Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Edited by
Clare Bielby
and
Anna Richards
ISBN-13: 978–1–57113–069–3
ISBN-10: 1–57113–069–1
PT151.W7W59 2010
830.9'3522—dc22
2010000983
A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
This publication is printed on acid-free paper.
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
about the appropriate behavior and status of widows in her story “Werde,
die du bist” (1894). Áine McMurtry argues that for Ingeborg Bachmann
the “deathly” experience of seeing herself appropriated in the work of her
former partner Max Frisch inspired her later thematic concern with
death.
A potential source of resistance, women’s lives are also, of course, the
site where dominant cultural representations are inscribed and come into
force: women are the recipients, before they are the producers, of dis-
courses. As Victor Burgin argues, “we become who we are only through
our encounter [. . .] with the multitude of representations of what we may
become.”11 This is illustrated by Barbara Becker-Cantarino’s essay on the
Romantic poet Karoline von Günderrode. Becker-Cantarino argues that
Günderrode internalized the Romantics’ idealized images of love-death
and that this may have contributed to her suicide. Hence the urgency of
the feminist project — and of this project — to interrogate patriarchal
images of women, and to draw attention to alternatives. Silence is not an
option.
Despite their historical and individual differences, it is possible to
observe certain communalities in many of the works discussed here. In
their effort to wrestle with the images and stereotypes that language con-
veys, many writers challenge conventional or prescribed forms, modes, and
phrases. Historically, such a challenge has been particularly audacious for
women writers, who have been under pressure to restrict themselves to
appropriately “feminine” kinds of writing: to romantic or domestic fiction,
for example, rather than drama; to love poetry, rather than elegy. Stephanie
Hilger explains that for the German author Christine Westphalen (1758–
1840) to compose a historical drama — a choice of genre that facilitates
her representation of Charlotte Corday, the assassin of Jean-Paul Marat, as
a powerful, active figure — was to go against the “rules” laid down for
women’s writing by Goethe and Schiller, amongst others. Hilger parallels
Corday’s wielding of the sword with Westphalen’s wielding of the pen in
encroaching on the sacred male terrain of Weimar Classicism. Günderrode
again provides a negative example: while Westphalen boldly appropriates
and reworks this male genre, Günderrode allows her lover Creuzer to steer
her away from historical drama toward a “feminine,” mythic, and “orien-
talizing” poetic mode.
Early modern women have to be content to make themselves heard
through often prescriptive genres, such as funeral books, and women writ-
ers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are frowned upon for ven-
turing into “male” literary terrain, but by the twentieth century
experimentation with form has become much more possible for women
writers. The Austrian writer Ingeborg Bachmann (1926–73) has any genre
or mode at her disposal. Bachmann responded to her former partner Max
Frisch’s novel Mein Name sei Gantenbein (Gantenbein: A Novel, 1964),
4 CLARE BIELBY AND ANNA RICHARDS
The alternative for women writers of the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries was to write against those literary and extra-literary
discourses that associated women with sickness and emotionality. Hilger
suggests that the Hamburg author Christine Westphalen does just this
with her historical drama, published in 1804, about Charlotte Corday,
who assassinated the Jacobin leader Marat in post-revolutionary Paris. At
this period it was common for female killers to be portrayed as lacking
agency, for their deed to be attributed to madness, passion, the desire for
revenge, or obedience to the orders of others. In the case of Corday,
Hilger writes, both denigrators and supporters resorted to such stereotypes
in order either to depoliticize, or to excuse, her action. Westphalen rejects
these motives: her protagonist is a reasoning, sane, sensitive woman who
acts independently, for political reasons, reasons that Westphalen has her
voice in scenes portraying her trial. For Hilger a parallel can be drawn
between Westphalen and her heroine: by publishing a historical tragedy, a
“high” genre considered at the time to be inappropriate for women writ-
ers, Westphalen is also venturing — albeit with less dangerous conse-
quences — outside the traditionally female realm and into the public,
masculine sphere.
In the course of nineteenth-century literary history many of the
stereotypes surrounding women and death were repeated, reworked, and
became entrenched in literary works. It is the century of the self-sacrifi-
cial heroine and the femme fragile, of the sexualized female killer and the
femme fatale. It is also the century that witnessed the birth of the wom-
en’s movement and the rapid expansion of women’s professional writing.
Many women writers used their creative work to protest against the tra-
ditional, restrictive association of women and death, as the next two
contributions to the volume illustrate, both of which address works by
women written around 1900. Dunn focuses on a short story published
by Hedwig Dohm in 1894 that is rich in its literal and figurative explora-
tion of the theme of death. “Werde, die du bist” tells of Agnes Schmidt,
an “ordinary” woman in her fifties who after the death of her husband
experiences the social death that was often the fate of the widow in the
nineteenth century. Agnes’s widowhood is also, however, the catalyst for
a kind of emancipation, for an attempt to discover her “self”: she travels,
reads, reflects, and falls in love with a younger man. Dunn places her
discussion of Dohm’s short story in the context of dominant views on
widowhood in the nineteenth century and depictions of the widow in
nineteenth-century literature. She shows that while Dohm’s story can be
read as a protest against the loss of social status and visibility of the older
woman in the nineteenth century, and in particular of the widow, and
against the sexual double standard that permits love relationships
between older men and younger women, but not vice versa, the story
also has its conventional aspects. Like so many transgressive nineteenth-
INTRODUCTION 7
art. She argues that Bachmann is able to protest against and move beyond
such murderous cultural alignments by developing a radical aesthetic of
love, finally achieved in her experimental novel Malina.
The final essay in the volume takes us to the late twentieth and early
twenty-first centuries and explores intersections between death, gender,
and the media. Its author, Elizabeth Krimmer, alludes to a paradigm shift
in conceptions of war, death, and gender brought about by the pervasive-
ness of the media in contemporary society, where they become complicit
in the logic of war. Krimmer examines a selection of newspaper articles on
the war in Yugoslavia, written by Peter Handke, and a play and three short
monologues on the war in Iraq by the Austrian writer Elfriede Jelinek. The
juxtaposition of a female and male author demonstrates the insights we
gain from reading the female perspective. An awareness of gender bias
pervades Jelinek’s texts, whereas Handke’s negotiation of gender is more
the byproduct of his central focus on war and the media. Krimmer argues
that both Handke and Jelinek critique traditional associations between
femininity and victimhood and destabilize the dichotomies between the
private and the political, male and female. Although Handke reproduces,
in part, cultural clichés of women and death, referring to women reporters
as “Kriegsbräute” (war brides) for example, he is also intent upon giving
women a voice and agency in his quest to get beyond the so-called big
men and big stories of history, to unveil something more real and authen-
tic. Whilst Handke’s interventions into discourses of women, war, and
violence are an indirect result of his critique of the media, Jelinek, argues
Krimmer, is more radical in her approach to war and gender, parodying
and mimicking stereotypical conceptions of femininity and the traditional
associations between women and victimhood, in order to explode these
from within. Jelinek represents women as simultaneously victims and per-
petrators of war, and she seeks to counter the invisibility of women in
Western discourses on war by thrusting them to the forefront. As Krimmer
argues, although Jelinek’s texts are pervaded by cultural pessimism, her
aesthetic mode allows for a more positive reading.
The different contributions to our volume illustrate that it is impos-
sible to generalize about the representation of death by women writers
from the last five hundred years. Perhaps no subject is as central to any
given historical culture, or as intensely personal, as the annihilation of our
own existence or that of those close to us. What emerges, however, despite
their historical and individual specificities, is the paradoxical vitality of the
portrayals of death discussed here. According to some modern theorists,
writing is itself “deathly,” as Bird illustrates in her chapter: relying on and
expressing the absence of the referent, it is always inflected with loss. In
the words of Bronfen and Goodwin: “Any representational discourse
implies the muteness, absence, nonbeing — in short the death — of the
object it seeks to designate.”12 But many of the works by women discussed
10 CLARE BIELBY AND ANNA RICHARDS
here also suggest something else. Beyond the simple point that to write
oneself, rather than to be written about (and thereby fixed in stereotypes
conceived of by others) is to be alive, the women discussed here seem to
“avoid” death even while writing about it. Of course, when we write about
death we are always writing about something else:13 representations of
death have no knowable referent and death can therefore only ever be
written “around.” But, perhaps surprisingly, there is a particularly figura-
tive or indirect quality to many of these works. Early modern women
construct a dying persona during times of health as well as sickness in order
to underline their spiritual fitness for living; Westphalen represents a his-
torical female killer who ends on the scaffold, without depicting her deed
or her death; Hedwig Dohm’s protagonist protests against the experience
of social death and strives for emancipation; Bachmann uses humor to
write about death and thereby affirms life, and in her novel Malina devel-
ops a radical aesthetic of love that works against the cultural alignment of
women and death; Lola doesn’t die and doesn’t kill. Many of the women
artists examined here use death to represent, even to celebrate, life.
Notes
1
Notable exceptions to this include Claire Raymond, The Posthumous Voice in
Women’s Writing from Mary Shelley to Sylvia Plath (Burlington, VT: Ashgate,
2006) and the concluding section to Elisabeth Bronfen’s seminal Over Her Dead
Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic (Manchester: Manchester UP/Routledge,
1992), titled “Aporias of Resistance: From Muse to Creatrix — Snow White
Unbound,” 393–435, in which she discusses works by English-language writers,
including Sylvia Plath, Angela Carter, and Margaret Atwood.
2
Bronfen, Over Her Dead Body.
3
Helen Fronius and Anna Linton, “Introduction,” in Women and Death:
Representations of Female Victims and Perpetrators in German Culture, 1500–2000,
ed. Fronius and Linton (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2008), 1–8; here 1.
4
Sarah Colvin and Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly make a convincing case for the par-
ticularly German tradition of the woman warrior. They argue that “the warrior
woman [in her guise as Amazon, Heldenmädchen, the Biblical Judith][. . .] is both
a more continuous and a more central figure in German culture from the Middle
Ages to the present than in other Western cultures.” Sarah Colvin and Helen
Watanabe-O’Kelly, “Introduction,” in Women and Death 2: Warlike Women in the
German Literary and Cultural Imagination since 1500, ed. Colvin and Watanabe-
O’Kelly (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2009), 3.
5
Claire Raymond argues, for example, that woman is “always already dead, or
erased as a speaker in patriarchal culture” (The Posthumous Voice, 4).
6
Fronius and Linton, “Introduction,” 6.
INTRODUCTION 11
7
Edgar Allan Poe writes in “The Philosophy of Composition” [1846] that “the
death [. . .] of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the
world.” Edgar Allan Poe, The Selected Poetry and Prose of Edgar Allan Poe, ed.
T. O. Mabbott (New York: Modern Library, 1951), 369.
8
Laura Martin argues that in works such as Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck (1879) the
murdered female character fulfils a “scapegoating” function. See “‘Gutes Mensch/
schlechtes Opfer’: The Role of Marie in Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck,” German Life
and Letters 50:4 (1997): 429–44. See Anna Richards, The Wasting Heroine in
German Fiction by Women 1770–1914 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004), on the narra-
tively “cathartic” function of the wasting death of the heroine in the nineteenth-
century German novel.
9
Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality 1: The Will to Knowledge, trans. Robert
Hurley (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1990), 95.
10
Bronfen claims that “although the narratives to be analyzed [in the concluding
section to Over Her Dead Body] revise the canon and represent the topos and trope
of feminine death differently, they remain uncannily between a disavowal and an
affirmation of the dominant image repertoire; hovering between cultural complic-
ity and critique”; Bronfen, Over her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic
(Manchester and New York: Manchester UP/Routledge, 1992), 395.
11
Victor Burgin, The End of Art Theory (London: Macmillan, 1986), 41.
12
Elisabeth Bronfen and Sarah Webster Goodwin, “Introduction,” in Death and
Representation, ed. Bronfen and Webster Goodwin (Baltimore and London: John
Hopkins UP, 1993), 3–25; here 7.
13
Webster Goodwin and Bronfen, “Introduction,” 20.
1: Practicing Piety: Representations of
Women’s Dying in German Funeral
Sermons of the Early Modern Period
Jill Bepler
Introduction
memorializing texts could enjoy and asserted the superiority of the written
over the painted portrait:
Denn durch ein Gemelde oder Contrafactur alleine des Menschen Bilde/
wie er gestalt gewesen/ entworffen/ und etlicher massen für Augen ges-
tellet wird: Wie er aber gesinnet gewesen/ unnd wie er sein Leben zuge-
bracht hat/ kan kein Mahler abbilden/ Mit Worten aber alleine kan mans
etlicher massen beschreiben. Zu dem bleibet eines Menschen Contrafactur
nur an einem Ort/ irgend etwa an einer Wand behangen/ was aber
öffentlich durch den Druck ausgehet/ bleibet nicht alleine an einem
Ort/ sondern wird hin und wider verschicket/ kömmet in vieler Hände/
und wird von vielen gelesen.7
[For the maiden Maria had herself written several sheets of different spir-
itual songs in which she referred to the vanity of the world and heartily
longed for the blessed hour of her death as well as writing verses based
on the Bible text she had chosen for her funeral.]15
Unnd ist sonderlich mercklich/ daß I.F.D. auff alle Anligen deß
Menschen einen sondern Trost geben können/ wie ich vor diesem einen
Dialogismum gesehen/ so sie mit eygner Hand geschrieben/ darinne die
Klag eines armen Sünders/ unnd die tröstliche Antwort darauff sehr
artlich gegen einander gesetzt wird. Als nur ein Exempel oder zwey
anzuziehen: Wann der armer Sünder sagt/ Psal. 6 Ach Herr straff mich
nicht in deinem Zorn/ etc. So antwortet David Ps. 103. Barmhertzig
und gnädig ist der Herr/ gedültig unnd von grosser Güte. Wenn das
geängste Gewissen fragt Ps. 139. Herr wo soll ich hingehen für deinem
Angesicht? So antwortet Christus Matth. 11. Kompt her zu mir alle die
ihr Mühseelig und beladen seyd [. . .].21
[And it is particularly remarkable that her Grace could give special com-
fort in all human concerns. I once saw a dialogue that she had written in
her own hand in which the lament of a poor sinner and the consoling
answer to it were very nicely combined with one another. When the poor
sinner says (Psalm 6) O Lord rebuke me not in thine anger, etc., David
answers with Psalm 103 The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to
anger, and plenteous in mercy. When the frightened conscience asks
(Psalm 139) Whither shall I flee from your presence? Christ answers with
Matthew 11 Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden . . .]
In the funeral books and ars moriendi literature, patience, submission, and
endurance are shown as the key virtues of the dying. These are tested not
just by extremes of pain but also by spiritual tribulation, from which the
dying person is seen to emerge victorious. In a particularly long passage
the Markgräfin’s chaplain recalls her crisis of faith (“Anfechtung”), which
occurred suddenly, just before her death, when she felt that the devil was
undermining her good thoughts and thus subverting her good death.22 As
an antidote, the chaplain bombards her with consolatory Bible quotations.
The interchange ends when the Markgräfin supplies him with her own
quotations, and her power to lead in exemplary faith and select her own
text for consolation is reasserted:
Deß tröste ich mich auch/ ja ich weiß und bin gewiß/ daß mich weder
Leben [margin: Röm. 8] noch Todt scheiden kan von der Liebe Gottes/
die da ist in Christo Jesu unserm Herrn.23
The term “Anfechtung” is not easily translated into English (it denotes a
mixture of affliction, temptation, suffering, and tribulation),24 but it con-
notes the necessity to combat (“fechten”) tribulation through prayer and
a well-rehearsed repertoire of biblical readings. In this permanent recourse
to the performance of prayer and religious texts we see the result of a ritu-
GERMAN FUNERAL SERMONS OF THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD 19
alization and sacralization of all aspects of everyday life, which took place
long before Pietism, as Patrice Veit and Cornelia Moore have stressed.25 In
describing how devotional practices led to the “incorporation” of texts,
Veit speaks of a deep internalization, in which biblical verses or parts of
songs provided a formula for creative self-expression.26
Rudolf Schenda highlights another aspect in describing the role of
devotional practices as a form of pain management throughout the early
modern period, when techniques of devotion were presented in literary
forms and performed in communal acts of reading and singing believed to
counteract all forms of pain. In this framework, pain and suffering are
imbued with positive qualities, and devotional handbooks encourage what
Schenda calls therapeutic visions of torture to help the patient to divert
attention from his or her own pain. The ultimate diversion is of course the
meditation on the Passion of Christ, in which all mere human suffering is
put into perspective.27
Zuvor aber/ und ehe sie kranck worden/ auß sonderbarer antung [sic]/
und eingebung Gottes deß H. Geistes/ etliche wochen lang/ mit eitel
tröstlichen Sterbensgedancken/ sterbeLiedern und sterbgebetlein/ ihre
zeit zugebracht/ und als sie deßwegen von ihrer Schwester anges-
20 JILL BEPLER
prochen/ warumb sie doch nur allein vom sterben täglich und ohn
underlaß lese/ singe/ und bete/ hat sie geantwort/ das sey ihr gröster
Trost/ und höchste begierde/ sie schicke sich hiermit zu einem seligen
stündlein/ sie achte sich diser Welt nit mehr/ begehr auch nicht von
grund ihres Hertzens keines irdischen Bräutigams/ sondern allein ihres
Himmlischen Bräutigams Jesu Christi/ dem wolle sie zugleich an Leib
und Seel ein reine Jungfraw zubringen.29
[For several weeks before she fell sick, specially warned and inspired by
God the Holy Spirit, she spent her time only with consoling thoughts of
death, songs, and prayers for the dying. When her sister asked her why
she read, sang, and prayed about death every day without interruption,
she answered that this was her greatest comfort and her ultimate desire,
she was preparing for the blessed hour of her death, she cared nothing for
this world any more, from the bottom of her heart she no longer wished
for an earthly bridegroom, but only for her heavenly bridegroom Jesus
Christ, to whom she wished to bring herself as a maiden, pure in body
and soul.]
side and she becomes anxious whenever she loses sight of one of them.
This vision of angels is taken up by those around her, who console her and
explain that one of the angels has only disappeared to seek reinforcements
and speed her departure:
Es würde mehr Engelein mit sich bringen/ sie auff Simeonis wagen
setzen und fort führen. Drauff sies auch wider gesehen [. . .]. Dabey sie
auch ihre damaln gegenwertige Mutter gefragt: Ob dann der Simeons
Wagen noch nit kommen oder fertig were/ damit sie fort kommen
möchte? Welche geantwortet/ es wäre schon angespant/ und die H.
Engelein bey den Rädern/ solchen fortzuschieben.32
[It would bring back more angels to put her on Simeon’s chariot and
bear her away. Then she saw it again [. . .] and she asked her mother who
was with her at the time whether Simeon’s chariot had not yet arrived or
if it was not ready yet so that she could be on her way? Her mother
answered that the carriage was already tethered and the holy angels were
standing by the wheels, ready to push it away.]
The Besler family are referring to a text that, as we are told in a marginal
note, Anna Maria had read in her sickness and which others had read to
her. The scene with the angels and the chariot is taken from the emblem-
atic engraving in Johann Saubert’s Currus Simeonis, which had just been
published in Nuremberg that year, 1627 (see fig. 1.2). The work was a
handbook especially written for lay use with the sick and dying. It con-
sisted of a sermon of about fifty pages that Saubert had preached on the
Gospel of Luke 2:25–32, the encounter of Simeon with Christ in the
Temple of Jerusalem. The engraving illustrating the text is numbered
with the fifteen points made in the sermon and the numbers are also
marked in the margins of the sermon, so that the reader can continually
refer back to the illustration while meditating on the text. The angels
pushing the wheels of the chariot referred to by Anna Maria’s mother are
clearly to be seen. The sermon was accompanied by 550 pages of what
Saubert called a spiritual apparatus with which both the healthy and the
sick could prepare themselves for death. An index provides easy access to
the correct reading, prayer, or hymn for every occasion. Texts to read to
the dying are especially marked by a pointing hand so that they can be
quickly located. The Currus Simeonis was an immensely popular work
that was reprinted four times in the next decades and obviously left its
mark on its readers, such as the Besler family, where we see its practical
employment.
The deathbed scene reported for Anna Maria Besler is a carefully con-
structed melodramatic tableau full of reported speech. It includes her
reporting hearing heavenly music, dialogues between her and her mother,
visions of her dead sister Katharina reaching down to pull her up to
heaven, and finally an ecstatic vision of the heavens opening:
22 JILL BEPLER
und da es eben schier zum End mit ihr kommen und das Gesicht verge-
hen wollen/ hebt sie ihre beede Hände betend gehen Himmel/ reicht
und reckt sie nach ihrem Erlöser/ hebt an mit heller Stimm zu ruffen/
O Freud O Frewd [sic] und über Freud; Ich sehe den Himmel offen/ O
ewige Himmels Frewd/ und als sie hierüber die Händ wider zu ihr zog/
und auf das Hertz truckte/ fragte sie die Mutter abermal/ Wen sie dann
also hertzlich zu ihr truckte/ ihren Himmels König. Ja/ ja sagt sie freyl-
ich/ mit demselben will ich uber die Mauren springen.33
[and when the end had finally come and her sight was deserting her, she
raised both hands in prayer toward heaven, reaching and stretching out
to her savior, and she began to cry out with a clear voice O joy o joy and
more than joy; I see the heavens open, o the eternal joy of heaven. And
she pulled her hands back and pressed them to her heart and her mother
asked her again whom she was pressing so affectionately, and whether it
was her Heavenly King. Yes, yes, she said, of course, with him I will leap
over a wall.]
The marginal note to this passage refers the reader to Psalm 18:30, giving the
words of the dying girl to her mother a heroic and martial twist somewhat
lost in the King James version (v. 29): “Denn mit dir kan ich Kriegsvolck
zerschmeissen/ Vnd mit meinem Gott vber die mauren springen” (For by
thee I have run through a troop; and by my God have I leaped over a wall).
Alongside the reported deathbed speeches, another topos of the funeral
sermon used to increase its emotional potential is the imagined speech given
by the deceased to the mourners from the coffin. Authors of poems or songs
GERMAN FUNERAL SERMONS OF THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD 23
[How well I felt when I left you and departed from the body in
which I lay imprisoned. Soon, thousands of angels were swarming
around me and I mingled in among them and flew away with
them.]
