

A storm rages above it all,

what is called love, wishes being called,

but no longer. Go, everything.

Snow White:

Woe unto me that I must hear.

Prince:

Woe unto us that I must see.

Snow White:

O, how I long for nothing more

than to be smiling and dead, dead.

This I am too and always was.—

I’ve never felt life’s seething storm.

I feel as still as this soft snow

that lies for a ray of sunlight

that accepts it. I’m snow this way—

and melt away with a warm breeze

meant not for me but for the spring.

Sweet is this seeping down. Dear earth,

receive me unto your dwelling!

The sun is too painful for me.

Prince:

Do I give you this terrible pain?

Snow White:

O no, not you. You could never!

Prince:

How lovely you are, how you laugh

for me, come smiling! Don’t love me.

I simply disturb your repose.

O, to have left your coffin alone!

How beautiful you lay therein,

snow in a silent winter world.

Snow White:

Snow, always snow?

Prince:

Forgive me, you dear winter scene,

you likeness of serene white calm.

If I upset you, it happened

only for love. Now this love turns

away from you again weeping,

toward the Queen. Please forgive this love

for lifting you from that coffin,

the glass one, wherein you lay

with rosy cheeks, an open mouth,

and this breath just like one alive,

this picture to die for most sweet.

I should have left it just like that,

with love kneeling before you then.

Snow White:

Look, look! Now that I am alive

you dump me like a dead body!

How very strange you men all are.

Prince:

Rightly scold me. You’re being tender.

Hate me and I’ll kneel before you.

If you called me a rotten knave

it would fit well. But let me now

find that lovely Queen, for I wish

to free her from a love unworthy.

I beg of you, be very cross

with me, indeed, be very mad.

Snow White:

Why then? Give me a reason why?

Prince:

Well, because I’m such a villain

to run from you to another,

she who excites his mind more now.

Snow White:

You are not a villain! Well, well—

that mind, that mind of yours is more

excited? What’s on your mind is so

mindless. What a pack of dogs must

excite your mind such that you flee

like a terrified deer, the foe

pursuing you. Well, so be it.

So fly from me then to this stream

with the better water to lap.

I’ll remain, smiling, teasing you

with my pale white hand outstretched,

follow your flight with a gay voice

that calls: Snow White shall wait for you.

Come, knock on this familiar door

and laugh aloud. And then you turn

your dear, faithful head to me

begging me to just be quiet,

for shouting serves no purpose.—Go!

O go then, for I release you.

And do commend me to my Queen.

Prince:

Commend you to the Queen? What for?

Am I dreaming?

Snow White:

Well, am I not allowed to send

my regards to Mommy with you,

who’s down there in that shady park

occupied with her needlework?

She sews a token of her love—

what do I care. I owe her love,

and love sends its regards with you.

Say, I forgive her. No, not that.

Anyway, it doesn’t show well

for a child to be on her knees

and begging for me to forgive.

You’ll be half love’s own already

on your knees. Then say it like so,

in passing, like sugared pastry,

and pay heed when she nods so fair,

when she’s choking with emotion

and gives her hand for your hot kiss,

which sends, you being so chivalrous,

my forgiveness for this mistake.

How impatient I am for word

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