However, these addresses were not always just the ventriloquized voices of
the male clergy or authors of poetry. As we have seen, they could also
convey the authentic voice of the deceased by using witnessed reported
speech or by using texts written by the women themselves. Among the
Altenburg women poets whose works have been edited by Anna Carrdus
we find the example of fifteen-year-old Sophia Christiana Geyer (1676–
89), whose own devotional songs were sung both before and after her
funeral sermon. Although a healthy child, in a constant process of reading,
writing, and memorizing, Sophia had prepared carefully for death. She
selected the verses to be inscribed on her coffin and, long before her sick-
ness, the text for her funeral sermon.36 The performance of her own poetry
as arias at her funeral allows her to address both the mourners and the
readers of the funeral book directly:
[I am fully prepared to die and leave this world, for I will not
perish; I will stand beautifully clad]
Ja den grausamen Feind/ den Todt/ ist Sie als eine unverzagte geistliche
Amazonin mit einem unüberwindlichen Helden-Muth entgegen gegan-
gen. Welchen tapfferen Helden-Muth Sie auch in einen herlichen/
schönen Leichen-Text/ den Sie selbst von mir bey ihrer Beerdigung zu
erklären begehret hat/ an den Tag gegeben.40
Citing his sources, the preacher recommends that his readers consult the
section on “mulieres fortes” (strong women) in Theodor Zwinger’s
Theatrum vitae humanae (Theater of Human Life, 1604) for examples of
female courage that would take him two hours to recite.44 He regales them
with tales of a young woman of twenty who killed twenty-six Spaniards in
the battle for Genoa, of the women of Ulati who in 1571 shamed their
menfolk by defending the island of Cozula from attack by the Viceroy of
Algeria, and of the Duchess of Nevers who commanded a cavalry regiment
in 1617, of the women of Montaulbon who fought alongside their hus-
bands against the troops of the French King in 1621. Schmidt concludes
his list of contemporary Amazons with a noble Irish woman who defended
Castleknock against the English in 1642, citing her story from the widely
read French journal Mercure François (French Mercury).45 Although she
had fewer than fifty men at her disposal, it was claimed that she managed
to kill 500 besiegers before charging out from the gate to confront them:
Hernach als es an munition mangeln wollte/ ließ sie ihre Kleinodien und
alle köstliche mobilien zusammen in den Schloß-Hof tragen/ zündete
dieselben an/ sprach ihren übrigen Soldaten einen Muht zu/ eröffnete
das Thor/ fiel mit grosser furi heraus unter die Engelländer/ erlegte ihrer
wiederumb eine grosse Anzahl/ und hoffte also ritterlich mitten unter
ihren Feinden zu sterben. [. . .] Welche und dergleichen von heroischen
Weibern begangene männliche Thaten manchen gepantzerten Haasen in
die Estandart sollte mahlen lassen.46
[Afterward, when munitions ran short, she had her valuables and costly
furniture brought into the castle courtyard and set fire to them. She
encouraged her other soldiers to take heart, opened the gates and
stormed out among the English with great ferocity, once more killing a
great number of them, hoping to die a chivalrous death in the midst of
her enemies. [. . .] Some cowards in armor would do well to have these
and other manly deeds by heroic women painted on their standards.]
Conclusion
Funeral sermons attested to a model Christian death that was not spe-
cifically gendered, and for about 150 years the genre provided a unique
vehicle in which ordinary women’s lives and deaths were read and reread
as part of devotional practice. The stereotypes they provided were always
in tension with individual narratives that show women shaping the way
in which they were seen by their families, households, and neighbors, and
also how they wanted to be remembered by posterity. The preachers who
wrote these popular texts presented women as active and equal in a bat-
tle for Christian salvation. The act of reading may have determined the
way they prepared themselves for death, but writing and an intense and
creative interaction with devotional texts gave them an opportunity to
find their own words to reformulate and internalize their devotions,
while the voices that are transported in their funeral sermons were a les-
son to others.
Notes
1
Stephanie Wodianka, “Individuelle Erinnerung und kulturelles Gedächtnis: Zur
Funktion der meditatio mortis in der Literatur,” in Zum Sterben schön: Alter,
Totentanz und Sterbekunst von 1500 bis heute, ed. Andrea von Hülsen-Esch and
Hiltrud Westermann-Angerhausen (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2006), 1:289–
300; here 290.
2
It is estimated that 250,000 such funeral books have survived in archives and
libraries in Germany and the former German-speaking territories. See Rudolf Lenz,
De mortuis nil nisi bene: Leichenpredigten als multidisziplinäre Quelle (Sigmaringen,
Germany: Jan Thorbecke, 1990), 21.
3
For a comprehensive study of the topic and an extensive bibliography, see
Cornelia Niekus Moore, Patterned Lives: The Lutheran Funeral Biography in Early
GERMAN FUNERAL SERMONS OF THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD 27
14
Polycarp Leyser, Leichpredigt/ Bey Christlichem Begrebniß zweyer Schwester:
Denen . . . Frawen Sabinen, Des . . . Herrn Sigismundi Möstels/ beyder Rechten
Candidati ehlichen Haußfrawen: Vnd Jungfrawen Marien, Beyden des . . . Herrn
Johann Roithaupts auff Zehmen/ deß Raths vnd Bawmeistern zu Leipzig ehleiblichen
Töchtern/; Welche . . . den 23. Februar. Anno 1625. . . . eingeschlaffen/ vnd den 26.
Febr. . . . bestattet worden . . . (Leipzig: Liger, [ca. 1625]), Eii r.
15
All translations are the author’s unless otherwise noted.
16
Stephanie Wodianka, Betrachtungen des Todes: Formen und Funktionen der “med-
itatio mortis” in der europäischen Literatur des 17. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen:
Niemeyer, 2004), 67–73, highlights the role of these manuals in meditation practices
and in the stimulation of women’s writing. For a general overview, see Anna Carrdus,
“Women’s Writing in the Context of their Lives,” in The Camden House History of
German Literature, vol. 4: Early Modern German Literature, 1350–1700, ed. Max
Reinhart (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2007), 869–903, which includes a dis-
cussion of domestic and religious encouragement of writing (886–96).
17
Jill Bepler, “‘zu meinem und aller dehrer die sichs gebrauchen wollen, nutz,
trost undt frommen’: Lektüre, Schrift und Gebet im Leben der fürstlichen Witwen
in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Witwenschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit: Fürstliche und
adlige Witwen zwischen Fremd- und Selbstbestimmung, ed. Martina Schattkowsky
(Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2003), 302–19; here 315.
18
See Cornelia Niekus Moore, “Erbauungsliteratur als Gebrauchsliteratur für
Frauen im 17. Jahrhundert: Leichenpredigten als Quelle weiblicher
Lesegewohnheiten,” in Le livre religieux et ses pratiques: Études sur l’histoire du livre
religieux en Allemagne et en France à l’époque moderne, ed. Hans Bödeker, Gerald
Chaix, and Patrice Veit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 291–315;
also Wodianka, Betrachtungen des Todes, 66.
19
On the importance of physical aspects of the early modern book for the act of
reading, see Bradin Cormack and Carla Mazzio, Book Use, Book Theory (Chicago:
U of Chicago Library, 2005).
20
Cornelius Marci, Aller Hertz-Christen Thun und Lohn . . . 28 May/ dieses 1639
Jahrs/ in der Pfarrkirchen bey S. Lorentzen/ zu Nürnberg . . . (Nuremberg: Jeremias
Dümler, 1639), Giv r.
21
Caspar Herbst, Eine Christliche Predigt . . . Gehalten: Den 26. May/ in Ihrer
Fürstl. Durchl. Haußkirchlein . . . (Nuremberg: Jeremias Dümler, [1639]), Fi v. All
English translations of biblical passages quoted in this essay are from the King
James Bible; all citations in this essay are from the Luther Bible of 1545.
22
On consolation of the dying, see Alexander Bitzel, Anfechtung und Trost bei
Sigismund Scherertz: Ein lutherischer Theologe im Dreißigjährigen Krieg (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 146–48.
23
Herbst, Eine Christliche Predigt, Fi v.
24
See David P. Scaer, “The Concept of Anfechtung in Luther’s Thought,”
Concordia Theological Quarterly 47 (1983): 15–30.
25
Patrice Veit, “Die Hausandacht im deutschen Luthertum: Anweisungen und
Praktiken,” in Gebetsliteratur der Frühen Neuzeit als Hausfrömmigkeit: Funktionen
GERMAN FUNERAL SERMONS OF THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD 29
und Formen in Deutschland und den Niederlanden, ed. Ferdinand van Ingen and
Cornelia Niekus Moore (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001), 193–206; here 204;
Moore, “Erbauungsliteratur als Gebrauchsliteratur,” 298.
26
Veit, “Hausandacht,” 205.
27
Rudolf Schenda, “Leidensbewältigung durch christliche Andacht: Geistliche und
soziale Therapie-Techniken in der Devotionalliteratur des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts,”
in Bödeker, Chaix, and Veit, Le livre religieux et ses pratiques: Études sur l’histoire du
livre religieux en Allemagne et en France à l’époque moderne, 388–402. Women giving
birth were surrounded exclusively by other women, whose incessant singing and
reciting of hymns during their labor is often recorded in their funeral sermons. See
Patrice Veit, “‘Ich bin sehr schwach, doch drückst du nach . . .’: Evangelisches
Kirchenlied und seelsorgerische Begleitung von Schwangeren im 17. und 18.
Jahrhundert,” in Geschichte des Ungeborenen: Zur Erfahrungs- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte
der Schwangerschaft, 17.-20. Jahrhundert, ed. Barbara Duden, Jürgen Schlumbohm,
and Veit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 49–74.
28
See Anna Linton, “Der Tod als Brautführer: Bridal Imagery in Funeral
Writings,” Daphnis 29 (2000): 281–306.
29
Johann Jakob Beurer, Geistliches Kül: und Labtrüncklein . . . (Oettingen:
Schultes, 1627), Cii v.
30
Beurer, Geistliches Kül: und Labtrüncklein, Ciii r.
31
Johann Jakob Beurer, Psalmi LXII. Silentium Animae: Das ist Gedultige/ und
in grosser Traurigkeit/ schuldige Befridigung/ eines Christlichen Gemüts und
Hertzens [. . .] (Oettingen: Schultes, 1628), 20.
32
Beurer, Psalmi LXII. Silentium Animae, 21.
33
Beurer, Psalmi LXII. Silentium Animae, 21–22.
34
See Anna Carrdus, “Consolatory Dialogue.”
35
Sigmund von Birken, Todes-Gedanken und Todten-Andenken: Vorstellend eine
Tägliche Sterb-bereitschaft und Zweyer Christl. Matronen Seelige SterbReise (Bayreuth:
Johann Gebhard, 1670), appendix, 115. On the composition of the volume see
Hermann Stauffer, Sigmund von Birken (1626–1681): Morphologie seines Werks
(Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2007), 2:732–43. On the form of the “Trauerschäferspiel,”
see Maria Fürstenwald, “Letztes Ehren-Gedächtnüß und Himmel-klingendes
Schäferspiel: Der literarische Freundschafts- und Totenkult im Spiegel des barocken
Trauerschäferspiels,” Daphnis 2 (1973): 32–53.
36
Anna Carrdus, ed. Das “weiblich Werck” in der Residenzstadt Altenburg (1672–
1720): Gedichte und Briefe von Margaretha Susanna von Kuntsch und Frauen aus
ihrem Umkreis (Hildesheim: Olms, 2004), 322.
37
Carrdus, “Das weiblich Werck,” 273.
38
See Bepler, “Women in German Funeral Sermons,” 397.
39
See Ferdinand van Ingen, “Frauentugend und Tugendexempel: Zum
Frauenzimmer-Spiegel des Hieronymus Ortelius und Philipp von Zesens biblische
Frauenporträts,” Chloe, Beihefte zum Daphnis 3 (1984): 345–83.
40
Bernhard Schmidt, Einer Gottliebenden Seelen unüberwindlicher Helden-Muth/
Zu wolverdienten/ Christlichen Andencken Der weiland Wohl-Edlen/ Hoch- Ehr und
30 JILL BEPLER
Judith P. Aikin
dying, an aesthetic self-fashioning that found its way into her songs for
childbirth gone awry, serious illness, and deathbed use, as one might
expect. But the dying persona also speaks in dozens of songs for the hale
and hearty to employ in their daily or weekly contemplations of mortality.
In creating these song texts, she was establishing the basis for her own
advance preparations for death. However, by making her songs available to
others through manuscript copies as well as published hymnals and devo-
tional handbooks, she was also furnishing other users with a constructed
dying self. And by the 1670s she was authoring songs explicitly designed
for the use of others, some of whom were women of her acquaintance but
most of whom she did not know by name — her subjects and the unknown
buyers of her books in other Lutheran territories.
Aemilia Juliana’s intense preoccupation with death was a natural out-
growth of her own early experiences and thus emerges already in her cor-
respondence from the period when she was a healthy young woman who
enjoyed an active practical life as a ruler’s consort, author, businesswoman,
wife, and mother. Of her 427 surviving letters, all of which are addressed
to a sister-in-law and dated between 1664 and 1671, around 25 percent
employ a formulaic ending, with her signature preceded by the phrase “ich
sterbe” (I die), often in the context of conveying news about a sudden
death. In one letter she writes, “Griesheinen zu Mörseburg soll [. . .] auch
an einen stükflus gestorben seyn, Gott tröste die herüber betrübten, und
behüte einen iedeweden doch das seine väterl., deßen schutz E.L. ich
überlaße und sterbe, Ae.J.” (It is reported that Griesheinen died in
Merseburg of an asthma attack, may God console those who mourn his
demise and preserve everyone from such a death through his fatherly love,
into whose protection I entrust you and die, Ae[milia] J[uliana].) In
another instance she employs this closure after describing the admirable
advance preparations and deathbed demeanor of a woman acquaintance
who has just died. The letter reports that the woman had prepared well in
advance, writing down while still in full possession of her faculties what she
wanted done at her funeral and how she was to be dressed, and choosing
the Bible text “I know that my Savior lives” as the basis for her funeral
sermon. Aemilia Juliana ends the anecdote and her letter with the sen-
tence, “Nach Lichtmesse soll das begräbnis seyn, Gott tröste alle betrübte,
in dessen schutz E.L. und uns sämmpt. ich übergebe, und sterbe, Ae.J.”
(The funeral is to take place after Candlemass, may all the grief-afflicted be
consoled by God, into whose strong protection I place you and all of us,
and die, Ae.J.). Perhaps it is her own emotional reaction to the deaths she
recounts that has elicited her choice of words. However, this formulaic
closure, which appears in ever varying permutations, more often follows
some prosaic comment, as in “Weil der Trompeter fort will, so sage ich
kürzlich adieu und sterbe, Ae.J.” (Because the messenger wants to depart,
I must bid you a short adieu and die, Ae.J.).4 No matter whether she
ADVANCE PREPARATIONS FOR DEATH OF LUTHERAN WOMEN 33
[1. It can happen all too suddenly that a person’s life is snuffed out.
Whenever someone thinks he is completely safe, that’s when he must give
up the ghost. In the blink of an eye, Death has him in his snare and sud-
denly jerks him to the ground.
2. Death awaits him in every land, whether he wakes or sleeps. God’s
hand can strike him dead, apoplexy and pneumonia can do it, he can be
brought into the grave by fire or air or water or earth.
3. He can plunge to his death or mis-swallow and choke to death, a little
fishbone and a crumb of bread can cost him his life. The ways to die are
various, but no one can avoid dying; everyone must always fear death.
34 JUDITH P. AIKIN
The text reflects on mortality and the constant risk of sudden death as a
generalization about the human condition, then turns in the final strophe
to Aemilia Juliana’s personal situation and pleads for a blessed death. The
adverb “seeliglich” (blessedly) alludes to the phrase “ein seliges Ende” (a
blessed death), which crops up in most of her death-themed songs.
The song “Wer weiß, wie nahe mir mein Ende” was reportedly Aemilia
Juliana’s response to the news of the sudden death of a nobleman from a
neighboring territory while he was out hunting, and her manuscript bearing
the date “d. 17. Sept. 1686” still survives, along with a copy she inscribed
in the back of a book published in 1687 that she gave as a gift to an acquaint-
ance.6 The thrilling and terrifying rhythms of the initial strophe were per-
haps what attracted Johann Sebastian Bach and others to this song:
The text goes on to plead for God’s assistance to make sure she will con-
stantly think about her own death and thus have “her house in order”
when she dies. Each strophe ends with a refrain in which she names the
salvific blood of Jesus as the reason why God should grant her a good and
blessed death:
The transmuted refrain, which occurs solely in this final strophe, affirms her
faith-based optimism and thus offers relief for the anxieties expressed in the
initial strophe. Following its first publication in 1687, this song has appeared
in hundreds of Lutheran hymnals, including those currently in use.7
Another of Aemilia Juliana’s death-preparation songs was, until the
early twentieth century, equally widely distributed in official Lutheran
hymnals and other compilations: “O Du Dreyeinger Gott/ den ich mir
auserlesen” (Oh you three-in-one God, whom I have chosen for myself).
This song was employed at the deathbed or during the funeral of nearly as
many early modern women as “Wer weiß, wie nahe mir mein Ende,” to
judge from the many references in funerary sermons and biographies.
Aemilia Juliana may well have sung it as she lay dying in 1706; in any case,
the first funeral service in the month-long sequence of funerary events fol-
lowing her death began with this song, probably at her own request.8 But
she had authored it more than two decades earlier, clearly designing it for
her own advance preparations for death.9 The second strophe offers an
explication of her self-fashioning as a dying person:
2. Ich lege Leib und Seel/ o Gott! in deine Hände/ ach! lehre du mich
stets gedencken an mein Ende/ auch sterben/ eh ich sterb/ und hören
alle Stund: Mensch! du must sterben auch/ es ist der alte Bund.
[2. I convey myself both body and soul, oh God! into your hands. Alas!
teach me constantly to think about my death, and to die before I die, and
to hear at every moment these words: “Human being! you too must die,
as established in the first covenant.”]
refrain of “Wer weiß, wie nahe mir mein Ende”: “Ich weiß/ Gott macht
es schon mit meinem Ende gut” (I know for a fact that God will make my
end good). The last strophe contains a strong shift as she imagines her final
words to God and his in response:
11. Ich sage Amen drauf/ in meines JESU Nahmen/ es sage gleichfalls
auch der Herre mein Gott/ Amen. Ich sage: Ja zu mir/ Drey-Einger
Gott! komm du. Ach sage: Sey getrost mein Kind/ ich komme nu.
[11. I say “Amen” to these words in the name of my JESUS; may the
Lord my God likewise say “Amen.” I say, “Quick, come here to my side,
three-in-one God!” Oh please say, “Be solaced, my child, I’m coming
now.”]
For the sake of the infant that will survive her, she asks God to insure that
the child will benefit from baptism. For her own precarious situation, she
calls on all three aspects of the Trinity for help with her preparations to die
a blessed death.
38 JUDITH P. AIKIN
Aemilia Juliana created another song, “Gott/ ich merck dein Vaters-
Wincken” (God, I see you beckon to me like a father), for a dying woman
to sing when she experiences the most catastrophic of situations during
childbirth: the position of the baby makes birth impossible, and in dying
as a result of the failed birth, the mother’s body becomes her unborn
child’s tomb.11 She consoles herself by alluding to the biblical passage in
which women who die in childbirth are assured of dying “selig” (blessed)
if they die in faith, as the first two strophes show:
This song, too, was for deathbed use, not for advance preparations.
Indeed, Aemilia Juliana placed both of these songs in a separate section
subtitled “Auff betrübte Fälle” (For Dire Cases) that she placed at the back
of the book, where they appear alongside songs for the mothers of still-
born, dead, or dying infants to sing.
One song she originally wrote for her own use does appear in the sec-
tion “Auff betrübte Fälle”: the song for the use of a mother whose infant
has just died.12 Although her first pregnancy had a happy culmination, and
her son lived to perpetuate the Schwarzburg dynasty, the daughter born
prematurely less than a year later was so weak that she received emergency
baptism, and she died thirty-six hours after birth. The birth had been hard,
and Aemilia Juliana was convinced that she was going to die as well. She
made it through her confinement, but her health had been permanently
damaged. She never conceived again, and she suffered from a variety of
painful ailments for the remainder of her long life.
This calamity in 1668 also marked the beginning of a series of deaths
of the people closest to her: her mother-in-law (who was also her aunt and
foster mother) died unexpectedly in 1670, and three of her four sisters-in-
law (who were also her foster sisters and closest friends) died during a
measles epidemic in 1672. Funerals and memorials were the order of the
day. In addition to commissioning and publishing funeral sermons and
biographies for all five deaths, the Rudolstadt court began to hold anni-
versary commemorations of the deaths of the three sisters-in-law. A series
of book dedications in 1674 and 1675 that repeat the deathbed accounts
from the funerary biographies culminate in a book published in 1676 by
Christoph Sommer that places these deathbed accounts alongside those of
hundreds of other exemplary deaths. Not just a commemorative, Sommer’s
book was designed to serve as the basis for advance preparations for death,
as the title shows: Epilogi pie de mortuorum, Oder Exemplarische Sterbe-
Schule (Pious Epilogues of the Dying, or, School for Dying based on
Exemplary Models).13 He dedicated it to Aemilia Juliana and her husband,
as well as to the fourth sister-in-law, Maria Susanna, who had survived the
epidemic illness.
The frontispiece of this book (see fig. 2.1) can itself serve as a device
for memento mori meditations. An enormous skull (“Todes-Kopf” or
death’s head, as it is called in German) supported by the implements of
grave-digging dominates the image, but that is not the only focus for
contemplation, just as the certainty of death is not the final message for
the followers of Luther’s teachings. Between the eye-sockets, the figure
of Christ hangs from a cross on which a biblical quotation is inscribed:
“Es ist in keinem andern Heil” (There is salvation in none other). From
the crucified Christ’s wounded palms, blood droplets stream down over
twin scenes depicted within the eye-sockets. On the right, the recipients
of the salvific blood are three corpses, still enveloped in their burial wrap-
Fig. 2.1. Death’s-Head, frontispiece engraving from Christoph Sommer, Epilogi pie
de mortuorum, Oder: Exemplarische Sterbe-Schule (1676). Courtesy of the
Historische Bibliothek in Rudolstadt.
ADVANCE PREPARATIONS FOR DEATH OF LUTHERAN WOMEN 41
[The edifying Rudolstadt prayer and songbook of the devout Lady of the
Schwarzburg royal house knows no better name for its author than that
she is called, and considered it the highest honor to be so named, the
Friend of the Lamb.]
He uses this observation to justify the title and theme of his sermon. The
“Lebenslauf” (biography) of Kuntsch’s niece Dorothea Wilhelmina
Margaretha Förster for her funeral in 1721 attests to her use of at least one
of Aemilia Juliana’s death-themed songs. As Förster neared death, the
biographer reports, she asked her companions to sing with her various
devotional songs that she loved, “absonderlich den schönen Sterbe-
Gesang: Wer weiß wie nahe mir mein Ende/ durch und durch sehr
andächtig mit gesungen” (especially the beautiful song for the dying “Wer
weiß wie nahe mir mein Ende,” which she sang all the way through in a
most devout manner).23
The prose meditations on “Wer weiß, wie nahe mir mein Ende,”
authored by David Christian Walther and published in 1719, likewise
demonstrate the use of Aemilia Juliana’s most famous song in connection
with a woman’s death: as the author states, the meditations initially served
to commemorate the fifth anniversary of the death of his wife Abigail. In
his preface, Walther notes that the Zwickau hymnal had called this song
“den Kern aller Gebete” (the quintessence and source of all prayers). He
goes on to state:
Walther reprints the entire twelve-strophe text, then provides a long prose
“Betrachtung” (contemplation) for each sentence or clause — a series of
thirty-four meditations that take up more than 440 pages. Following this
long version, he provides a shorter “Auslegung des Liedes” (exegesis of
the song), which briefly interprets each strophe. Finally, he creates a per-
ADVANCE PREPARATIONS FOR DEATH OF LUTHERAN WOMEN 45
Notes
1
Aemilia Juliana, Gräfin von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, née Gräfin von Barby, was
born in 1637, married in 1665, and died at the advanced age of 69 in 1706. She
can be identified as the author of nearly 700 extant devotional songs, many of
which were published anonymously or pseudonymously during her lifetime. Prior
to 1990 she was little studied. Since 2001 I have published a number of articles on
Aemilia Juliana’s authorship, publications, and activities, which I will cite where
relevant. My book-length study, Aemilia Juliana: A Woman’s Life in Song in Early
Modern Germany, is nearly complete. Susanne Schuster has recently published a
book treating her practical theology: Aemilie Juliane von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt
und Ahasver Fritsch: Eine Untersuchung zur Jesusfrömmigkeit im späten 17.
Jahrhundert (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006).
2
Like other works by Johann Sebastian Bach, these cantatas are generally referred
to by their numbers in the standard Bach Werkverzeichnis (catalogue of the com-
plete works of Bach, abbreviated BWV). The first based on Aemilia Juliana’s song
is BWV 27, composed in 1726, which uses the first strophe and refrain. BWV 84,
composed in 1727, employs only the final strophe with its variant of the refrain.
3
On attitudes toward sudden death in the context of women of the highest nobil-
ity in early modern Germany, see Jill Bepler, “Die Fürstin im Spiegel der protes-
tantischen Funeralwerke der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Der Körper der Königin:
Geschlecht und Herrschaft in der höfischen Welt, ed. Regina Schulte (Frankfurt am
Main: Campus, 2002), 135–61, esp. 142–48.
4
The letters are preserved in an unbound bundle in the Thüringisches Staatsarchiv
in Rudolstadt, Geheimes Archiv A. III. 152. The three quoted here are [49],
[346], and [200]. The transcriptions and translations are my own, as are all subse-
quent translations from German.
5
This song first appeared in a posthumous edition of Aemilia Juliana’s works:
Aemilia Juliana von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, Der Freundin des Lammes Creuz-
Schule und Todes-Betrachtungen (Rudolstadt: Löwe, 1770), 331. Because this is the
sole source for this song text, I have reproduced the typesetting scheme of this
edition, which, like many hymnals of the early modern period, prints the text
margin-to-margin instead of like a poem. This format was practical because reading
was eased by memory of the phrasings and rhythms of the well-known melody that
the song was designed to employ, or, if using a new melody, by the presence of the
musical notation printed above the text. In Aemilia Juliana’s manuscripts (and in
one book she published herself), she presents her song texts in the form of poems,
ADVANCE PREPARATIONS FOR DEATH OF LUTHERAN WOMEN 47
with line breaks after the end-rhymes, and when quoting from these sources I do
so as well.
6
The dated manuscript, which also provides the name of the place where the song
was written — Neuhaus, the family hunting lodge — is reportedly preserved in the
church library in Gera, a town not far from Neuhaus; Aemilia Juliana probably gave
this copy as a gift to the Gera pastor or to a member of the Reuss family that ruled
there. Her handwritten copy of the same song in the back of a book is preserved
in the Forschungsbibliothek in Gotha under the signature Cant. spir. 127. The
book presents the devotional songs of her deceased sister-in-law: Ludaemilia
Elisabeth von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, Die Stimme der Freundin/ Das ist:
Geistliche Lieder (Rudolstadt: Schultz, 1687). The excerpts I quote here follow this
version.
7
The song first appeared in a Nordhausen hymnal: Schrifftmässiges CCC. Geistl.
Lieder haltendes Gesangbuch (Nordhausen: Hynitzsch, 1687), 495, then in a
Rudolstadt hymnal: Gesang-Büchlein (Rudolstadt: Löwe, 1688), 984. Aemilia
Juliana designed the song to be sung to a well-known hymn melody, that for “Wer
nur den lieben Gott läßt walten” (Whoever leaves it up to God). The complete
twelve-strophe version is readily accessible in Das deutsche evangelische Kirchenlied
des 17. Jahrhunderts, ed. A. F. W. Fischer and W. Tümpel (1902–16; repr.
Hildesheim: Olms, 1964), vol. 5, no. 631. The version in the modern hymnal
retains only five strophes.
8
As reported in the compilation of texts and engravings published to commemo-
rate the funeral events, Schwartzburgisches Denckmahl einer Christ-Gräflichen
Lammes-Freundin (Rudolstadt: Urban, 1707), 2. The song began the funeral
service associated with the arrival of her body in the court chapel four days after
her death, the first of twelve funeral services spread over a three-week period.
9
The song first appeared in the inaugural edition of the Rudolstadt hymnal,
Christliches Gesang-Büchlein (Rudolstadt: Fleischer, 1682), 356. The text appears
in its entirety in Fischer and Tümpel, Das deutsche evangelische Kirchenlied des 17.
Jahrhunderts, vol. 5, no. 608. I quote from the version in the Rudolstadt hymnal.
10
The song, in the only version that survives, is printed in Aemilia Juliana von
Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, Geistliches Weiber-Aqua-Vit/ Das ist/ Christliche Lieder
und Gebete/ Vor/ bey und nach Erlangung Göttlichen Ehe-Segens/ wie auch Bey
andern darbey sich begebenden Fällen zu gebrauchen/ Aus Landes-Mütterlichen
Hertzen/ Mund und Hand Ihren Landes-Kindern zu erwünschter/ kräftiger
Erbauung aus Gottes H. Wort zubereitet und mitgetheilet (Rudolstadt: Freyschmidt,
1683), 158. I have followed the source in printing this song as a poem, with line
breaks after the relatively short phrases that probably helped the mortally ill woman
to read and sing the words. The middle strophe is missing its final two lines, and I
have filled them in using the lines from the third strophe, as they fit here as well.
On this book and its contents, see my article: Aikin, “Gendered Theologies of
Childbirth in Early Modern Germany and the Devotional Handbook for Pregnant
Women Authored by Aemilie Juliane, Countess of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt
(1683),” The Journal of Women’s History 15.2 (2003): 40–67.
48 JUDITH P. AIKIN
11
This song is included in Geistliches Weiber-Aqua-Vit, 163.
12
“Gott/ dein Wille ist Geschehen” (God, your will has been done), in Geistliches
Weiber-Aqua-Vit, 223. On the topic of consolation poetry for the deaths of chil-
dren, see Anna Linton, Poetry and Parental Bereavement in Early Modern Lutheran
Germany (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008). Linton does not discuss this song and has
for the most part excluded song texts from consideration, but many of her findings
are relevant to the analysis of this song and several others on the topic by Aemilia
Juliana.
13
Christoph Sommer, Epilogi pie de mortuorum, Oder: Exemplarische Sterbe-
Schule/ in sich haltend Denckwürdige letzte Reden und Seufzer Christi und über
vierhundert seiner Gläubigen/ Altes und Neues Testaments (Rudolstadt: Fleischer,
1676). On this work and the other commemorative publications, see my article:
Aikin, “‘Wer weiß, wie nahe mir mein Ende’: Todesbereitschaft im Leben und
Dichten der Gräfin Aemilie Juliane von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt (1637–1706),”
Blätter der Gesellschaft für Buchkultur und Geschichte 10 (2006): 34–55.
14
On these publication activities, see my article: Aikin, “Der Weg zur Mündigkeit
in einem Frauenleben aus dem 17. Jahrhundert: Genesis und Publikationsgeschichte
der geistlichen Lieder der Gräfin Aemilie Juliane von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt,”
Wolfenbütteler Barock-Nachrichten 29 (2002): 33–59.
15
The term “Sterbe-Bet-Stunde” appears in the “Lebens-Wandel” (biography) in
Schwartzburgisches Denckmahl, 356. On page 352, the biographer refers to these
prayer sessions as “Ihre Bet-Stunden um ein seliges Ende” (her devotional hours
dedicated to praying for a blessed death).
16
Michael Hörnlein, Bewährteste Kunststücke wieder des Todes Furcht und
Bitterkeit/ In Evangelischen Sonn- und FesttagsPredigten/ dergestalt gewiesen und
gepriesen/ Daß in ieder Predigt/ Eingangs/ ein in der Bibel beschriebener Sterbender
fürgestellet/ Darnach nachdenckliche Todes-Erinnerungen/ sammt einer christlichen
Zuschickung zum Sterben/ und endlich liebliche TodesErquickungen angezeiget wer-
den (Rudolstadt: Löwe, 1694), unpaginated preface.
17
Michael Hörnlein, Der Sich selbst überlebende König Jehißkia/ An dem
Höchsterfreulichen GeburtsTage Der Hochgebornen Gräfin und Frauen/ Fr. Aemilien
Julianen/ . . . der 19. Augusti 1694 . . . in einer einfältigen Predigt . . . vorgestellt
(Rudolstadt: Löwe, 1694), 1–26, esp. 24–26.
18
Justus Söffing, Das schönste Symbolum und Hertzens-Wort aller Frucht-
bringenden Jesus-Seelen (Rudolstadt: Fleischer, 1677), 45.
19
Sophia Christiana’s compilation survives as an apparent unicum in Göttingen:
Sophia Christiana von Brandenburg-Culmbach, Glauben-schallende und Himmel-
steigende Herzens-Music (Nuremberg: Froberger, 1703). Magdalena Sibylla’s com-
pilation survives in several libraries in an early eighteenth-century edition:
Magdalena Sibylla von Württemberg, Gott geweytes Andachts-Opffer (Stuttgart:
Metzler, [ca. 1705]). The preface is dated 1690, presumably the date of the first
edition. On Sophia Christiana’s Herzens-Music, see my article: Aikin, “Songs By
and For Women in a Devotional Songbook of 1703: Women’s Voices for Women’s
Voices,” Daphnis 31 (2002): 593–642. I discuss both compilations in an essay:
ADVANCE PREPARATIONS FOR DEATH OF LUTHERAN WOMEN 49
Barbara Becker-Cantarino
M YTH AND DEATH ARE AT THE CENTER of the poetic works of Karoline
von Günderrode (1780–1806). In her last collection, entitled Melete
von Jon (Melete by Jon, 1806) — dedicated to the “Muse des sinnigen
Daseyns — die auf hohe Lieder sinnt” (the muse of sensuous being, who
ponders high songs)1 — the lead poem deals with the death of Adonis. In
the funeral elegy “Adonis Todtenfeyer” (Memorial for Adonis) we read:
young girls around Sappho on the island of Lesbos around 600 BCE, as a
fragment by Sappho reveals. As told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Adonis was
the lover of Aphrodite, who had to share him with Persephone, the
Goddess of the Underworld; when he went hunting in spite of Aphrodite’s
warning, he was killed by a wild boar. As a sign of her mourning Aphrodite
then made red flowers spring from his wound. The Adonis story (his birth,
love, and death) was a frequently used subject in ancient art and it has
often been employed in European literature, art, music, and opera since
the Renaissance.
“Adonis Todtenfeyer” is a reflection of Günderrode’s intellectual and
erotic entanglement with the classical scholar Friedrich Creuzer (1771–
1852). Creuzer had written the two preceding sonnets in the Melete col-
lection and Adonis may have stood as a mythic and ideal other for him.
The poem is also emblematic of Günderrode’s fascination with myth and
of her representation of death and love, of the lovers’ (re)union in death.3
It is my thesis that Günderrode’s intensive study of the “new mythology”
explored and advocated by the early Romantics and elaborated by Creuzer
led her to an aesthetic position in which she identified with mythology’s
love-death paradigm in her poetic works as well as in her own life.
Günderrode’s fascination with myth, I submit, originated in and intensi-
fied during her readings of Johann Gottfried Herder, the early Romantics,
and especially Novalis and Schelling. It was heightened through her
acquaintance with Friedrich Creuzer and then shifted toward a fascination,
if not obsession, with death and sacrificial love. I maintain that the persist-
ent gap between mythical ideals and prosaic reality gave rise to Günderrode’s
preoccupation with death as a way of imagining the eventual re-union and
re-integration of herself and the other into some future, albeit mythic,
age.
Günderrode’s occupation with myth as a poetic medium was inspired
and heightened by Creuzer’s philological studies in comparative ancient
and oriental mythology, which were later to result in his scholarly opus
magnum, Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker (Symbolism And
Mythology of the Ancients, 1810–12).4 Their intensive interest in and
study and use of mythology was the intellectual bond between Günderrode
and Creuzer. Their affair was short-lived: it began with a meeting during
her trip to Heidelberg in August 1804 and was cut short by his withdrawal
and her subsequent suicide two years later in July of 1806. As I argue here,
it was Günderrode’s interest in the early Romantics and subsequent close
bonds with the Romantic scholar Creuzer that informed her poetic use of
myth and intensified her shift to mythic representations of women and
death, of sacrificial love and death, and of renewal through death. These
ideas were also, of course, part of Romantic thought, the project of a “new
mythology,” a pervasive discourse of and preoccupation with myth that
began with the era of early Romanticism in the 1790s and lasted well into
MYTH & DEATH IN KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE’S LITERARY WORK 53
and the parodic use of mythology in her early work before 1800 are a far
cry from Günderrode’s ensuing literary production.
Günderrode’s first published collection, Gedichte und Phantasien (SW
1:9–84; Poems and Fantasies, 1804), reveals that she was committed to
the premises of philosophical idealism and to the notion that the philo-
sophical and aesthetic tenets of idealism should become part of society.
From about 1796 to 1800 she had read widely in the writings of the Early
Romantics and other major philosophical texts dealing with a “new
mythology,” as we can discern from Günderrode’s readings recorded in
her Studienbuch (Notebook).9 In it she made excerpts from, among many
other works, the Athenäum, from Novalis and Herder, and from
Schleiermacher’s Über die Religion (On Religion, 1799) and his Monologe
(Monologues, 1800). Her readings between 1802 and 1804 included
Schelling’s System des transcendentalen Idealismus (System of Transcen-
dental Idealism, 1800) and his other early writings. She endeavored to
understand Schelling’s “divine philosophy” and the “heavenly truth of his
teachings,” she wrote to Creuzer in March of 1805.10 Günderrode
reworked and extended the ideas in her notes on natural philosophy (SW
3:358–406) and tried to incorporate them into her poetic efforts, as she
wrote to Savigny in June of 1804: “Ich studiere Schelling mit grosem Fleiß
und arbeite an einem neuen Drama” (SW 3:343; I am studying Schelling
with great diligence and am working on a new drama [Nikator]). Her
studies also included ancient geography and religions (of Greece, Rome,
and the Orient).
From around 1800 Günderrode’s poetry shows an increasingly con-
scious reflection on, and integration of, myth, philosophy, and ancient
religions. In the collection Gedichte und Phantasien and other works from
about 1802 onward, we encounter an array of mythic or mythological top-
ics. There is the Egyptian Isis and Osiris material, a cipher for the cultic
mysteries of a mythic past. There are themes from Nordic Mythology, as
in her drama Hildgund (1805), in her poems “Scandinavische
Weissagungen” (Scandinavian Prophecies, 1806) and “Edda” (unpub-
lished), and from Ossian (then still believed to have been written by a
Scottish bard). Above all, there are themes from and references to classical
mythology as in “Orphisches Lied” (Orphic Song, 1806) or “Ariadne auf
Naxos” (Ariadne on Naxos, 1804) as well as names and narrative elements
from “Oriental” rituals and religions — Persian, Islamic, and Indian. In
keeping with her age, Günderrode conceived of the “Orient” or
“Morgenland” (Luther’s German translation of the Greek anatole — land
of the rising sun, the East) as an esoteric, distant locale with ancient reli-
gious or mythic stories, a land of origins, of a golden, romantic age. She
used these exotic mythic traditions to create a “new religion” or a “new
mythology” in her poetic work. In her drama Udohla she has the wise
Indian say:
MYTH & DEATH IN KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE’S LITERARY WORK 55
[Your old gods are still alive. They live in order to create the world
anew. Perhaps the more beautiful hour is near.]
With its wide range of themes and sources, Günderrode’s poetic use of
myth was similar to Creuzer’s interest in symbolism and the mythico-ritual
heritage of antiquity and the East. For Günderrode, as for the other
Romantics, narratives from earlier times and from foreign, distant places
were veiled stories symbolic of origins and the human condition, which
contained signs indicating how a better future could be created. She
shared the Romantics’ belief that the pagan mythical substrate grounded
in ancient Greece, in the Orient, or in the Germanic past would yield a
new mythology, a revitalized story of mankind in poetic form. This
Günderrode hoped to accomplish in her writings. In an apparently mutual
understanding with Creuzer about the redeeming quality of myth,
Günderrode was the poet, Creuzer the classical scholar and philologist
with his research into the comparative mythology of the ancients.
dann selbst Kind bist liegend im Schoos der großen Mutter, ein Kind
liebend wie andere, spielend auch und herzig aber doch wieder mit einem
wunderbaren Blick, der sich selbst nicht begreift und geheimnißvoll und
tief. [. . .] Siehe lieber Freund der Mythus ist mehr Deine Welt.14
[That is why you are so much at home in the Orient: and the great spirit
of nature (which found the quiet sublimity of the old India the most
worthy in which to reincarnate itself) shows his face to you not infre-
quently. — Likewise, you are unsurpassable when you sing the secret
meaning of the riddle we call life, that secret of existence and the inner-
most, most individual mode of a beautiful mind. Then God always gives
you the right word, that is to say the one that cannot be separated from
its meaning, that is necessary, that which every child understands, just as
you yourself are then a child lying in the great mother’s lap, a loving child
like the others, playing and lovable but again with a wonderful gaze that
does not comprehend itself and mysterious and deep. [. . .] Look dear
friend, myth is more your world.]
Ich habe schon viele Tage im Orkus gelebt und nur darauf gedacht, bald
und ohne Schmerz nicht allein in Gedanken, nein ganz und gar hinun-
terzuwallen, auch Sie wollte ich dort finden. [. . .] Die Freundschaft, wie
ich sie mit Ihnen meinte, war ein Bund auf Leben und Tod. (March
1805, BKG, 206)
60 BARBARA BECKER-CANTARINO
[I have already lived in the netherworld for many days and my only
thought was that I would soon, painlessly, sink down to it, not only in my
thoughts, no, totally and utterly, I wanted to find you there as well. [. . .]
The friendship with you I had in mind was a pact for life and death.]
Günderrode then asks whether that was too serious, too irrational for
Creuzer and surmises that he now may have other things on his mind.
In this ongoing dialogue on death and love, death is not seen as some-
thing threatening or destructive, but rather as a possible form of reunion,
as a willing sacrifice for the other, as a special promise (by Günderrode) to
their love. But her references to death remain for the most part rather
unemotional (perhaps allowing her merely to rein in and suppress her
erotic feelings); they also appear distant in the imagination of the beyond,
often a mere reference to the “world of the shadows” that is seen by her
perhaps as a natural state for a love-union, but one that appears pallid and
colorless. Günderrode’s (very occasional) voice in their correspondence (as
it has survived) is a poet’s voice seemingly in awe, not in fear, of this land
beyond death. Death is couched in the language of classical mythology or
literary passages, as when she quotes Sophocles: “O, der Sterblichen
Glückselige, welche die Weihung erst schauten, dann wandlen zum Hades,
denn ihr Anteil allein ist es, dort noch zu leben” (BKG, 206; O happy
mortals, who first witnessed the consecration, then wander to Hades, for
it is their lot alone to continue living there). In spite of the religious aura
and reference (“Weihung” is the term for the blessing of the host), classical
mythology and literature have replaced the Christian idiom and with it the
Christian awe of death, struggle for redemption, and fear of the last judg-
ment. There is no fear or (open) despair about approaching death, nor is
Günderrode yearning for it. Rather, she is accepting it as an inevitable fate,
an as yet unknown state. She expressed her expectation of an eternal
union, albeit a vague and unspecific one, with the beloved. For her their
friendship was a pact in life and in death. Since their union is thwarted in
the real world, she hints at a voluntary sacrifice, but all this in rather
muted, formulaic language, an uneasy stoic appeasement, especially after
Savigny in a letter of November 1805 to Günderrode had pointed to her
“sinnliche Schwäche” (sensuous weakness) and mentioned “Gottlosigkeit”
(impiety).19 Savigny criticized her way of loving: “Diese Empfindung
durch Phantasie höher spannen, als ihre natürliche Kraft reicht, ist sehr
unheilig” (it is very irreverent to heighten your feeling beyond its natural
power by means of the imagination) and he warned her: “Sei gegen Dich
selbst auf Deiner Hut, daß nicht falsche Götter Dich abwendig machen
vom wahren Gottesdienst” (Be wary of yourself so that false gods don’t
turn you away from service to the true God).20 These were harsh words;
the practical legal scholar Savigny (who had been called in as a mutual
friend and legal advisor for their marriage plans) saw the danger in fusing
MYTH & DEATH IN KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE’S LITERARY WORK 61
life and literature and in believing in the “false gods” of “new mythology.”
Savigny noted how Günderrode was moving away from Christian ethical
concepts.
Creuzer’s letters at times explode with erotic desire, promises of
union, and testimonies of his love. Later — after the fateful consultation
with Savigny (and Daub) in early November of 1805 — they fade into
self-doubt and considerations of his social and familial position. Still, he
continued the rhetoric of love and death. His allusion to a sacrificial love-
death was almost playfully couched in Latin: “O sanctissima Virgo, tecum
moriar libens” (LG, 252; O holiest virgin, with you I will die gladly)
Creuzer wrote to Günderrode in April 1806 and asked the friend
(Günderrode) to tell Eusebio (Creuzer) what these words meant and
whether he might give “him” more such verbal exercises. Here Creuzer
was teaching her Latin, as a teacher rehearsing his pupil’s progress with a
very suggestive theme, exploiting the literary love-death motif under the
guise of a linguistic exercise. In the same letter, Creuzer also referred to a
literary passage employing the love-death motif with an aura of high
poetry in connection with Greek literature:
Oft erklingen in meiner Seele die Worte des Dichters, wenn ich
an Dich denke:
Ob Deiner Schönheit, Jungfrau, zu sterben
Achtet Hellas neidwertes Geschick
Und brennende rastlose Arbeit zu tragen
Zu solcher Lieb entzündest Du die Herzen
Und bringst unsterblichen Lohn. (BKG, 306)
ing elements and motifs from different, albeit distant, ancient mythico-
religious traditions for her poetic expression. For her, mythology and
classical poetic literature became alive, a source of truth and comfort; they
assumed metaphysical meaning and an aura of religion. Death became in
her poetic imagination a solace, a relief from earthly worries, with the
prospect of a union of the lovers in the beyond. In her last surviving letter
to Creuzer, Günderrode sent him a handkerchief, just as Desdemona gave
one to Othello (“das für Dich von nicht geringerer Bedeutung sein soll,
welches Othello der Desdemona schenkte”), with drops of blood from her
breast; she had “die linke Brust gerade über dem Herzen aufgeritzt”
(BKG, 344; cut her left breast just above her heart). With such a ritualistic
present Günderrode, by sending a token of her own body, showed the
intensity of her feelings about love and death. Creuzer, the scholar, had
earlier given her a valuable Roman coin set in a ring, a token of his classical
learning.
Eine Verbindung, die auch für den Tod geschlossen ist, ist eine Hochzeit,
die uns eine Genossin für die Nacht giebt. Im Tode ist die Liebe am
Süßesten; für den Liebenden ist der Tod eine Brautnacht, [ein
[Geheimniß]] süßer Mysterien. (SW 2:275)
[A union that is also entered into for death is a matrimony that gives us
a companion for the night. In death love is sweetest; for the lover death
is a wedding night, a secret of sweet mysteries.]
Her “friendship” with Creuzer was just such a “matrimony,” a “Bund auf
Leben und Tod” (BKG, 206; a pact for life and death). Death became a
transition to another form of existence, the human being a part of nature,
of the cosmos. With Schelling Günderrode saw in all things the finite rep-
resentation of the infinite: in death the limited, individual human being
was merely passing into a universal state; he did not cease to exist, as she
noted in her Studienbuch,22 poeticized in her writings, and expressed in
mythological themes.
In her short play Immortalita (1804) the immortal goddess awakens
as if from a stupor in an “offene schwarze Höhle am Eingang der
Unterwelt, im Hintergrund der Höhle sieht man den Stix and Charons
Nachen der hin und her fährt” (SW 1:41; open black cave at the entrance
MYTH & DEATH IN KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE’S LITERARY WORK 63
to the underworld; behind the cave Stix and Charon’s boat can be seen
sailing back and forth). Living under a spell in semi-darkness, not knowing
herself, she prays to Hekate, who prophecies that “du wirst wohnen im
Licht” (you will live in the light) when “glaubige Liebe dich der Nacht
entführt” (SW 1:43; faithful love leads you out of darkness). Erodion, the
son of Aphrodite and Eros, of beauty and love, dares to approach the
underworld in search of his love Immortalita and smashes the rocks — the
protective barrier — between the land of the dead and that of the living.
Breaking the partition between darkness and light, his courageous action
redeems the goddess and gives her a soul: Immortalita finds herself in the
mirror image of love. Erodion had the courage “der Sterblichkeit zu ster-
ben, und der Unsterblichkeit zu leben, das Sichtbare dem Unsichtbaren zu
opfern” (SW 1:48; to die for mortality, and to live for immortality, to sac-
rifice the visible for the invisible). Immortalita triumphs, expressing the
wish: “sei es den Gedanken der Liebe, den Träumen der Sehnsucht, der
Begeisterung der Dichter vergönnt, aus dem Lebenslande in das
Schattenreich herabzusteigen und wieder zurück zu gehen” (SW 1:47;
may thoughts of love, dreams of yearning, the poets’ inspiration be
allowed to descend from the land of life to the realm of the shadows and
return again). Is this a return of the Golden Age, a utopia “showing the
advent and resurrection of the messiah of Nature-History”?23 The “new
mythology” seems to have replaced the “old mythology” of Christianity.
In this mythological setting the dichotomy of life and death is overcome
in the poet’s imagination.
Günderrode seemingly wanted to overcome the threshold of death in
her poetic imagination with love that provided a mystic bond to the other,
a happy blessed state, as she wrote in “Die Bande der Liebe” (The Bonds
of Love):
[Love is the bond that for me the oriental night has joined to the
day, death united with life. Yes, I know a land where the dead
speak to the living, where they, having escaped from Orcus, again
enjoy the light [. . .] Blessed land of dreams! Where the dead
wander with the living in the dusk, still enjoying life.]
Death in the flames becomes a celebration of love and life. Without any
reflection on the origin and meaning of this ritual in India, Günderrode
interprets it as revealing an eternal mythic truth. She reinvigorates an ata-
vistic tradition with the Romantic concept of the lovers’ union — oblivious
to the cultural reality that Indian marriages were not love matches but
economic transactions arranged by the respective families. More impor-
tant, such a “true” mythic custom devalued women — widowers do not
sacrifice themselves on the wife’s funeral pyre but remarry and replace the
lost “love.” Such a sacrificial death was not mutual. Günderrode celebrates
here self-destruction in the guise of myth and love. A parallel, if not a
source, is Goethe’s ballad “Der Gott und die Bajadere” (The God and the
Dancing Girl, 1798), where the god elevates a lowly prostitute for her true
love and allows her to jump into the funeral pyre26 in an equally problem-
atic recreation of an atavistic mythic custom.
With this theme of the lover’s death, Günderrode edges dangerously
toward self-sacrifice and self-destruction. The theme also points to the
danger and destruction inherent in using myth without regard to its gen-
dered substrata. Günderrode thought deeply about life and death; she
experimented with the borders of life and death and in doing so used ide-
alist philosophy and mythological images instead of traditional Christian
religious notions. Her representation of death is abstract, intended to be
universal at the cost of the traditional emotions associated with death: fear
of death, mourning for the dead, and sympathy for the bereaved. But she
was no less serious, no less perceptive or original in her poetic renderings
of death because of this. Her prevailing emotion was a desire for a reunion.
She almost always considered death in the voice of a lover desiring and/or
imagining a union with the beloved. She thought of it in terms of a couple
(not a family or as a mother or parent), a couple of lovers whose union was
constantly threatened or in jeopardy.
her texts, far larger than “Tod, töten, tötlich” (SW 3:391–96; death, kill,
deadly).
Using mythology to represent and more importantly to explain and
cope with life, love, and death was problematic. While myth may convey
something like universal human experience or beliefs about death, dying,
and an afterlife or rebirth, the position of woman in classical and oriental
mythology (in the broad, unspecific sense in which it was revived in
Romanticism) is troubling and flawed. Gendered perceptions and patriar-
chal cultural practices informed and shaped the “new mythology,” includ-
ing Günderrode’s. Her affirmative, mystifying use of Indian Sati — the
widow’s self-sacrifice — was perhaps the most blatant example of a cultural
misfit, though this theme was an accepted and often hinted-at reference in
literary circles around 1800. In its then “modern” European variation, the
notion of a “Liebestod,” death of the lover(s) with or without the hope of
a reunion after death, was received with sympathetic ears. After all, in the
literary tradition a popular emblem representing love-death is that of a
candle or burning lamp attracting a moth or butterfly that burns in its
flame. In the nineteenth century the “Liebestod” motif was as ubiquitous
in literature and art as it was culturally celebrated. And even if not all vic-
tims are shown to be women (though most are), it is a disturbing para-
digm for gender relations. In its pathetic versions like Wagner’s text for
Tristan und Isolde this motif reflected and heightened the traditional gen-
der dichotomy and traditional concepts of gender at a time of social debate
and of change in gender roles.28
The return to classical and oriental myth also transmitted and rein-
forced existing gender roles. Günderrode began with, and envied, male
heroism and heroic death in battle in her motifs from Ossian and
Germanic myths and from there moved to the love-death paradigm. After
all, the heroes of classical mythology especially are strong males, from
Tantalus to Zeus to Dionysus. Besides being courageous in battle like the
Homeric heroes, they show aggression and sexual appetite. The women,
mostly submissive young maidens or vengeful, scheming wives like Juno,
are seduced, forgotten, or abandoned. The mysterious, darkness, and
death are represented by female figures like Demeter. The stories of
Ariadne, Dido, or Medea captured many poets’ imaginations. Gender
relations are usually seen through a heterosexual lens, and the female-male
dichotomy is seen above all as adversarial, one of intrigue, passion, and
betrayal. Classical mythology achieved iconic status in the nineteenth cen-
tury. The heavily charged discourse on mythology remained preeminently
a German phenomenon — national myths and symbols in a heroic vein
abounded.
Günderrode’s self-fashioning in mythical terms entailed existentialist
questions about the meaning of life and death, not patriotism or national-
ism, now that Christian belief was no longer a safe haven. But could the
68 BARBARA BECKER-CANTARINO
Notes
1
Friedrich Creuzer suggested the title of the collection Melete. “Hohe Lieder”
may well evoke a reference to the “Hohelied” (Song of Solomon), the quintes-
sential love poem in the Old Testament.
2
Walter Morgenthaler, Karoline von Günderrode: Sämtliche Werke und aus-
gewählte Studien (Basel and Frankfurt am Main: Stromfeld/Roter Stern, 1990–
91), 3 vols., 1:323. Unless otherwise stated, Günderrode’s works are quoted by
volume and page number from this excellent critical edition, cited as SW. All trans-
lations are my own.
3
See Barbara Becker-Cantarino, “Mythos und Symbolik bei Karoline von
Günderrode und Friedrich Creuzer,” Heidelberger Jahrbücher 51 (2007): 281–
98.
4
Friedrich Creuzer, Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der
Griechen: In Vorträgen und Entwürfen (Leipzig and Darmstadt: Karl Wilhelm
Leske, 1810–12).
5
George S. Williamson, The Longing for Myth in Germany: Religion and Aesthetic
Culture from Romanticism to Nietzsche (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2004), 17–18.
6
See Gerhard von Graevenitz, Mythos: Zur Geschichte einer Denkgewohnheit
(Stuttgart: Metzler, 1987), xiii–xxvi. The numerous studies on the use of myth in
German literary culture have largely ignored gender issues.
7
See Joseph A. Kestner, Mythology and Misogyny: The Social Discourse of Nineteenth-
Century British Classical-Subject Painting (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1989), 5.
8
Williamson, The Longing for Myth in Germany, 5.
9
See Doris Hopp and Max Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt:
III. Karoline von Günderrodes Studienbuch,” Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen
Hochstifts (1975): 223–323; repr. in Morgenthaler, Karoline von Günderrode:
Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Studien; Historisch-kritische Ausgabe, 3:313–61.
10
Brigitte Weißenborn, ed., “Ich sende Dir ein zärtliches Pfand”: Die Briefe der
Karoline von Günderrode (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1992), 205–6. Further refer-
MYTH & DEATH IN KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE’S LITERARY WORK 69
ences to this work will be given in the text using the abbreviation BKG and the
page number.
11
Studien [1805–11], ed. Friedrich Creuzer and Carl Daub (Stuttgart: Frommann-
Holzboog, 1969), 1:1–28; here 19–20.
12
After Voss’s death his extensive library was sold to the University of Oxford.
13
Friedrich Creuzer, Aus dem Leben eines alten Professors (Darmstadt: Leske,
1848).
14
Karl Preisendanz, ed., Die Liebe der Günderode: Friedrich Creuzers Briefe an
Caroline von Günderode (Munich: Piper & Co, 1912), 230, 231. Further refer-
ences to this work will be given in the text using the abbreviation LG.
15
See Lucia Maria Licher, Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen:
Umrisse einer Ästhetik im Werk Karoline von Günderrodes (1780 –1806) (Heidelberg:
Winter, 1996), 363–88; Barbara Becker-Cantarino, Schriftstellerinnen der
Romantik: Epoche — Werke — Wirkung (Munich: Beck, 2000), 213–17.
16
According to Creuzer’s letter to his cousin Leonhard, 20 Oct. 1806, Leonhard
Creuzer eliminated and blackened numerous passages in Creuzer’s letters (from
May 1805 to Jan. 1806) to make them illegible (Weißenborn, “Ich sende Dir ein
zärtliches Pfand,” 359–62).
17
Since plans for a joint residence and marriage were aired in the early letters, and
since Creuzer also mentioned that he had discussed his divorce and marriage plans
with Daub and Savigny, the incriminating eliminated passages must refer more
directly to plans for an elopement and the circumstances leading to Günderrode’s
death.
18
Creuzer is referring here to the Latin dictum “quidam autem aiunt mortem
dulciorem esse quam vitam.”
19
Max Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt: II. Karoline von
Günderrodes Briefwechsel mit Friedrich Karl und Gunda von Savigny,” Jahrbuch
des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts (1964): 158–235; here 210.
20
Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt: II,” 210.
21
Annette Simonis, “‘Das verschleierte Bild’: Mythopoetik und Geschlechterrollen
bei Karoline von Günderrode,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft
74 (2000): 274–78; here 272.
22
Hopp/ Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt: III,” 293–94.
23
Licher, Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen, 389.
24
Hopp/ Preitz, “Karoline von Günderrode in ihrer Umwelt: III,” 247–49.
25
Licher, Mein Leben in einer bleibenden Form aussprechen, 443.
26
See Becker-Cantarino, Schriftstellerinnen der Romantik, 223–24.
27
See Nicholas Saul, “Fragmentästhetik, Freitod und Individualität in der deutschen
Romantik: Zu den Morbiditätsvorwürfen,” in Zwischen Aufklärung und Romantik:
Neue Perspektiven der Forschung; Festschrift für Roger Paulin, ed. Konrad Feilchenfeldt
et al. (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006), 232–51, on Romantic suicide
(240–41) and Günderrode assessing it as “not genuinely Romantic” (266).
28
Rudolf Bibion, Love Beyond Death: The Anatomy of a Myth in the Arts (New
York: New York UP, 1993).
70 BARBARA BECKER-CANTARINO
29
See Simonis, “‘Das verschleierte Bild’”; see also Christian Schärf, “Artistische
Ironie und die Fremdheit der Seele: Zur ästhetischen Disposition in der
Frühromantik bei Friedrich Schlegel und Karoline von Günderrode,” Deutsche
Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft 72 (1998): 433–62.
30
Saul, “Fragmentästhetik, Freitod und Individualität in der deutschen Romantik,”
247.
31
As argued by Manfred Frank, Der kommende Gott: Vorlesungen über die Neue
Mythologie (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1982).
4: The Murderess on Stage: Christine
Westphalen’s Charlotte Corday (1804)
Stephanie Hilger
Goethe ruthlessly dismissed the play and its author: “Die würdige
Verfasserin der Tragödie der Charlotte Corday hätte besser gethan, sich
ein warmes Unterröckchen für den Winter zu stricken, als sich mit dem
Drama zu befassen” (It would have been better if the worthy author of the
tragedy of Charlotte Corday had knit a warm underskirt for herself for the
winter instead of bothering with this drama).9 Goethe’s belittling com-
ment echoes Rousseau’s thoughts on needlework as a feminine activity in
Emile ou de l’éducation (Emile or On Education, 1762). Rousseau had
argued that “l’aiguille et l’épée ne sauraient être maniées par les mêmes
mains. Si j’étais souverain, je ne permettrais la couture et les métiers à
l’aiguille qu’aux femmes, et aux boiteux réduits à s’occuper comme elles”
(the needle and the sword cannot be handled by the same hands. If I were
sovereign, I would permit sewing and the needle trades to women only
and to the lame who are reduced to occupations like theirs).10 In his reac-
tion to Charlotte Corday, Goethe replaces the sword of war with the pen
of the literary imagination and opposes these masculine instruments to the
tools of feminine handiwork. Goethe discursively chastises Westphalen for
encroaching on the genre of historical tragedy by directing his comment,
literally and metaphorically, below the belt of the woman author, to her
underskirt. Women’s presence as writers of fiction — considered a popular
genre — had become a more or less accepted fact in the turn-of-the-cen-
tury literary marketplace. Women’s foray into the realm of historical trag-
edy, however, was experienced by the authors of Weimar Classicism as a
particularly insolent attack on their realm of literary activity.
Schiller may have felt Westphalen’s encroachment on the privileged
domain of historical tragedy particularly acutely since he had himself
planned to write a play on Marat’s assassin.11 Schiller received Charlotte
Corday through Goethe, who had been sent the play by Westphalen.
Schiller’s reaction upon receiving it was ambivalent: “Endlich eine
Charlotte Corday, die ich zwar mit Zweifel und Bangigkeit in die Hand
nehme, aber dennoch ist die Neugier groß” (Finally a Charlotte Corday;
even though I approach it with doubt and uneasiness, my curiosity is
great).12 Even though Schiller’s thoughts upon reading Charlotte Corday
are not directly reported, his ambivalent feelings upon receiving the play
raise the question as to why he himself did not write a play on Charlotte
Corday. Schiller had, after all, published historical tragedies on female fig-
ures such as Maria Stuart and Joan of Arc. Was Corday not “historic”
enough, since she had acted only in the previous decade, and not two
centuries or more ago? Did Schiller fear too direct an involvement in con-
temporary politics, at a time when the legacy of the French Revolution,
and the role of women in it, was still unclear? Or was it simply his prema-
ture death in 1805 that prevented him from bringing his plan to fruition?
Answers to these questions necessarily remain hypothetical, yet Goethe’s
and Schiller’s setting of historical tragedy in a remote past significantly
CHRISTINE WESTPHALEN’S CHARLOTTE CORDAY 73
Cette femme, qu’on dit fort jolie, n’était point jolie; c’était une virago,
plus charnue que fraîche, sans grâce, malpropre, comme le sont presque
tous les philosophes et beaux-esprits femelles [. . .] Charlotte Corday
avait 25 ans; c’est être, dans nos moeurs, presque vieille fille, et surtout
avec un maintien homasse et une stature garçonnière [. . .] Elle a déclaré
[. . .] qu’elle avait tout lu, depuis Tacite jusqu’au Portier des Chartreux
[. . .] De ces choses, il résulte que cette femme s’était jetée absolument
hors de son sexe; quand la nature l’y rappelait, elle n’éprouvait que
dégôut et ennui; l’amour sentimental et ses douces émotions n’approchent
plus du coeur de la femme qui a la prétention au savoir, au bel-esprit, à
l’esprit fort, à la politique des nations, qui a la manie philosophique et qui
brûle de se mettre en évidence.13
[This woman, who was said to be very pretty, was not pretty; she was a
virago, more plump than fresh, without grace, unclean, like most phi-
losophers and female wits [. . .] Charlotte Corday was 25 years old; that
makes her, according to our customs, nearly an old maid, especially since
she had a mannish bearing and a boyish figure [. . .] She declared [. . .]
that she had read everything, from Tacitus to the Portier des Chartreux
[. . .] The result of all this is that this woman had thrown herself com-
pletely outside of her sex; when nature called her back to it, she only felt
74 STEPHANIE HILGER
disgust and boredom; sentimental love and its tender emotions no longer
reach the heart of the young woman who strives for knowledge, wit, a
strong mind, the politics of nations, who is affected by philosophical
mania, and who wants most fervently to make her presence felt.]
Westphalen invents this episode and thereby diverges from the historical
Corday’s biography to establish her protagonist’s sensory experience of
suffering as the basis for her decision. She sees the pain not only of indi-
vidual bodies — mother, fathers, sons, and daughters — but also of the
body politic, the fatherland bleeding to death. She hears murderous
screams and the weapons’ dreadful sounds. Unlike Joan of Arc, Westphalen’s
virginal protagonist is not guided by celestial voices or the voice of insanity
but by the cries of her suffering compatriots. Westphalen highlights
Corday’s sore bosom and thereby invokes the image of the feeling woman.
Unlike the heart of the virago, Corday’s “blutend Herz” (CC, 41; bleed-
ing heart) is open to compassion. She is capable of exactly those tender
emotions that the reporter from the Gazette de France nationale denied
her. Yet rather than merely weeping about the state of affairs, as her
mother suggests, Corday turns to action. Her heart is not the location of
tearful feminine resignation but the incubatory place for action, motivated
by the images of feminine bravery that Corday witnessed in Paris:
76 STEPHANIE HILGER
Hättest Du gesehn,
Wie dort die blanken Dolche muthig zucken!
In vieler Frauen Hände sah ich sie,
Mit Kraft gelenkt, den Männer-Muth begeisternd.
So sah ich Eine —
(Sie nimmt schnell ein Messer vom Tische, und macht die Bewegung
eines Dolchstosses.)
Einen niederstossen. (CC, 81)
Lagarde is unable to dissuade his friend, yet his objections lead to a post-
ponement of Luchs’s plan. As a result, the murder is committed by
somebody else, first thought to be a cross-dresser: “Ein kühner Streich,
von einer Frauenhand [. . .] Ein Mann that es in einem Weiberanzug, So
lautet die allgemeine Sage” (CC, 148; A bold trick, by a woman’s hand
[. . .] A man did it, disguised in women’s clothes. This is the general
rumor). Westphalen presents the perception that a woman could not pos-
sibly have committed this calculated and politically motivated deed, only
to debunk it; the killer was indeed a murderess: “Ein Weib? Ist’s möglich!
— und ich zögerte?” (CC, 149; A woman? Is it possible! — and I hesi-
tated?). With the revelation that a woman committed the murder, and that
this woman was French, Corday’s statement that “kein Fremder” (no for-
eigner) can do it comes full circle. It was Corday who assassinated Marat,
not some (foreign) man.
After exposing the rumor of a cross-dressing killer as false, Westphalen
addresses a related representational practice that questioned the historical
Corday’s role as an active political agent. Once Corday’s identity was
revealed, a common assumption was that Corday must have executed
somebody else’s plan. Corday was seen as the innocent and gullible agent
of a well-planned plot by a group of aristocrats or Girondins. The suspi-
cion of the aristocratic plot was fueled not least by her name, Marie-Anne
Charlotte de Corday d’Armont, and by her illustrious provenance: she was
a descendant of the family of Pierre Corneille, the seventeenth-century
French author. Corneille was a protégé of cardinal Richelieu, who was
closely associated with royal authority in his position as secretary of state.
Corday’s supposed association with the Girondins was based on the fact
that they had sought refuge in Caen, her hometown, after their conflict
with the Jacobins had forced them to leave Paris in 1793. These conspiracy
theories defused the uncomfortable fact that a woman had, by herself,
planned and executed the murder of one of the most powerful Jacobin
leaders. Westphalen addresses these hypotheses by continuing her story
after the murder scene, the point at which most pictorial representations
such as David’s stop.16 She omits a direct representation of the assassina-
tion (we only see Corday enter and then leave Marat’s room) and instead
stages Corday’s trial in the fourth act. While the absence of the actual
murder from the third act reflects early nineteenth-century conventions
governing the dramatic representation of violence, it also signifies
Westphalen’s attempt to return Corday’s voice to her. By replacing the
murder scene, which is reported indirectly by Cheveau-Lagarde’s servant,
with the trial, Westphalen transforms Corday from the silent killer in con-
temporary paintings to the vocal defender of her motives. Westphalen
portrays her as a speaking subject and acknowledges the historical Corday’s
self-conscious efforts to shape her own historical representation. By devot-
ing the fourth act to the trial and Corday’s time in her prison cell,
78 STEPHANIE HILGER
Westphalen lets her protagonist claim the murder as hers. The staging of
Corday’s words refutes the idea of her as the instrument rather than the
brain and heart behind the deed.
In her court scene Westphalen stays close to transcripts of the histori-
cal trial. She particularly emphasizes those moments when the historical
Corday denied having been the mere plaything of counterrevolutionary
political forces. The author thereby follows Corday’s own wishes regarding
her historiographical representation, which she expressed most clearly in a
letter written in prison: “J’ai prêté un long interrogatoire, je vous prie de
vous le procurer, s’il est rendu public” (I submitted to a long interroga-
tion; I ask you to procure it for yourself if it is made public).17 The itali-
cized phrases in the following courtroom scene from Westphalen’s play
indicate where the author stays particularly close to the historical Corday’s
words recorded in the trial transcripts:18
Westphalen’s Corday withstands the judge’s attempts to coax her into stat-
ing that she acted on somebody else’s orders. The author remains close to
the historical Corday’s repeated denial of having been a naive and gullible
executor of a political faction’s plan. Westphalen uncovers the judge’s
infantilization of Corday by revealing the root of his discomfort: his unease
at punishing a woman for a political crime. In the play, the protagonist’s
speech about her political motivation forecloses the option of viewing her
as the duped associate of powerful political groups or as a woman acting
on private motives.
That Corday was guided by private motives such as love and revenge
was yet another hypothesis that depoliticized her act and established a
“feminine” cause — excessive and uncontrolled emotions — for the mur-
der. This interpretation was less discomforting to the judicial and political
status quo than a woman’s political motivation. In other literary adapta-
tions of the case, the murder was presented as a crime of passion avenging
the death of a lover slaughtered by Marat,19 or the killing of a royalist
husband.20 Westphalen addresses such interpretations by once again trans-
posing them onto the fictionalized character of Adam Luchs. Luchs’s
desire to murder Marat is fueled by the death of his beloved, Eugenie, in
the post-Revolutionary chaos, which constitutes another storyline invented
by Westphalen. His hatred of the Jacobin leader is based on personal feel-
ings. In order to atone for his indecision about killing Marat, in the fourth
act Luchs offers Corday the possibility to escape by suggesting she cross-
dress and travel on his passport to Dover. Corday, however, rejects this
suggestion firmly. Love and cowardly indecision — constructed as femi-
nine characteristics — are transposed onto a male character. Through this
80 STEPHANIE HILGER
[She steps between the guards in her usual gait. The prison guard wants
to drape a blood-red garment around Charlotte’s shoulders; the officer
takes it from him and presents it to Charlotte with propriety and an
expression of silent suffering. Charlotte is shaken for a moment, com-
poses herself, then wraps it around herself courageously and says: “That’s
right, the sacrificial offering is always adorned.” She is led out. The scene
changes to an open square in Paris.]
Notes
1
Jacques Louis David, La mort de Marat, oil on canvas, Brussels: Musées Royaux
des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, 1793.
2
Among others, see Arnd Beise, Charlotte Corday: Karriere einer Attentäterin
(Marburg: Hitzeroth, 1992), and Inge Stephan, “Gewalt, Eros und Tod:
Metamorphosen der Charlotte Corday-Figur vom 18. Jahrhundert bis in die
Gegenwart,” in Die Marseillaise der Weiber: Frauen, die Französische Revolution
und ihre Rezeption, ed. Inge Stephan and Sigrid Weigel (Berlin: Argument, 1989),
128–53, for adaptations in the German context. For a discussion of French literary
and visual representations see Yves Chastagnaret, “La légende de Marat et de
Charlotte Corday dans le théâtre du XIXe siècle,” in La mort de Marat, ed. Jean-
Claude Bonnet (Paris: Flammarion, 1986), 289–308; Sylvie Dangeville, ed.,
Comment en finir avec la Révolution? L’apothéose de Charlotte Corday et d’Elisabeth
de France dans le théâtre de Thermidor (Saint Étienne, France: Publications de
l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 1998); Elizabeth R. Kindleberger, “Charlotte
Corday in Text and Image: A Case Study in the French Revolution and Women’s
History,” French Historical Studies 18.4 (Fall 1994): 969–99; and Charles Vatel,
Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins, 3 vols. (Paris: Plon, 1864–72). For adaptations
84 STEPHANIE HILGER
in the English context, see Adriana Craciun, “The New Cordays: Helen Craik and
British Representations of Charlotte Corday, 1793–1800,” in Rebellious Hearts:
British Women Writers and the French Revolution, ed. Adriana Craciun and Kari E.
Lokke (Albany: State U of New York P, 2001), 193–232. See Paul Lewis, “Attaining
Masculinity: Charles Brockden Brown and Women Warriors of the 1790s,” Early
American Literature 40.1 (2005): 37–55 for adaptations in the American context.
3
See Vatel, Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins and Chastagnaret, “La légende de
Marat” on the topic of Napoleonic censorship.
4
For further biographical information on Westphalen see Walter Koch, “Heinrich
Christoph Albrecht und Christine Westphalen: Eine neuentdeckte Quelle über den
norddeutschen Jakobiner,” Jahrbuch des Instituts für deutsche Geschichte 11 (1982):
381–85; Susanne Kord, Ein Blick hinter die Kulissen: Deutschsprachige
Dramatikerinnen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1992); Hans
Schröder et al., Lexikon der Hamburgischen Schriftsteller bis zur Gegenwart
(Hamburg: Perthes-Besser & Mauke, 1879); and Inge Stephan, “‘Die erhabne
Männin Corday’: Christine Westphalens Drama Charlotte Corday (1804) und der
Corday-Kult am Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in Sie, und nicht Wir: Die Französische
Revolution und ihre Wirkung auf Norddeutschland und das Reich, ed. Arno Herzig,
Inge Stephan, and Hans G. Winter, 2 vols. (Hamburg: Dölling & Galitz, 1989),
1:177–205. For more information on the effects of the French Revolution on
German literature, see Inge Stephan, Literarischer Jakobinismus in Deutschland
(1789–1806) (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1976).
5
Napoleon occupied Hamburg in 1806. This occupation lasted — except for a
short interruption in 1813 — until May 1814. For accounts of Hamburg during
the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, see Walter Grab, Demokratische
Strömungen in Hamburg und Schleswig-Holstein zur Zeit der ersten französischen
Republik (Hamburg: H. Christians, 1966) and Bernhard Mehnke, “Anpassung
und Widerstand: Hamburg in der Franzosenzeit von 1806 bis 1814,” in Herzig,
Stephan, and Winter, Sie, und nicht Wir 1:333–49.
6
Christine Westphalen, Charlotte Corday: Tragödie in fünf Akten mit Chören
(Hamburg: B. G. Hoffmann, 1804), hereafter cited parenthetically as CC. All
translations of foreign-language materials are mine.
7
Kord, Ein Blick hinter die Kulissen, 122.
8
A detailed analysis of Goethe and Schiller’s writing on female authorship and
dilettantism can be found in Helen Fronius, Women and Literature in the Goethe
Era, 1770–1820: Determined Dilettantes (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2007).
9
Johann Wolfgang Goethe, “An Eichstätt, 3. Oktober 1804,” in Goethes Werke,
ed. Hermann Böhlau, 5 parts, 143 vols. (Weimar: Böhlau, 1887–1919), part 4,
17:204.
10
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Émile ou de l’éducation (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion,
1966), 259.
11
Schiller had mentioned his plan to write a tragedy on Charlotte Corday in a
letter to Goethe and in a note in his diary. See Vatel, Charlotte de Corday et les
Girondins, ccxxxv–ccxxxvi and Beise, Charlotte Corday, 95–96.
CHRISTINE WESTPHALEN’S CHARLOTTE CORDAY 85
12
Quoted in Beise, Charlotte Corday, 96.
13
Quoted in Jacques Guilhaumou, La mort de Marat (Brussels: Editions
Complexe, 1989), 74–75.
14
See Kord, Ein Blick hinter die Kulissen, 125.
15
See Stephan, “Die erhabne Männin Corday,” 195.
16
For discussions of visual representations of the murder scene, see Kindleberger,
“Charlotte Corday in Text and Image”; Michael Marrinan, “Images and Ideas of
Charlotte Corday: Texts and Contexts of an Assassination,” Arts Magazine 54
(1980): 158–76; Nina Rattner Gelbart, “The Blonding of Charlotte Corday,”
Eighteenth-Century Studies 38.1 (2004): 201–21; and Chantal Thomas, “Portraits
de Charlotte Corday,” in La mort de Marat, ed. Jean-Claude Bonnet (Paris:
Flammarion, 1986), 271–86.
17
In Gérard Walter, ed., “Le procès de Charlotte Corday,” in Actes du tribunal
révolutionnaire (Paris: Mercure de France, 1968), 23. In addition to her reference
to the trial transcripts and her letters, Corday also wrote a political statement,
“Adresse aux Français,” which was found on her person after her arrest. In her
prison cell, she also asked for a painter to produce her portrait, which was begun
during her trial. She even posed shortly before her execution to allow the painter,
Jean-Jacques Hauer, to make the last corrections.
18
The following is the corresponding excerpt from the transcript of the historical
trial (in Walter, “Le procès de Charlotte Corday,” in Actes du tribunal révolution-
naire, 17–21, my italics):
The accused: The calamities that he has caused since the Revolution.
The president: Who encouraged you to commit this assassination?
The accused: Nobody, I myself had the idea [. . .]
The president: Did Barbaroux [a Girondin deputy] know the reason for your
trip when you left? [. . .]
The president: Who told you that there was anarchy in Paris? [. . .]
The president: Did you have friendly ties with the deputies who had fled to
Caen? [. . .]
The president: Who advised you to commit this assassination? [. . .]
The president: Do you think that you killed all the Marats?
The accused: This one is dead, perhaps the others will be afraid.]
19
Two texts that present Marat’s murder as an apolitical crime of passion are Louis
Du Broca’s Interesting Anecdotes of the Heroic Conduct of Women Previous to and
During the French Revolution (Baltimore: Fryer & Clark, 1804) and Percy Bysshe
Shelley’s “Fragment Supposed to be an Epithalamion of Francis Ravaillac and
Charlotte Corday,” in Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. Newell Ford
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975), 558–59. For a discussion of these texts, see
Craciun, “The New Cordays.”
20
The anonymous French play Charlotte ou la Judith Moderne (1797) presents
Corday as a royalist widow committing a crime of passion. The play is reproduced
in Dangeville, Comment en finir avec la Révolution? 29–59.
21
The first half of the letter in the play is based on the historical Corday’s letter to
Barbaroux, the Girondin deputy who had fled to Caen. In it, the historical Corday
establishes a continuity between Brutus’s deed and her own: “Une imagination
vive, un coeur sensible promettait une vie bien orageuse, je prie ceux qui me
regretteraient de le considérer, et ils se réjouiront de me voir jouir du repos dans
les Champs-Elysées avec Brutus et quelques anciens” (in Walter, “Le procès de
Charlotte Corday,” 23; A vivid imagination, a sensitive heart promised a stormy
life; I am asking those who might lament my death to consider this and they will
rejoice seeing me enjoy my peace on the Champs-Elysées with Brutus and some
ancients). The second part of the letter in the play echoes the historical Corday’s
letter to her father: “‘Pardonnez-moi, mon cher papa, d’avoir disposé de mon
existence sans votre permission. J’ai vengé bien d’innocentes victimes, j’ai prévenu
bien d’autres désastres [. . .] J’espère que vous ne seriez point tourmenté. En tout
cas, je crois que vous auriez des défenseurs à Caen [. . .] Adieu, mon cher papa, je
vous prie de m’oublier, ou plutôt de vous réjouir de mon sort [. . .] N’oubliez pas
ce vers de Corneille: “Le crime fait la honte, et non pas l’échafaud”’” (in Walter,
“Le procès de Charlotte Corday,” 25–26; Forgive me, dear father, for disposing of
my existence without your permission. I have avenged many innocent victims, I
have prevented many other disasters [. . .] I hope that you will not be tormented.
In any case, I believe that you will have defenders in Caen [. . .] Farewell, my dear
father, I ask you to forget me or rather to rejoice in my fate [. . .] Do not forget
this line by Corneille: Crime causes shame, not the scaffold).
CHRISTINE WESTPHALEN’S CHARLOTTE CORDAY 87
22
In Walter, “Le procès de Charlotte Corday,” 23.
23
See Gelbart, “The Blonding of Charlotte Corday,” 204.
24
For a discussion of the way Judith’s motives were represented, see the chapter
by Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly in this volume.
25
In Walter, “Le procès de Charlotte Corday,” 22–23.
26
Katherine R. Goodman and Edith Waldstein, eds., In the Shadow of Olympus:
German Women Writers around 1800 (Albany: State U of New York P, 1992).
5: “Ob im Tode mein Ich geboren wird?”:
The Representation of the Widow in
Hedwig Dohm’s “Werde, die du bist”
(1894)
Abigail Dunn
Introduction
Although both Dohm and Agnes Schmidt are highly critical of the limita-
tions placed on women, the story shows it is impossible to resist them
entirely, transcend gender, sex, and age, and create an identity beyond that
of nurturer, mother, and wife.
The story is told from two different perspectives. Agnes’s life is por-
trayed in the third person in two brief framework passages from the view-
point of the doctors in the psychiatric hospital in which she spends her final
days. The majority of the work, however, consists of the diary that Agnes
begins to write as a widow. Her life and background during her marriage
and before the onset of her “madness” are told in the first person. The
doctors in the hospital fail to see her as an individual and do not under-
stand that her madness is linked to society’s treatment of her. They do not
refer to Agnes by her actual name; rather, as Lilo Weber points out, she is
called “Gattin” (wife), “Irre” (madwoman), “Greisin” (old woman), or
“Kranke” (sick woman).6 Like the doctors at the psychiatric hospital,
Agnes’s own family fails to see her as an individual. Her name, Agnes
Schmidt, also suggests her ordinariness. In her diary, however, it is revealed
that she becomes “insane” after an attempt to break free from convention-
ality. Following her husband’s death, Agnes asserts herself; she travels
extensively, reads voraciously, and visits art galleries. In Capri she falls in
love with a young doctor called Johannes. However, Agnes overhears him
ridiculing her, calling her “Großmutter Psyche” (Wddb, 273; grandmother
Psyche), and this moment, the moment Agnes realizes that she is being
referred to in legends and myths, precipitates her madness. Three years
later, back in Germany Johannes visits the psychiatric ward to which Agnes
has been admitted. Agnes recognizes him from her trip to Capri, remem-
bers the myrtle wreath he gave her, and declares passionately that he is her
betrothed.
Johannes diagnoses Agnes with “erotischer Wahnsinn” (Wddb, 271,
erotic madness) following this outburst. Agnes, however, believes that her
love for him is of a spiritual nature. It is her soul and spirituality as opposed
to her sexuality that she attempts to develop in “Werde, die du bist” Yet
ultimately Agnes fails to escape from conventional male ideas of femininity.
In this essay I will show that when Agnes does try to construct a new
identity, she finds herself often imitating images and tropes of women, cre-
ated by men, which have been dominant from antiquity to the late nine-
teenth century. On several occasions Agnes tries to react against these, but
by so doing, she learns that she is also destroying her own image of herself,
as Weber points out. Weber argues that she is left with the feeling that she
has only two options available to her — suicide or madness.7
That Agnes, the widow, is in part defined by death is nothing new in
depictions of widowhood in nineteenth-century German fiction. In nine-
teenth-century Germany a wife’s identity was so bound up within her
husband’s that when he died, she underwent a figurative death herself.
90 ABIGAIL DUNN
Dohm’s protagonist has, moreover, lost her youth. This essay will first
examine how widowhood is understood and portrayed in fictional and
non-fictional texts in nineteenth-century Germany, and the relationship
between widowhood and death, and will then analyze the representation
of the aged, widowed Agnes Schmidt. Does Dohm, herself a widow, sub-
vert or imitate the dominant discourses pertaining to widows, death, and
female old age in this period?
Was ist eine Witwe mehr als eine halb verwischte Schilderei, ein umge-
wandtes Kleid, ein aufgewärmtes Essen, eine Perrücke statt eigenes Haar,
eine Tulpe, die den Schlüssel verloren hat und sich nicht mehr zuschließen
läßt?
[What is a widow but a half-erased painting, a dress that has been turned
round, a warmed-up dish, a wig instead of one’s own hair, a tulip that has
lost its stamen and can no longer close up?]8
Und sie ahnte das ungeheure Unrecht in der Welt, daß die Sehnsucht
nach Wonne ebenso in die Frau gelegt ward als in den Mann; und daß es
bei Frauen Sünde wird und Sünde fordert, wenn die Sehnsucht nach
Wonne nicht zugleich die Sehnsucht nach dem Kinde ist.
[And she sensed the terrible injustice in the world, that the desire for
pleasure has been planted in woman as well as in man; and that it is sinful
in woman and demands atonement if the desire for pleasure is not also
the desire for a child.]14
stricken at the death of her husband that she refuses to leave his tomb. The
governor of the province gives orders that some robbers be crucified. A
young soldier is deputed to guard their corpses. The soldier and the widow
become lovers and they consummate their love in the tomb, next to the
coffin of the dead husband. While the soldier is thus occupied, one of the
corpses he is guarding is stolen. The discovery of this theft would expose
both his dereliction of duty and his relationship with the widow. It is the
widow who finds the solution, saying that they can take the corpse of her
dead husband and hang it on the cross in place of the missing corpse.
Petronius comments ironically that the widow is as clever as she is chaste.
She is not found out and so can live happily with her new partner.
This story begins a march down European literature. The earliest
German version is found in a collection of verses entitled Dyocletianus
Leben written by Hans von Bühel and published in 1412.17 One nine-
teenth-century German author who adapts it is Eduard Grisebach (1845–
1906). Grisebach writes about a husband who pretends to be dead in
order to catch his “widow” out. The protagonist of his story Die treulose
Witwe (The Faithless Widow, 1873) is a Chinese academic and philosopher
called Tschwang-sãng, who sees a widow at her husband’s grave and is
horrified to witness her fanning the grave.18 She tells him that the quicker
the earth on the grave dries, the sooner she can remarry. Tien-sche, his
wife, is appalled to hear this and boasts about her own virtue. Shortly after
this conversation, Tschwang-sãng becomes ill and “dies.” After a short
period of mourning, Tien-sche becomes attracted to a student of her
deceased husband, a prince called Wang-sien. Tien-sche pursues the stu-
dent and eventually tells his servant that she wants to marry him. On the
day of their wedding, Wang-sien collapses and Tien-sche is informed that
the only way of saving him is to take the brain of a man who has not been
dead for more than forty-nine days, and cook it in wine. The widow imme-
diately suggests taking her husband’s brain, for he has only been dead for
twenty days. She takes an axe to his coffin and is about to strike it when
Tschwang-sãng sits up and questions her motives and behavior. Tien-sche
hangs herself. Tschwang-sãng dismembers her body and throws it into the
coffin. The portrayal of a widow whose lust is so unbridled that she is
prepared to damage the corpse of her husband in order to remarry is an
extreme illustration of the idea that any widow who wants a life after her
husband’s death is the embodiment of evil.
The widow’s relationship to male children is also often construed as
problematic in German literature around 1900. At times this relationship
is simply portrayed as excessive and stifling, as is the case in Gabriele
Reuter’s “Frau Clementine Holm” (1902). In other works it is much more
transgressive. Arthur Schnitzler’s “Frau Beate und ihr Sohn” (Beate and
her son), published in 1913, describes Beate’s reawakening sexuality,
which has been repressed since her husband died.19 She begins an affair
94 ABIGAIL DUNN
life meant. As a wife Agnes adopted the typical and passive role of house-
wife, but was pleased when her and her husband’s sex life ceased after the
birth of their two children. Her daughters married well and she hoped that
she and her husband would now be able to travel, but he became paralyzed
and she nursed him for eight years until his death. At this point Agnes’s
conventional role as a wife and mother, in which she has been trapped, but
which has also given her an identity, begins to dissolve. She feels her sense
of self becoming shadowy:
Bin ich wirklich Agnes Schmidt? ganz sicher Agnes Schmidt? Ich war es
ganz bestimmt, bis mein Mann starb. Und nun, allmählich ist mir, als
schwände Agnes Schmidt immer mehr aus meinem Gesichtskreis, in weite
Fernen hinaus, ein Schatten, der vor mir her ist, und der Schatten wird
immer fahler, dünner, und an seine Stelle — (Wddb, 276)
her life up until now she has been a body and not a soul: “Ich war ja gar
kein ich! Agnes Schmidt! ein Name! eine Hand, ein Fuß, ein Leib! keine
Seele, kein Hirn” (Wddb, 299; But I wasn’t even an “I.” Agnes Schmidt!
A name! A foot, a body! No soul, no brain: BW, 33).
Agnes’s self-assertion therefore involves attempting to remove herself
from the domestic sphere and to develop intellectually, spiritually, and
creatively. She begins to read as much as she can and to visit art galleries.
She inherits ten thousand marks and, rather than giving it to one of her
sons-in-law, decides to keep it in order to travel to Florence and Capri.
Her spiritual and intellectual emancipation involves a denial of the body.
Agnes identifies with Goethe’s Mignon from his novel Wilhelm Meisters
Lehrjahre (1795/96), a childlike, androgynous figure. As Singer argues,
Agnes is aware of the incongruity between the image of Mignon and that
of an old woman, but she identifies with her on a spiritual level.21 Both
Agnes and Mignon yearn for something that they have never experienced,
yet that they feel is an integral part of their being. In Mignon’s case, this
is Italy, whereas for Agnes — who travels to Italy —, it is freedom from
the confines of gender. Later in the story, when Agnes has been admitted
to the psychiatric hospital, her denial of the body in favor of the spirit
involves a refusal of food. On Sundays, after going to chapel, Agnes fasts
for the whole day. As Anna Richards argues, Dohm “charts the growth of
her soul in proportion to the wasting of her body.”22 Although the medi-
cal profession diagnoses Agnes’s behavior as a kind of madness, to her it
seems more like sanity than her previous repressed life. She tells the doc-
tors in the sanitarium: “Hier in Ihrer Anstalt war ich weniger irre als
während meines ganzen früheren Lebens” (Wddb, 274; Here in your
sanitarium I was less insane than during my whole previous life: BW, 7).
Singer argues that Agnes begins to fear madness and death less as she
becomes aware that her former existence was already a kind of madness
and death.23
But Agnes’s emancipation can only ever be partial, her new sense of
self only ever “shadowy” and characterized by a lack. She — and, to some
extent her author — are constrained by the male conventions and images
from which Agnes wants to escape. Her rejection of the body is very much
in keeping with the ethereal nineteenth-century feminine ideal, which
denied female sexuality. This is illustrated by Agnes’s feelings for Johannes,
the young doctor whom she first meets in Capri. There is a clear challenge
to convention here: for Dohm’s nineteenth-century readership, an “old”
woman falling in love with a younger man was inappropriate and transgres-
sive. One of Agnes’s doctors gives voice to society’s prejudice when Agnes
expresses her enthusiasm on seeing Johannes again. Taking her by the arm,
he tells her: “Besinnen Sie sich, Frau Schmidt, vergessen Sie nicht, daß Sie
eine alte Dame sind” (Wddb, 271; Come to your senses, Frau Schmidt, do
not forget that you are an old lady: BW, 4).
THE WIDOW IN HEDWIG DOHM’S “WERDE, DIE DU BIST” 97
Dohm has Agnes draw attention to the sexual double standard which
is in evidence here, referring to Goethe and his “acceptable” relationship
with a much younger woman:
[The seventy-year-old Goethe loved a young girl because of her youth and
her charm; and contemporaries and posterity admired in that Goethe’s
mental strength. But if an old woman feels deeply and strongly for a man
because of his soul-beauty then she is — erotically insane. (BW, 61)]
Despite this criticism of the sexual double standard, however, Dohm her-
self shies away from portraying the sexuality of a woman in her fifties.
Instead she has Agnes insist — as in the above quotation — that her love
for Johannes is of a spiritual nature, that she loves his “Seelenschönheit.”
Agnes describes her feeling for him as “eine intime, begeisterte
Genossenschaft, geboren aus der herztiefen Sehnsucht nach Mehrsein,
nach einem Mehrerkennen, Mehrfinden, Weiterschauen” (Wddb, 325; an
intimate inspired camaraderie, born out of the deep-hearted yearning for
being more, for recognizing more, for finding more, for looking further:
BW, 60).
On other occasions, too, Dohm portrays a heroine who is unable to
escape from patriarchal stereotypes. By comparing herself to Goethe’s
Mignon, for example, she is identifying with a literary creation of male
origin. “Werde, die du bist” has an abundance of stereotypical female fig-
ures and images created by the male imagination, and Dohm suggests that
her heroine can only be defined with the representations that already exist.
Even if she succeeds in overturning a conventional image, another is wait-
ing to be employed, either by others or by herself. When she overhears
herself being called “Großmutter Psyche” (Wddb, 273), for example, she
feels so horrified that she is stunned into silence. She is turned into a
statue, unable to speak for herself. But Johannes finds a descriptive com-
parison ready to hand. He explains: “Sie erinnerte mich in jenem
Augenblick mit den geöffneten Lippen und den großen, starren und
entsetzten Augen an eine Medusa” (Wddb, 273; She reminded me at that
moment of Medusa with her open lips and large, rigid and terrified eyes:
BW, 6). Later in the story Dohm seems at first to reject a suggested paral-
lel between her protagonist and an Ophelia-like figure. Agnes has a vision
of a drowned woman with whom she feels an affinity, a vision that makes
it clear to Agnes that for a long time she too has been suffering from
“Selbstmordgedanken” (Wddb, 309; suicidal thoughts: BW, 43). Just after
98 ABIGAIL DUNN
Agnes has this vision, she remarks “Das Meer zieht mich hinab” (Wddb,
309; the sea is pulling me down: BW, 43), yet she does not come to her
death in water. Unlike Ophelia, she does not — explicitly at least — com-
mit suicide.
But Dohm’s ending is, for all that, a conventional one, in the context
of the nineteenth-century literary depictions of the widow examined
above. Lying on her death-bed, Agnes expresses the hope that in the next
life she will achieve the liberation of her “true” self for which she has
strived: “Ob im Tode mein ich geboren wird? — ob ich im Jenseits werde,
die ich bin?” (Wddb, 329; Will my “I” be born in death? — Will I in the
Beyond become who I am? BW, 65). These are Agnes’s words; but her
death is narrated in the third-person from a male perspective, underlining,
again, her inability to escape being “represented” by patriarchal society.
Agnes’s corpse is presented via a conventional male gaze as a beautiful
work of art, “ein Marmorbild von reiner Schönheit” (Wddb, 330; a beau-
tiful marble statue: BW, 66).24 This beauty depends on the elision of the
physical characteristics of her age and sex: the doctors describe her body as
“Ohne Alter, ohne Geschlecht” (Wddb, 329; without age, without sex:
BW, 65). In her martyr-like death, Agnes is presented as a female Christ,
and she claims that she is dying for other women. Critics disagree about
the significance of the comparison with Christ. Richards argues that pre-
senting a female protagonist as Christ is unusual at this period and “imbues
Agnes with dignity and her death with significance,”25 but Weber high-
lights the lack of innovation in the image, pointing out that women have
long been represented as sacrificing themselves for others.26 There is cer-
tainly something clichéd and formulaic about the description of Agnes
with a myrtle wreath in her hair and blood running down her forehead:
Ihr Antlitz war schmal wie ein Schatten. Sie trug noch den welken
Myrtenkranz. Die spitzen Stengel hatten sich in ihr Haar verwickelt. Man
hatte versucht, den Kranz zu entfernen, und sie dabei geritzt. Ein
Tropfen Blutes rann ihr über die Stirn. (Wddb, 329)
[Her face was small like a shadow. She still wore the myrtle wreath. The
sharp stems had become entwined in her hair. They had tried to remove
the wreath and cut her in the process. A drop of blood ran over her fore-
head. (BW, 65)
Notes
1
Hedwig Dohm, “Werde, die du bist,” in Werde, die du bist! Zwischen Anpassung
und Selbstbestimmung: Texte deutscher Schriftstellerinnen des 19. Jahrhunderts, ed.
Gisela Henckmann (Munich: Goldmann, 1993), 329. The story will henceforward
be referred to in the main text as Wddb. Dohm lived from 1831 to 1919.
2
Ruth-Ellen Boetcher Joeres, Respectability and Deviance: Nineteenth-Century
German Women Writers and the Ambiguity of Representation (Chicago and
London: Chicago UP, 1998), 127.
3
Boetcher Joeres, Respectability and Deviance, 127.
4
See for example Sandra L. Singer, Free Soul, Free Woman? A Study of Selected
Fictional Works by Hedwig Dohm, Isolde Kurz, and Helene Böhlau (New York:
Lang, 1995), 23.
5
Singer, Free Soul, Free Woman, 24.
6
Lilo Weber, Fliegen und Zittern: Hysterie in Texten von Theodor Fontane, Hedwig
Dohm, Gabriele Reuter und Minna Kautsky (Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 1996), 152.
7
Weber, Fliegen und Zittern, 170.
8
Theodor Gottlieb von Hippel, Über die Ehe: Vierte viel vermehrte Auflage (1793;
repr., Berlin: Morgen, 1987), 457–58. Further references to this work will be given
in the text using the abbreviation ÜE and the page number. All translations are my
own unless otherwise noted.
9
Ursula Machtemes, Leben zwischen Trauer und Pathos: Bildungsbürgerliche
Witwen im 19. Jahrhundert (Osnabrück: Rasch, 2001), 91.
10
Machtemes, Leben zwischen Trauer und Pathos, 53.
11
Irmgard Taylor, Das Bild der Witwe in der deutschen Literatur (Darmstadt:
Gesellschaft Hessischer Literaturfreunde, 1980), 38. See also Olwen H. Hufton,
The Prospect before Her: A History of Women in Western Europe (New York: Random
House, 1996), 222.
12
Machtemes, Leben zwischen Trauer und Pathos, 9.
13
Henriette Hanke, Die Wittwen [1842], I, 15, in Bibliothek der Deutschen
Literatur: Mikrofiche-Gesamtausgabe, ed. Axel Frey (Munich: K. G. Saur, 1995),
FNr: 502–36.
14
Arthur Schnitzler, “Frau Berta Garlan,” in Gesammelte Werke: Die erzählenden
Schriften (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1961) 1:513.
100 ABIGAIL DUNN
15
Bruce Thompson, Schnitzler’s Vienna: Image of a Society (London and New
York: Routledge, 1990), 73.
16
Petronius, Satyricon, in A Companion to Petronius, ed. Edward Courtney
(Oxford: Oxford UP, 2001), 168–70.
17
Hans von Bühel, Dyocletianus Leben, ed. Adalbert Keller (1412; repr., Leipzig:
Quendlinburg, 1841).
18
Eduard Grisebach, Die treulose Witwe: Eine chinesische Novelle und ihre
Wanderung durch die Weltliteratur (Vienna: Rosner, 1873).
19
Arthur Schnitzler, Frau Beate und ihr Sohn (Berlin: Fischer, 1922).
20
Translation is from Elizabeth G. Ametsbichler, Become Who You Are: With an
Additional Essay “The Old Woman” (Albany: State U of New York P, 2006), 67.
All subsequent translations will be taken from this text and indicated by the abbre-
viation BW and the page number.
21
Singer, Free Soul, Free Woman? 33.
22
Anna Richards, The Wasting Heroine in German Fiction by Women 1770–1914
(Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004), 187.
23
Singer, Free Soul, Free Woman? 33.
24
See Weber, Fliegen und Zittern, 175.
25
Richards, The Wasting Heroine, 188.
26
Weber, Fliegen und Zittern, 84.
6: The Figure of Judith in Works by
German Women Writers between 1895
and 1921
Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly
Judith herself is well aware: “It was my face that tricked him to his destruc-
tion,” she says later (13:16). Judith therefore is a temptress and so resem-
bles Eve and Delila. In manipulating Holofernes and gaining a man’s head
as her reward, she resembles Salome. Beautiful, sexually experienced, cun-
ning, physically strong, resolute, courageous, and eloquent, Judith arouses
unease about women’s beauty, sexuality, and power over men and about
what happens when a woman transgresses against norms of submissive and
modest feminine behavior. Judith triumphs over Holofernes by using first
her weapons and then his, liberating Bethulia by employing both female
qualities of seduction and deceit and male qualities of reason, eloquence,
physical courage, and strength.
If these aspects of the figure are problematic, there are two others that
are even more so. The first is the question of whether Judith had sex with
Holofernes before killing him. Though Judith stresses on her return to
Bethulia that she was not “defiled,” the very fact that she says this introduces
the possibility of sex to our minds. The Bible stresses that Judith killed
Holofernes when he was lying on his bed and that she took the canopy of
this bed with her as a trophy when she cut off his head. In the Lutheran
translation of the Book of Judith into German, “canopy” is translated as
“Decke,” which can mean ceiling but also blanket. Unless a reader knew the
Greek original, he or she would assume that Judith was taking a blanket
from Holofernes’ bed with her, thus stressing the bed and the bedroom as
the locale of the killing. I have argued elsewhere that this lies behind the
eroticization of the figure of Judith by such early sixteenth-century German
artists as Hans Baldung Grien, Barthel Beham, Hans Sebald Beham, and
Lucas Cranach the Younger.4 In marked contrast to contemporary depic-
tions of Judith in Italian art,5 German artists often show her naked, in tender
communion with the head of her victim, and even in one instance riding on
Holofernes’ corpse with her sword pointing down toward his genitals. The
second and more troubling aspect is the fact that Judith kills a man and does
not expiate this crime with her own death, as is the usual fate of women who
kill. She kills in cold blood and remains at large.
that is base).15 He makes his reasons even clearer in his essay Mein Wort
über das Drama! (My Thoughts on the Drama): “Die Judith der Bibel ist
eben nichts, als eine Charlotte Corday, ein fanatisch-listiges Ungeheuer”
(The Judith of the Bible is nothing more than a Charlotte Corday, a
fanatical and cunning monster).16 In order to turn her into the tragic
heroine he wants, Hebbel like Heine makes Judith a virgin, explaining that
on her wedding night Judith’s husband Manasse was petrified by a terrible
sight and rendered impotent. Manasse died six months later, the taboo still
unbroken.
The second change that Hebbel introduces is a consideration of the
nature of masculinity and femininity exemplified by the invented figure of
the Israelite Ephraim. He is in love with Judith but does not have the
manly courage to go out and challenge Holofernes until she has already
done so. Ephraim then turns up at the Assyrian camp and in her presence
makes a feeble swipe with his sword at Holofernes but is laughed at and led
away. The ineffectual Ephraim functions as a foil both for the courageous
Judith and for Holofernes, portrayed throughout the play as a real man.
The third new element is that Judith is represented as needing, indeed
wanting, such a real man. As she says in act 2, “Ein Weib ist ein Nichts;
nur durch den Mann kann sie etwas werden” (A woman is nothing; she
can only become something through a man). As Hebbel himself puts it in
his diary of 28 March 1840 when talking about Judith: “Das Weib liebt in
dem Mann etwas Höheres, das sie zu sich herabziehen will” (woman loves
in man something higher, which she wants to pull down to her level).17 In
the entry for 22 April of the same year he writes that Judith
kommt zum Holofernes, sie lernt den “ersten und letzten Mann der
Erde” kennen, sie fühlt, ohne sich dessen klar bewußt zu werden, daß er
der einzige ist, den sie lieben könnte, sie schaudert, indem er sich in
seiner ganzen Größe vor ihr aufrichtet, sie will seine Achtung ertrotzen
und gibt ihr ganzes Geheimnis preis, sie erlangt nichts dadurch, als daß
er, der vorher schon mit ihr spielte, sie nun wirklich erniedrigt, daß er sie
hohnend in jedem ihrer Motive mißdeutet, daß er sie endlich zu seiner
Beute macht und ruhig einschläft.18
clear, she half desired it. She then kills Holofernes, not to save her people
but because of what he did to her personally: “nichts trieb mich, als der
Gedanke an mich selbst” (nothing drove me but the thought of myself).19
As Freud says in his discussion of Hebbel’s Judith in his 1918 essay “Das
Tabu der Virginität”: “Judith [ist] das Weib, das den Mann kastriert, von
dem sie defloriert wurde” (Judith is the woman who castrates the man
who deflowered her).20
The final new element in Hebbel’s rendering of the story is that Judith
fears at the end that she is pregnant and she extracts a promise from the
Elders that they will kill her should that be true. It is this fear of the future
on Judith’s part, Hebbel tells us in Mein Wort über das Drama!, which
raises her to the level of tragic heroine. Judith has to be made to pay for
her murderous act and may indeed die. The killer may not live to tell the
tale after all.
Where Hebbel had to find a reason — her deflowering — to justify
Judith’s violent act, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch is fascinated by the
capacity of women to inflict pain.21 His famous novella Venus im Pelz
(Venus in Furs, 1970) begins with an epigraph from the Book of Judith.
In the novella, the protagonist Severin von Kusiemski dreams of being
humiliated, enslaved, and tortured by the beautiful widow Wanda von
Dunajew, of being Samson to her Delila, but also Holofernes to her
Judith. Writing about the moment of his highest sexual pleasure, which is
simultaneously the moment of his greatest degradation, when he has been
beaten to a pulp by his rival while his Judith/Delila looks on and laughs,
he comments: “Ich sah jetzt auf einmal mit entsetzlicher Klarheit, wohin
die blinde Leidenschaft, die Wollust, seit Holofernes und Agamememnon
den Mann geführt hat, in den Sack, in das Netz des verräterischen Weibes,
in Elend, Sklaverei und Tod” (I suddenly saw with terrible clarity where
blind passion, desire, has led man since Holofernes and Agamemmnon,
into the trap, into the net of treacherous woman, into misery, slavery, and
death).22 In his story Judith von Bialopol, 1675 (Judith of Bialopol, 1675,
1874) Sacher-Masoch takes a different tack.23 Judith of Bialopol is a brave
and beautiful Jewess who fights the Turks in person on the battlements of
the besieged city of Bialopol and then sets off to seduce the Turkish pasha
who commands the siege army. She is a self-possessed woman, an autono-
mous subject who takes her own decisions and refuses to assume a passive,
submissive role. At one point she says: “Ich bin nicht das Weib, das sich
verkriecht, während die Männer ihre Brust dem Feinde darbieten. Ich teile
mit Euch Kampf und Sieg, oder Niederlage und Tod” (I am not the
woman to creep away and hide when the men are offering their breasts to
the enemy. I will share combat and victory or defeat and death with you).24
This Judith is manlier than her husband, whom she humiliates in front of
the pasha in the same way that Hebbel’s Judith humiliated Ephraim in
front of Holofernes. Sacher-Masoch’s Judith then easily dominates the
106 HELEN WATANABE-O’KELLY
and that they all in various ways restore the notion of Judith as heroic.26
Janitschek is the only writer to tackle the topic of sex head-on, while the
other three repudiate any sexual connection between Judith and Holofernes.
Menschick even denies any desire on Holofernes’ part for such contact.
Sartory makes Judith into a saint, remarkable for her capacity to suffer,
Gondlach shows her as the instrument not just of the Lord but of her dead
husband — a motif to be found in Sartory’s play too. Menschick is inter-
ested in the topic of guilt, of how a good woman can kill and how, having
killed, she can live on after the deed. The link between killing and war is
made by the two of the authors — Gondlach and Menschick — writing at
the end of or just after the First World War.
In the earliest of the four works, the novella “Königin Judith” (Queen
Judith, 1895), Maria Janitschek focuses on Holofernes’ attempted seduc-
tion, leaving out completely the aspect of Judith as liberator of an embat-
tled people. Janitschek is interested in Holofernes the would-be rapist and
his death at Judith’s hands. Her Holofernes is a rich, brutal, debauched,
late nineteenth-century aristocrat called Kronios whose castle lies in the
forests south of Mostar in Bosnia. One day he catches sight of Judith, the
beautiful Jewess, a member of a despised and impoverished minority. He
has her kidnapped and brought to his fortress, where he intends to rape
her, but her sense of self protects her from his sexual games. She refuses to
wear the exotic clothes laid out for her or to drink the wine and eat the
exotic food he offers her. Her dignity is her armor. When he asks why she
refuses to wear the silk garments offered to her, for instance, she says
coldly that she has never yet worn other people’s clothes. She is articulate
because she was the pupil of a famous Syrian rabbi and she is contemptu-
ous of Kronios’s fantasies and his erotic accessories, which she sees as props
for a man lacking in real substance. The jewels he shows her tire her eyes,
she says, and the overheated rooms remind her of the dwelling of an old
man. She does not need all this luxury because she alone is enough. If she
were staging an erotic encounter, she says, she would dispense with the
props: “aber in der Mitte würde ich stehen, ich, ich ich, und der Sieg würde
vor mich hinknien und meine Füße küssen . . .” (35575; but I would stand
in the centre, I, I, I, and victory would kneel before me and kiss my feet).
Kronios demands to sleep with her. She undresses completely, even letting
her hair down, praying aloud for strength and protection as she does so.
Janitschek describes the naked Judith as clothed in a cold majesty — draw-
ing on the traditional iconography of nakedness as connoting chastity and
truth — and in her presence Kronios is impotent. She does not fear him
and so he has no hold over her, for he can only conceive of sex as the tri-
umph of the strong over the weak. He suddenly achieves a deep insight,
his “day of Damascus.” As she leaves, he gives her a pistol as protection on
her way home and learns then that she was impervious to his wooing
because, having married the man she loves a week before, she was no quiv-
108 HELEN WATANABE-O’KELLY
ering virgin. As he accompanies her through the forest, the so-called Devil
of Mostar asks, referring to her husband: “Und er wird Dir . . . diese Nacht
. . . glauben . . .” (35582; And he will believe you . . . about this night)?
At this point Judith realizes that her husband will not believe in her chas-
tity and that she is dishonored even though she has done nothing wrong.
She shoots “jene[n] Teufel, der sie um ihr Glück gebracht hat, um ihre
verschwiegene, weiße, meertiefe Liebe, weil sie seinen Augen behagte!!”
(35583; that devil who robbed her of her happiness, of her silent, white,
love, deep as the ocean, because she pleased his eye!!). At the moment of
his death, the Devil of Mostar feels love for the first time in his life.
“Königin Judith” (Queen Judith) are his last words. He has learned that a
woman can be a person and not just a sex object but learns it too late. This
Judith kills not because one man is brutal but because all men are weak
and are incapable of believing in a woman’s virtue and strength of purpose.
Janitschek undermines the notion at the heart of Hebbel’s play that a
woman, morally and physically weak by definition, only has to see a violent
and highly sexed man to desire him, for her Judith finds Kronios ridicu-
lous. Janitschek’s Judith, however, like Hebbel’s, kills not for a heroic
motive but out of revenge.
In 1907 Anna Sartory presents the Judith story as a large-scale biblical
drama with twenty-four named characters, mostly speaking blank verse.
She takes quite a different tack from Janitschek. Instead of the latter’s
almost aggressively fearless and independent Judith, her Judith evinces
more traditional feminine virtues. She does not appear until the beginning
of the second act, standing to one side of the stage with bent head. The
Council of the Elders is coming to an end and she has just proposed some-
thing to them. What this is emerges only gradually. She calls on God to
direct her arm and the Bethulians to pray for her. Her eloquence is not
demonstrated, as in the Septuagint, by showing her castigating the faint-
hearted Bethulians; Sartory shows her instead comforting Tirza, Ozias’s
daughter. Judith tells Tirza that women are born weak but become great
through suffering, in which they show “Löwenkraft und -mut” (43; a
lion’s strength and courage). Woman is made for suffering, according to
this Judith. The last scene in the act shows Judith putting on her jewellery,
feeling as she does so the hand of her dead husband, Manasse, enfolding
her own — a typical motif whereby the woman warrior does not act as an
independent agent but is guided by father, husband, or brother.27 Before
she leaves for Holofernes’ camp, Judith prays for two things: that she shall
not be defiled but return pure to Bethulia and that she shall either be vic-
torious or die a hero’s death (“Heldentod”).
Act 3 takes us to Holofernes’ camp, where Judith is already installed
as Holofernes’ darling. He has organized a dinner at which she is the prin-
cipal guest, and here Sartory introduces the figure of Ruth, the crazed wife
of Ozias, dying of thirst, accompanied by her two small children. This
THE FIGURE OF JUDITH IN WORKS BY GERMAN WOMEN WRITERS 109
Manasses trug in seiner Rechten ein krummes Schwert, mit Smaragd und
Rubinen die goldene Scheide geschmückt. - - Und er trat vor sie hin, zog
die furchtbare Waffe heraus. - - “Nimm und tote den Löwen,” gebot
er, - “töte den Löwen - den Holofernes. Nimm das Schwert, der Herr
befiehlt es. Und sei stark! Sei gesegnet und stark im Namen des Herrn.”
- - - (247–48)
[In his right hand Manasses bore a curved sword, whose scabbard was
decorated with emeralds and rubies. - - And he stepped before her and
drew the frightful weapon. - - “Take this and kill the lion,” he com-
manded, - “kill the lion - Holofernes. Take the sword, the Lord com-
mands it. And be strong! Be blessed and strong in the name of the Lord.”
- - -]
At the moment when she is about to chop off the head of the drunken
and by now unconscious Holofernes, Judith’s husband again directs her
actions: “Das Schwert - es schien zu rufen, - nein - nicht das Schwert, - der
Herr - war es, - nein - auch er nicht. - Manasses, - - ja, Manasses. - - Er
gebot” (269; The sword - it seemed to call her, - no - not the sword, - it
was - the Lord, - no, not Him either. - Manasses, - - yes, Manasses. - - - He
gave the orders). This Judith is not a resolute warrior but a submissive wife
carrying out her husband’s wishes. That the work was published in the last
year of the First World War may account for the resigned disgust with
which Judith regards her deed, even though it was ordained both by God
and by her dead husband. Murder is the word she uses, though the state
of war justifies the act:
Nun sah sie mit kalter Überlegung auf ihr Werk. Krieg bedeutet Mord.
Die Hauptaufgabe im Krieg ist des Führers habhaft zu werden und den
Geist, der den Feldzug leitet, aufzuheben. Ob nun die Fürsten kämpften
oder die Soldaten mit dem Schwert, oder ob durch eines Weibes
Schönheit der Feldherr durch Leidenschaft geschwächt der Hand dieses
Weibes zum Opfer fällt,- es ist gleich, - - Krieg - Kriegslist,- Es mußte
sein, und es geschah . . . “Dem Herrn sei Dank!” (271–72)
[Now she looked with cold calculation at her deed. War means murder.
The principal task in war is to capture the leader and to remove the spirit
which leads the campaign. Whether princes or soldiers fight with the
sword or whether the general, weakened by passion for a woman’s
beauty, falls victim to that woman, is all the same - - war, - the strategems
of war, - it had to be, and it came to pass . . . “Thanks be to God!”]
This Judith is credited with the eloquence she shows in the Septuagint,
chiding the Bethulians for their lack of trust in God, telling them what to
do when she has brought Holofernes’ head back to the city, and praising
God in her great song at the victory dinner. But the actual killing, even
though it is premeditated and linked to her very deliberate seduction and
THE FIGURE OF JUDITH IN WORKS BY GERMAN WOMEN WRITERS 111
Wer bin ich, daß ich leidenschaftslos ihn schlug? Er sah mich nicht mit
wildem, gierigem Blicke an, bewundernd und mit Ehrfurcht ist er mir begeg-
net. Ich sah den reinen Funken leuchten ihm im Auge, ich hatt’ geglaubt an
ihn, er hat mich nicht enttäuscht — und dennoch tötete ich ihn. (33)
112 HELEN WATANABE-O’KELLY
[What kind of a person am I that I killed him in cold blood? He did not
look at me with a wild greedy gaze; he approached me with admiration
and respect. I saw the pure spark in his eyes, I believed in him, he did not
disappoint me — and yet I killed him]
choice women are allowed to make in this play is to accept God’s plan for
them, and to suffer in submission to His will.
Conclusion
The four works by women writers discussed above take issue with the con-
temporary understanding of the Judith story in two ways: they reject the
notion of Judith and Holofernes as lovers and of Judith longing to be
deflowered by the Assyrian enemy and they are concerned to restore Judith
as a positive, indeed heroic, figure. However, these women writers are just
as troubled as male ones by the idea of Judith as a killer, as a warrior who
efficiently slays a defenseless man with his own weapon and lives on to a
ripe old age. Our four authors, therefore, evolve a series of strategies to
cope with this problem. Janitschek represents Judith as shooting a mod-
ern-day Holofernes for having destroyed her own personal happiness, a far
less gory and physically demanding method than cutting off his head.
Gondlach shows her as carrying out the killing at the behest of her dead
husband. Sartory portrays her as in reality having the character of a moth-
erly saint, whose most egregious quality is the capacity to suffer. Menschick
depicts her as expiating her guilt by suffering the loss of her mother, mur-
dered in her turn. Even in the early twentieth century, it seems women, like
men, cannot regard the figure of Judith with anything other than unease.
Notes
1
See Henrike Lähnemann, Hystoria Judith: Deutsche Judithdichtungen vom 12. bis
zum 16. Jahrhundert (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2006), 17–23.
2
See Edna Purdie, The Story of Judith in German and English Literature (Paris:
Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 1927); Otto Baltzer, Judith in der deut-
schen Literatur (Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter, 1930); Martin Sommerfeld,
Judith-Dramen des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Juncker & Dünnhaupt,
1933); Adelheid Straten, Das Judith-Thema in Deutschland im 16. Jahrhundert:
Studien zur Ikonographie — Materialien und Beiträge (Munich: Minerva, 1983);
Mary Jacobus, “Judith, Holofernes and the Phallic Woman,” in Jacobus, Reading
Woman (London: Methuen, 1986), 110–36; Margarita Stocker, Judith: Sexual
Warrior; Women and Power in Western Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 1998);
Gabrijela Mecky-Zaragoza, “Da befiel sie Furcht und Angst . . .” Judith im Drama
des 19. Jahrhunderts (Munich: Iudicium, 2005); and Marion Kobelt-Groch, Judith
macht Geschichte: Zur Rezeption einer mythischen Gestalt vom 16. bis 19. Jahrhundert
(Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2005).
3
The Holy Bible: Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (London: Catholic
Truth Society, 1957).
114 HELEN WATANABE-O’KELLY
4
For a fuller explanation of this see Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly, “The Eroticization
of Judith in Early Modern German Art,” in Gender Matters: Re-reading Violence,
Death and Gender in Early Modern Literature and Culture, ed. Mara Wade
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, forthcoming). See Gabrijela Mecky-Zaragoza, “Virgo und
Virago: Zwei frühneuzeitliche Judith-Figuren im Vergleich,” Daphnis 31 (2002):
107–26.
5
Bettina Uppenkamp, Judith und Holofernes in der italienischen Malerei des
Barock (Berlin: Reimer, 2004).
6
Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, “Judith und ihre Schwestern: Konstanz und
Veränderung von Weiblichkeitsbildern,” in Lustgarten und Dämonenpein: Konzepte
von Weiblichkeit im Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, ed. Annette Kuhn and Bea
Lundt (Dortmund: Edition Ebersbach, 1997), 343–85; here 347.
7
Horst Bredekamp, “Donatellos Judith und Michelangelos Sieger als Marksteine
subversiver Bildkunst,” in Der Liebesangriff: “Il dolche assalto”; Von Nymphen,
Satyrn und Wäldern, ed. Maria Gazzetti (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1993),
99–115.
8
Sixtus Birck, Iudith Ain Nutzliche History/ durch ain herrliche Tragœdi/ in spilß-
weiß für die augen gestelt/ Dienlichen/ Wie man in Kriegßleüfften/ besonders so man
von der ehr Gots wegen angefochten wirt/ umb hilff zů Gott dem Herren flehend
rüffen soll (Augsburg: n.p., 1539).
9
Sixtus Birck, Iudith Drama comicotragicum: Exemplum Reipublice recte institu-
tae; Unde discitur, quomodo arma contra Turcam sint capienda (Augsburg:
Ulhardus, 1539). See the excellent discussion of this by Henrike Lähnemann in her
monograph Hystoria Judith.
10
Joachim Greff, Tragödia des Buchs Judith inn Deudsche Reim verfasset
(Wittemberg: Rhau, 1536). Scenes from this are reprinted in Lähnemann, Hystoria
Judith, 453–67.
11
Mara Wade, “The Reception of Opitz’s Judith during the Baroque,” Daphnis
16 (1987): 147–65.
12
Literary and artistic treatments of the Judith theme are dealt with in much
greater detail than is possible here in Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly, Beauty or Beast? The
Woman Warrior in the German Imagination from the Renaissance to the Present
(Oxford: Oxford UP, 2010).
13
Heinrich Heine, “Horace Vernet,” in “Ich bin Judith”: Zur Rezeption eines
mythischen Stoffes, ed. Marion Kobelt-Groch (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag,
2003), 203. All translations are by the author.
14
Heine, “Horace Vernet,” 203.
15
Friedrich Hebbel, Tagebücher, in Kobelt-Groch,“Ich bin Judith,” 245.
16
Friedrich Hebbel, Mein Wort über das Drama! Eine Erwiderung an Professor
Heiberg in Kopenhagen (Hamburg: Hoffmann & Campe, 1843), in Deutsche
Literatur, vol. 1 of Digitale Bibliothek (Berlin: Directmedia Publishing, 2005),
74250–302; here 74266.
17
Hebbel, Tagebücher, 247.
18
Hebbel, Tagebücher, 245.
THE FIGURE OF JUDITH IN WORKS BY GERMAN WOMEN WRITERS 115
19
Friedrich Hebbel, Judith: Eine Tragödie in fünf Akten, in Deutsche Literatur,
vol. 1 of Digitale Bibliothek, 72820–937; here 72925.
20
Sigmund Freud, “Das Tabu der Virginität” (1918), in Kobelt-Groch,“Ich bin
Judith,” 256.
21
See the extensive discussion of Sacher-Masoch in Kobelt-Groch, Judith macht
Geschichte, 125–96. In his article “Patria und Peitsche: Weiblichkeitsentwürfe in
der deutschen Wanda-Figur des 19. Jahrhunderts,” Convivium: Germanistisches
Jahrbuch Polen (2007): 57–89, Andreas Degen argues that Sacher-Masoch depicts
not an inherently violent domina, as is usually argued, but a woman who is made
to act out a male masochist fantasy that she ultimately rejects.
22
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus im Pelz, www.zeno.org/Literatur/M/
Sacher-Masoch,+Leopold+von/Erzählungen/Venus+im+Pelz,33 (accessed 9 Jan.
2009).
23
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Judith von Bialopol, 1675 (1874), in Kobelt-
Groch, “Ich bin Judith,” 107–20.
24
Quoted in Kobelt-Groch, Judith macht Geschichte, 110.
25
Georg Kaiser, Die jüdische Witwe: Bühnenspiel in fünf Akten, in Werke, vol. 1,
ed. Walther Huder (Frankfurt am Main, Berlin, and Vienna: Propyläen, 1971).
26
Maria Janitschek, “Königin Judith,” in Lilienzauber: Novellen (1895), vol. 45 of
Deutsche Literatur von Frauen, Digitale Bibliothek (Berlin: Directmedia Publishing,
2001), 35561–81; Anna Sartory, Judith, die Heldin von Bethulia: Drama in vier
Akten (Einsiedeln, Waldshut, and Cologne: Verlagsanstalt Benziger, 1907);
Katharina Gondlach, Judith: Eine Erzählung aus vorchristlicher Zeit (Mainz:
Kirchheim, 1918); and Rosemarie Menschick, Judith: Biblisches Schauspiel in 4
Aufzügen mit nur weiblichen Rollen (Munich: Buchhandlung Leohaus, 1921). All
subsequent page references to these works are in parentheses in the text.
27
See Sarah Colvin’s discussion of this phenomenon in relation to Ulrike Meinhof
in the essay: “Witch, Amazon, or Joan of Arc? Ulrike Meinhof’s Defenders, or
How to Legitimize a Violent Woman,” in Women and Death 2: Warlike Women in
the German Literary and Cultural Imagination since 1500, ed. Sarah Colvin and
Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2009), 250–72.
7: Lola Doesn’t: Cinema, Jouissance, and
the Avoidance of Murder and Death
Simon Richter
Once Lulu deviates from the script that dictates self-effacing compliance
with the rigid cultural codes and social conventions governing femininity,
she falls prey to a variety of strategies for mortification and containment,
the most radical of which is set forth by Jack the Ripper, but all of which
point to her death.10
Let me try to persuade you that this question about Lola Lola’s immu-
nity from the cycle of murder and death is not idle, that in fact the stakes
are high. At the very least, as will become apparent, I am proposing a
revisionist reading of Der blaue Engel. More importantly, my argument
challenges the determinism of much psychoanalytically informed feminist
film criticism. Since Laura Mulvey’s canonical essay “Visual Pleasure and
Narrative Cinema,”11 Dietrich and Sternberg have been regarded as
ciphers for a long-standing tendency in mainstream cinema. The major
contention of Mulvey’s essay is that the male gaze determines the possi-
bilities of the representation of woman in film according to a psychoana-
lytic economy, with ultimate reference to castration. Essentially two modes
of looking are possible: sadistic voyeurism, which she associates with Alfred
Hitchcock, and fetishistic scopophilia, which she links to Sternberg.12
Sternberg, writes Mulvey,
produces the ultimate fetish, taking it to the point where the powerful
look of the male protagonist [. . .] is broken in favor of the image in direct
erotic rapport with the spectator. The beauty of the woman as object and
the screen space coalesce; she is no longer the bearer of guilt but a perfect
product, whose body, stylized and fragmented by close-ups, is the con-
tent of the film and the direct recipient of the spectator’s look. (VP, 43)
The erotic impact of Dietrich, she writes, “is sanctified by death” (VP, 44).
For Judith Mayne, there is not the slightest ambiguity: in her triumph,
Dietrich’s Lola Lola “has become a perfectly containable image of a tart,
a man-eater, a seductress and destroyer of men. . . . What The Blue Angel
demonstrates [. . .] is the creation of an image of woman to the measure
of male fantasy.”13
118 SIMON RICHTER
I contend that Lola (not Dietrich, or only insofar as she, among others,
plays Lola) marks a cinematic possibility for the representation of female
desire and female sexual pleasure that, first, is collaboratively constructed
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 119
she presents her body not merely as a seductive and beguiling promise but
as an assertive claim to her own pleasure, regardless of consequence. She
is famously seated on a barrel and with carefully calibrated movements
exposes her inner thighs. Peter Baxter, in an essay entitled “On the Naked
Thighs of Miss Dietrich,” was probably the first to ask the question, “What
determined the choice of this pose, and what determined that it, more
than anything else in the film, would be ‘remembered,’ that is, would reap-
pear in one form or another in ensuing discourse?” (20). In answer he
offered a psychoanalytic reading with particular reliance on Freud’s con-
cept of the fetish. The repressed fantasies of Professor Rath are awakened
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 121
by the sight of Lola Lola’s legs and he fixes — as does all culture insofar
as it too has been absorbed by this image — on what Freud calls “the last
moment in which the woman could still be regarded as phallic” (21). “It
should be obvious by now,” writes Baxter,
that this pose arrests the instant of fetishization, the instant before the
child’s glimpse of the female genital organ. Lola’s leg tantalizes by almost
revealing that anatomic feature. In other words, we are at the instant
where it is still possible to believe in the maternal phallus (21).
Lolita
Instructive for understanding the mechanism of male response and its
connection to murder and death is Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Lolita
(1955), adapted for film by Stanley Kubrick (1962)23 and Adrian Lyne
(1997).24 In all three Lolitas we observe a determined effort to strip Lola
122 SIMON RICHTER
pore of the fey child that I had prepared for my secret delectation, would
make the secrecy impossible, and the delectation lethal.30
Lola, Lately
It would be possible to run down the entire list of Lola films to show how
murderous lust does not affect Lola in one way or the other — she is nei-
ther the cause nor the victim —, even though each film is principally con-
cerned with the dilemma of adequately responding to the sexuality
signified by Lola’s persona and name. In Lola Montès (1955)32 Max
Ophuls sets up a jarring contrast between the glorious sensuality of the
memories of Lola shown in extended flashback and the indignities she suf-
fers in a circus setting borrowed from Frank Wedekind’s Erdgeist (Earth
Spirit, 1895).33 Ophuls is not sanguine about the costs incurred by a
woman who acts on her pleasure, but he does not call the legitimacy of her
desire into question, and what he analyzes, to paraphrase Mulvey, is not
her pleasure but the circus audience’s salacious disapprobation (and, by
extension, that of the audience of his film).34 Jacques Demy’s Lola
(1962)35 is made in homage to Ophuls and engages in a melancholy explo-
ration of the disjuncture between the fatalistic compulsions of first love
and the freedom afforded by assuming the Lola persona. Rainer Werner
Fassbinder sets his Lola (1981)36 in the midst of small-town political cor-
124 SIMON RICHTER
Lola, Potente’s Lola is bent on repairing the broken masculinity that has
inadvertently resulted from Lola’s sexual stance. Dietrich’s classic pose is
set in motion, the finely calibrated movements of her thighs transformed
into the tirelessly pumping legs of Franka Potente. Let us further note that
Sternberg figured Rath’s punctiliousness and his unusual departure from
the same with the image of an exorbitant and imposing clock. Clocks
abound in Lola rennt, from the terrifying clock in the opening sequence to
the clock at the supermarket and the clock in the casino, as well as its visual
counterpart, the roulette wheel. The point is that Lola’s unusual lateness is
a contributing factor to her boyfriend Mani’s desperate situation, and she
has precisely twenty minutes to save him from murder and death. In other
words, Lola rennt is framed in such a way as to address remediatively the
dilemma that has accompanied the assertion of Lola’s sexuality all along.
Lola is not Mani’s fetish — he is too intently focused on the clock face and
his impending death. Lola’s song and dance are not confined to a stage but
rather engulf the film in the form of her purposeful running and the accom-
panying music. The stakes are high, the situation is dire, and Lola fails twice
before getting it right. In the first instance she is shot; in the second he is
run over by an ambulance. In the film’s enabling conceit, through sheer
force of will, she sets things in motion a second and a third time, trumping
death. Only the third time round does she get things right, even to the
point of redeeming and saving her dying father, who is in the ambulance
that previously killed Mani. Serious doubts from feminist quarters remain
concerning the self-serving male fantasy of a redemption of masculinity
through Lola that, once achieved, again consigns her to oblivion. What
counts? The last words of the duet sung by Franka Potente and male voice
with its truncated last line sung by the male, “Ich brauch dich doch auch
nicht mehr” (But I don’t need you anymore either), or the surplus money
contained in the bag she clutches, the last image of the film?43
Hong Li’s Zu Zhou is the complementary opposite of Lola rennt. As
Hong Li is both the first woman director of a Lola film and the first Asian
and non-Western director, her intervention is particularly noteworthy. She
is also the first to conceive of the Lola material in the form of a psycho-
logical thriller, a cross between Sternberg and Roman Polanski. The film
concerns a dance group preparing an avant-garde performance simply
called “Lola.” This is already a marked shift from the world of nightclub
and brothel to the milieu of high culture. Several young women dancers
compete for the coveted title role in a company managed and directed by
a woman. Technical direction and stage lighting are provided by an older
man, Zhen Yu, who has had relationships in the past with the manager and
the dancer selected to play Lola, and is now in a relation with yet another,
the young Tian. His privileged observer position above the audience
among the banks of lights, as well as his solicitous attention to his young
aspiring protégée, mark him as both a Professor Rath and a Humbert. The
126 SIMON RICHTER
mystery begins when the past girlfriend who is cast as Lola is poisoned in
her dressing room on opening night; in the competition to fill the newly
available role, Tian emerges the winner, but both she and Zhen Yu come
under suspicion, and also suspect each other.
It is evident that the choice of the name Lola is not arbitrary. Allusions
to key films in the Lola corpus abound: to Der blaue Engel, Max Ophuls’s
Lola Montès, the Lolas of Jacques Demy and Fassbinder, but most pro-
foundly to Lola rennt. If Fassbinder notably employed garish lighting to
mark the identities of Lola (red) and von Bohm (blue), the Professor Rath
figure in his 1981 film, then Tykwer’s Lola rennt is given over to Lola’s
“redness” (from her hair and the telephone to the postcoital space that
signifies Lola’s and Mani’s relationship, bathed in red light), and the
strenuous efforts on Lola’s part to overcome the dilemma. In Hong Li’s
film, the color red appears throughout: in the wig of the dancer playing
Lola, the blood of several victims, and the lighting at the conclusion of
Tian’s performance of the part of Lola. Of equal importance, however, is
the persistent blue lighting associated with Zhen Yu’s home. When we take
into account that Zhen Yu dies when he suicidally plummets from an
imposing clock tower, after the camera has circled first Tian and then him-
self in Ophulsian fashion, and that his dying body takes the position of the
expiring Mani from the second run-through of Lola rennt, it becomes
evident that Hong Li has been most concerned with exploring the position
of Professor Rath.44 Indeed, her representation of Lola has been dimin-
ished from persona to role with no evident connection to the person play-
ing it. This is reinforced by the fact that the actresses playing the dancers
vying for the role of Lola retain their actual names. From the fragments of
performance the viewer witnesses, one gathers that the “Lola” performed
by the dance company is a narrative of sexualized encounters resulting in
the murder of the male partner with a gruesome knife — almost a reversal
of the fate of Lulu at the hands of Jack the Ripper (in Wedekind’s play and
Pabst’s adaptation). If Lola murders her lover in a dance performance
within a film directed by a woman director, does that make Lola a femme
fatale or is it a ritualized act of revenge that subsequently spills over into
the lives of Tian and Zhen Yu, laying claim to the latter’s life while sparing
the former from any blame? If anyone kills Zhen Yu, it is the director
Hong Li and certainly not Tian’s Lola. As Zhen Yu dies, he dissolves into
the whiteness of the screen, while Tian takes her place as a mediating relay
between the audience and a blue image of apocalyptic destruction — a
tornado wreaking havoc on an urban skyline. Masculinity’s inability to
respond adequately to Lola is modulated into a nihilistic melancholy not
unlike the musical and cinematic strains of aesthetic bliss realized in Lyne’s
adaptation of Lolita.45
Patrice Leconte’s Félix et Lola seems to begin with a scene of murder.
A young man who will later be identified as Félix sits in a nightclub called
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 127
the Blue Sunset, awash in red light, listening to an older male singer — not
the Blue Angel caberet, not Dietrich, but allusive enough. There is a
revolver in his hand; he aims it at the singer and fires. Cut and flashback
to the bumper-car floor of a traveling carnival, where an unlikely waiflike
Lola seated in one of the bumper cars listlessly submits to being jolted by
the playful aggression of surrounding drivers. After pointed scenes involv-
ing carnival rides as visual metaphors for erotic interaction in Ophuls’s Lola
Montès46 and especially Demy’s Lola,47 Leconte’s conceit is perfect. Félix,
it turns out, is the director of the carnival and manages the bumper-car
ride. Lola’s remarkable passivity and vulnerability capture his attention and
so their relationship begins.48
Lola cultivates an air of mystery about her, intimating that danger
threatens, and apparently testing Félix’s loyalty. The older man whom we
saw as a nightclub singer seems to be observing them, even stalking her,
and the film is fraught with impending violence. When Félix is beaten by
three anonymous assailants, Lola tends to his wounds and a love scene
ensues. In post-coital conversation not unlike in the intermittent scenes in
Lola rennt, Lola asks Félix if he could kill himself for love. On Félix’s birth-
day, she surprises him by riding unhelmeted on a motorcycle piloted by a
stunt driver who centrifugally ascends the walls of a circular space, visually
recalling the close-up of the revolving roulette wheel of Lola rennt.
Leconte’s Lola is also prepared to seize her chance, to make her gamble.
To his concerned comment “You could have died,” Lola responds, “I
would have. For you.” Against the backdrop of birthday festivities involv-
ing the crew of the carnival and in allusion to the wedding scene of Der
blaue Engel, Lola reports in exhilarated but hushed tones that the older
man, a former lover, continues to stalk her and that she is being refused
access to her child Camille. As long as he exists, Lola and Félix will not be
happy. She asks Félix to murder him.
Félix does not kill the nightclub singer. As Félix listens to him singing
in apparent anticipation of the deed visualized at the beginning of the film,
Lola appears at his table and summons him from the nightclub. Félix is
angry and shows her that he had no intention of killing the singer. He had
removed the bullets from the gun. The dimensions of the charade are
revealed to him in Lola’s confession at a dark table back at the carnival.
There is no Camille. Throughout her life, Lola has fabricated melodra-
matic circumstances in order to lend her vapid middle-class origins some
substance. Flirting with death seemed a way to make her life real. Even her
name is not Lola. True to his name, Félix offers this Lola, who is no Lola,
happiness. In a final, redemptive exchange they determine to “make
Camille.”
Concluding as I have with these three films, it may seem that the pos-
sibilities of Lola’s persona have run their course, that the trajectory of Lola
has come to its logical end, that the dilemma and promise posed by female
128 SIMON RICHTER
sexual pleasure and figured by Lola have nonetheless fallen into familiar
patterns, an anomaly no longer. None of the recent Lolas we have sur-
veyed lays claim to the exuberant sexuality of her predecessors. But, of
course, this is not the case. These are but three of a recent barrage of Lola
films, and more are almost certainly in the offing. The desperate tragi-
comic clownishness of the male response fatally embodied in Professor
Rath, Humbert Humbert, and Zhen Yu is only one possibility. The tenu-
ousness of Hong Li and Leconte’s Lola, the “looseness” of fit between the
biography of the woman and the name she has come to bear, should be
understood as both the persisting difficulty of asserting Lola’s position
and the continued desire to do so, even if under increasingly fraught, but
different, circumstances. At the beginning of the twenty-first century,
Lola’s stance is still difficult to sustain. In all three instances the contem-
porary Lola involves an elaborate negotiation with murder and death. We
may not be edified by the course of the negotiations or the nature of the
alternately reparative and vengeful fantasies the films indulge. Yet two
inescapable facts remain: first, Lola continues to be the name under which
the possibility of representing the legitimate claim of female sexual desire
is explored, and, second, for all Lola’s proximity to murder and death,
Lola doesn’t die and Lola doesn’t kill. Lola is still not a femme fatale and
not a femme fragile.
Lest it seem that the original vitality and resilience of the cinematic
fantasy known as Lola has virtually succumbed to recent cultural pressures
such as repairing wounded male egos or been compromised by internal-
ized feelings of guilt, allow me to point to one more film in which Lola
certainly does not die and does not kill. In this film we find a different and
collaborative response that resides with the camera in its interplay with the
actress, not for the benefit of scopophilic fetishism, but for the representa-
tion of the legitimate claim of female sexual pleasure. In the same year that
Lola rennt appeared, Tinto Brass, the Italian director of intelligent erotic
films, completed Monella (Frivolous Lola, 1998).49 His Lola, set in rural
northern Italy in the 1950s, strikes me as the most insightful response to
date to Der blaue Engel and the question of Lola’s pleasure. Lola is an
impulsive young woman, the daughter of Zaira, a woman who lives with
Señor André, who may or may not be Lola’s father. Lola is engaged to
Tomasso, the son of the village baker, and she is eager to lose her virginity
to him — she views it as an obstacle to the pursuit of pleasure. André in
the meantime meets regularly with a photographer friend to savor a stud-
ied connoisseurship of female beauty with particular emphasis on the pos-
terior. Part of the brilliance of Brass’s film is the fact that he explores the
family romance, what Freud would call the Oedipal situation, with the
cards stacked in favor of the female members of the triangle and without
trading on any concept of castration. Lola’s mother withholds the identity
of Lola’s father in order to keep André’s vibrant desire in check at least
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 129
with respect to her daughter (on the correct assumption that he would be
reluctant to commit incest), while Lola for her part is intrigued by the
cultivated aesthetic camaraderie of André and his friend. By film’s end her
goal of marriage is achieved. But marriage is not a bond that shackles her
— on the contrary, marriage and the loss of virginity are the condition for
the pursuit of an epicurean life.
The first shots of Lola show her on a bicycle. The bicycle is an occa-
sion for exhibitionist behavior — Dietrich’s inner thighs or, rather, Anna
Ammarati’s buttocks — on wheels — the mobility of Franka Potente
crossed with the calculated exposure of Dietrich. The camera almost
immediately reveals an impertinence to match Lola’s. The close-up of
Anna’s buttocks matches Sternberg’s close-up of Dietrich’s legs. While
the narrative of her quest to be deflowered is amusing and subjects her
uncooperative fiancé to a degree of humiliation that places him in the line
of clownish dupes starting with Professor Rath, the truly interesting
strand of the film involves Lola’s incursions into the space of André’s
sexual connoisseurship. When Lola settles down on her bed to masturbate
— a scene that I would identify as the counterpart of the signature song-
and-dance numbers of numerous Lolas — Brass’s camera draws unspeak-
ably close to the place where her pleasure resides. We are, to speak plainly,
at the nexus of Lola’s thighs. However, intercut images, snippets of reality
already encountered, increasingly coalesce into the masturbatory fantasy
that allegorically represents Lola’s desire. Her fantasy is the primal scene:
André taking her mother from behind, observed from two corners by
herself and André’s companion, while André holds a camera. Brass brings
Sternberg’s camera, the signifier of the director’s adequate response to
Lola’s pleasure, into the frame. Lola’s masturbatory fantasy is capacious
enough to assume both, indeed all, positions, and leads in due course to
orgasm.
Lola’s desire for André — or something André stands for and seems
to promise and withhold at the same time — leads her to make a bet with
him. Should she ever succeed in seducing Tomasso and marrying him, she
will offer herself sexually to him, that is, to André: the loss of her virginity
will vouchsafe this freedom. She does succeed and a wedding takes place,
the Italian counterpart to the wedding scene in Fassbinder’s Lola, as well
as the wedding scene in Der blaue Engel with all its allusions to cuckoldry.
Withdrawing to her room on a pretext, she is soon joined by André,
whose wedding gift to her is membership in his “Joie de vivre” club, sig-
nified by a bracelet. For her part Lola seems determined to see that she
pays her bet, an offer André respectfully declines. Understanding the cir-
cumstances of their newly founded relationship, she offers him a souvenir
of her wedding and lifts her dress for his response, exposing her legs and
the locus of her pleasure. The words he utters say it all: Lola Lola. It is a
simple repetition, not unmotivated. But it forges an immediate connec-
130 SIMON RICHTER
Notes
1
Der blaue Engel, dir. Joseph von Sternberg (Germany: Universum Films,
1930).
2
Starting from ordinary lower-middle-class origins, Eliza Gilbert, as she was bap-
tized, took the name Lola and used her sexuality and prevaricating charm to rise
to world renown as a “Spanish” dancer, the lover of composers (Liszt), writers
(Dumas), and kings (Ludwig of Bavaria). For a detailed account, see Bruce
Seymour, Lola Montez: A Life (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 1996).
3
Lola de Valence was the primary dancer of the Camprubi dance company, whose
members danced with the Royal Theater of Madrid on a European tour in the
1860s. Eduard Manet saw her in Paris in 1862 and she posed for him at his studio.
His striking portrait captured the fancy of Baudelaire, who wrote a quatrain that
found its way into Les fleurs du mal (1857).
4
As de Lauretis explains in her preface, “Alice doesn’t” signifies “the unqualified
opposition of feminism to existing social relations, its refusal of given definitions
and cultural values,” as well as the affirmation of “the political and personal ties of
shared experience that join women in the movement and are the condition of
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 131
feminist work, theory and practice.” Teresa de Lauretis, Alice Doesn’t: Feminism,
Semiotics, Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984), vii.
5
It should be pointed out that the majority of Lola films are international and not
Hollywood-produced. In other words, the possibilities for representation and the
parameters of fantasy are less circumscribed. Hollywood has never succeeded in
producing a Lola film on her terms, although not for lack of trying. I should men-
tion that the PCA (the Production Code Administration which imposed a con-
servative Catholic worldview on Hollywood cinema from 1934 to 1968) required
that any intimation of sex outside marriage be punished within the film’s narrative.
Impunity was not an option.
6
Maria Tatar, Lustmord: Sexual Murder in Weimar Cinema (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton UP, 1995). See also Beth Irwin Lewis, “Lustmord: Inside the Windows
of the Metropolis,” in Women in the Metropolis: Gender and Modernity in Weimar
Culture, ed. Katharina von Ankum (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: U of
California P, 1997), 202–32.
7
Elisabeth Bronfen, Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic
(Manchester and New York: Manchester UP/Routledge, 1992).
8
Bram Dijkstra, Idols of Perversity: Fantasies of Feminine Evil in Fin-de-Siècle
Culture (New York and London: Oxford UP, 1986).
9
Tatar, Lustmord: Sexual Murder, 10.
10
Tatar, Lustmord: Sexual Murder, 11; my italics.
11
Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16.3 (1975):
6–18. This essay has often been anthologized. My citations come from Feminism
and Film, ed. E. Ann Kaplan (Oxford and New York: Oxford UP, 2000), 34–47.
Further reference to this work will be given in the text using the abbreviation VP
and the page number.
12
It may be indicative that Hitchcock becomes an honorary citizen of Weimar
Germany in Maria Tatar’s argument about violence against women while Sternberg
deserves no mention. See Tatar, Lustmord: Sexual Murder, 7 and 35–40.
13
Judith Mayne, “Marlene Dietrich, The Blue Angel, and Female Performance,”
in Seduction and Theory: Readings of Gender, Representation, and Rhetoric, ed.
Dianne Hunter (Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1989), 28–46; here 37.
14
Gaylan Studlar develops the masochistic aspect of the gaze, which is elided by
Mulvey. See “Masochism and the Perverse Pleasures of the Cinema,” in Kaplan,
Feminism and Film, 203–25. Miriam Hansen explores the notion of female spec-
tatorship in relation to male icons such as Valentino. See “Pleasure, Ambivalence,
Identification: Valentino and Female Spectatorship,” in Kaplan, Feminism and
Film, 226–52.
15
To give just one example of the inaccuracy of citation to which Mulvey has been
subjected, Richard W. McCormick writes: “Mulvey may have been right to call
Sternberg’s version of Lola Lola the ‘ultimate fetish’ in patriarchal cinema”;
McCormick, Gender and Sexuality in Weimar Modernity (New York: Palgrave,
2001), 125. But, of course, Mulvey said no such thing.
16
Morocco, dir. Joseph von Sternberg. (USA: Paramount, 1931).
132 SIMON RICHTER
17
Gaylan Studlar, “Marlene Dietrich and the Erotics of Code-Bound Hollywood,”
in Dietrich Icon, ed. Gerd Gemünden and Mary R. Desjardins (Durham and
London: Duke UP, 2007), 211–38.
18
That is what Elizabeth Bronfen does in “Seductive Departures of Marlene
Dietrich: Exile and Stardom in The Blue Angel,” in Gemünden and Desjardins,
Dietrich Icon, 119–40.
19
Steven Bach, Marlene Dietrich: Life and Legend (New York: Da Capo P, 2000),
120.
20
The bizarre 1959 English-language remake of Der blaue Engel, directed by
Edward Dmytryk and starring May Brit, confirms this. Dmytryk spells out what is
implied when he has his Lola Lola deliberately perform the scene of her unfaithful-
ness in order to bring Professor Rath to his senses. By the same token, Dmytryk
refrains from killing his Professor Rath. The Blue Angel, dir. Edward Dmytryk
(USA: 20th Century Fox, 1959).
21
Peter Baxter identifies him as the “Freudian father.” Baxter, “On the Naked
Thighs of Miss Dietrich,” Wide Angle 2.2 (1978): 18–25. Subsequent references
to this essay will be indicated parenthetically.
22
All translations are by the author.
23
Lolita, dir. Stanley Kubrick. (UK: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1962).
24
Lolita, dir. Adrian Lyne. (USA: Guild, 1997).
25
Vladimir Nabokov, The Annotated Lolita, ed. Alfred Appel, Jr. (New York:
Vintage, 1991), 9.
26
Nabokov, The Annotated Lolita, 37.
27
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita: A Screenplay (New York: Vintage, 1997).
28
Nabokov, Lolita, 62.
29
Nabokov, Lolita, 94.
30
Nabokov, Lolita, 124–25.
31
While other characters seem constrained by American prudishness or old-world
guilt, the guilt-free hijinks of Clare Quilty hark back to the sexually liberal culture
of the Weimar era, captured in Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories (1946), for
example.
32
Lola Montès, dir. Max Ophuls (France and West Germany: Gamma Film, 1955).
33
Wedekind’s Lulu plays (Erdgeist and Die Büchse der Pandora (Pandora’s Box,
1904)) were adapted by G. W. Pabst as Die Büchse der Pandora (Germany: Nero
Film, 1929). Pabst dispensed with the circus framework.
34
Kaja Silverman writes insightfully about the difference between the circus and
the flashbacks in The Subject of Semiotics (New York: Oxford UP, 1983), 226–30.
35
Lola, dir. Jacques Demy (Italy and France: Rome Paris Films, 1962).
36
Lola, dir. Rainer Werner Fassbinder (West Germany: Rialto Film, 1981).
37
Die Ehe der Maria Braun (The Marriage of Maria Braun), dir. Rainer Werner
Fassbinder (West Germany: Albatros Filmproduktion, 1979).
38
I am excepting Lolita, who is reported to have died in childbirth at the end of
the novel and both film adaptations, but not as a direct consequence of her rela-
tionship with Humbert Humbert.
CINEMA, JOUISSANCE, AND THE AVOIDANCE OF MURDER AND DEATH 133
39
In Haßliebe Lola, dir. Lothar Lambert (Germany, 1995). Lola und Bilidikid, dir.
Kutlag Ataman (Germany: Boje Buck Produktion, 1999). The scholarship on these
films is sparse. For Lambert see Jeffrey Peck, “The Films of Lothar Lambert,” in
Gender and German Cinema: Feminist Interventions, vol. 1: Gender and
Representation in New German Cinema, ed. Sandra Frieden et al. (Providence, RI,
and Oxford: Berg, 1993), 225–40. For Ataman, see Christopher Clark,
“Transculturation, Transe Sexuality, and Turkish Germany: Kutlag Ataman’s Lola
und Bilidikid,” German Life and Letters 59.4 (2006): 555–72.
40
Lola rennt, dir. Tom Tykwer (Germany: X-Filme Creative Pool, 1998).
41
Zu Zhou, dir. Hong Li (Hong Kong: Media Asia Films, 2005).
42
Félix et Lola, dir. Patrice Leconte (France: Ciné B, 2001).
43
These questions are raised most urgently by Ingeborg Majer O’Sickey,
“Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets (Or Does She?): Time and Desire in Tom
Tykwer’s Run Lola Run,” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 19.2 (2002):
123–31.
44
Interestingly, the apparent suaveness of Zhen Yu is compromised by his heavily
accented Cantonese, almost recalling the play of accents in Der blaue Engel, espe-
cially the English version shot parallel to the German. On Sternberg’s English-
language version of Der blaue Engel, see Patrice Petro, “The Blue Angel in
Multiple-Language Versions: The Inner Thighs of Miss Dietrich,” in Gemünden
and Desjardins, Dietrich Icon, 141–61.
45
“Aesthetic bliss” is a term that Nabokov coins in “On a Book Entitled Lolita,”
in The Annotated Lolita, 314. Adrian Lyne transfers Nabokov’s aesthetic bliss to
Humbert Humbert and associates it with a melting version of Mahleresque chords
that echoes Luchino Visconti’s use of the same in Death in Venice (1971).
46
I am thinking of the recurring shots of the carousel in Max Ophuls’s La Ronde
(France: Films Sacha Gordine, 1950).
47
In Demy’s Lola, first love happens during and is represented by a variety of
circus rides.
48
Lisa Downing offers a fine reading of Félix et Lola in Patrice Leconte (Manchester
and New York: Manchester UP, 2004), 113–16. She notes how “the refusal to film
Gainsbourg’s body [the person who plays Lola] as an object for pleasurable con-
templation and cinematic fetishism is paralleled at the diegetic level by Félix’s
refusal to engage in the film noir game of decoding the woman-enigma” (114).
49
Monella, dir. Tinto Brass (Italy: C.R.C., 1998).
8: Death, Being, and the Place of Comedy
in Representations of Death
Stephanie Bird
death. This is a vast field, and far from attempting a basic systematic
account of the relationship between death, representation, and gender, I
shall analyze aspects of the relationship that I consider particularly stimu-
lating. I look at responses to Heidegger’s view of death as solitary, and the
implications for gender of an emphasis on human interrelatedness and
community. I examine the tension between philosophical abstraction and
lived experience, as well as the important question of the pleasure of rep-
resentation. Leading on from this I conclude by raising the question of
comedy’s role in representing death with reference to the humorous ele-
ments of Ingeborg Bachmann’s Das Buch Franza (1995).3
then how the subject is constituted socially will profoundly affect how
death is perceived: death as a biological fact cannot exist independently of
the discourses through which it is understood and constructed. The nature
of death is therefore complicated, its conceptualization as absolutely other
thrown into question, if a person is not deemed to be socially alive in the
first place. Elisabeth Bronfen and Sarah Webster Goodwin point to
Orlando Patterson’s study of slavery and his concept of “social death.”30
If for the Cherokees slaves were comparable to bears and not deemed
human, and if for the Nias of Indonesia slaves did not even have a place in
the universe, then the nature of both life and death become questionable:
“The slave, in his social death, lives on the margin between [. . .] life and
death.”31
For Heidegger, the focus on changing cultural conceptualizations of
death, as well as the concern with the communal experience of death, does
not alter the fundamental confrontation with it. After all, he fully concedes
the experience of loss caused by the death of another, yet “in suffering the
loss, the loss of being as such which the dying person ‘suffers’ does not
become accessible” (BaT, 222). Equally, though, the “style of questioning
of which Heidegger, Freud, and Levinas are remarkable witnesses,” as
Derrida puts it, cannot defend itself from the historicist charge that it is
itself a product of Western culture (A, 79). But Derrida does not privilege
the historicist over the universalizing approach, arguing rather that the two
are mutually contaminating: on the one hand anthropological, cultural,
and historical accounts rely on “the powerful and universal delimination
that the existential analysis of death in Being and Time is” (A, 80), and on
the other a work such as Heidegger’s can be read “as a small, late docu-
ment, among many others within the huge archive where the memory of
death in Christian Europe is being accumulated. Each of these two dis-
courses on death is much more comprehensive than the other” (A, 81).
The work of Deleuze and Guattari is necessarily a further example of
this aporia, for although they argue that the death drive is a product of
capitalism, a function of the lack created by capitalist relations of produc-
tion, their analysis nevertheless depends on retaining a certain splitting in
their conceptualization of death, with the result that an extra-cultural
dimension is retained. For them, “the body without organs is the model
of death.”32 The body without organs is the state of zero intensity of
affects and energy, “the limit of any ratio of motion and rest among a
body’s parts,” as Adkins argues,33 in relation to which the organism per-
ceives an increase or decrease in its productive power. When a body dies it
returns to this zero intensity, and at this point the self dies, the ego that
perceives itself as singular. But the body without organs is not the same as
the organism: it is the “‘body’ of the energies and becomings of the Earth”
and will continue to “become” in a new relation.34 The “event” of dying
is therefore not finite, not limited to the consciousness of the self that
DEATH, BEING, AND THE PLACE OF COMEDY 143
thinks itself as finite, but part of the continuum of “becoming.” The expe-
rience of death is the experience of this process of becoming, the move-
ment between different degrees of intensity: it “is the most common of
occurrences in the unconscious, precisely because it occurs in life and for
life, in every passage or becoming, in every intensity as passage or becom-
ing.” Intensive emotions “control the unconscious experience of death,
insofar as death is what is felt in every feeling, what never ceases and never
finishes happening in every becoming” (A-O, 330).
Here life is conceived as a continuous state of becoming, and the
human as a temporary holding form for changing forces. Consciousness
deceives itself in thinking that it defines the boundaries of life, for it is only
a transitional manifestation of life’s durational flow, which encompasses
both organic and inorganic forms. Death, as conventionally understood,
becomes irrelevant, since the process of becoming is continuous. Thus we
arrive back at the aporia: a universalizing conceptualization of life and
death is asserted, while at the same time describing society as a “socius of
inscription” (A-O, 142), and the social machine as that which “fashions a
memory” (A-O, 141), a memory of which their own work is a product.
What is the critical response to this aporia? Generally critics ignore it and
either focus on the problem that human perception and experience have
been marginalized or explore the positive implications of the universal for
us as human beings. So critics of Deleuze and Guattari, and of Deleuze
more generally, have pointed to the neglect of the human experience as
individual and finite:
that “destabilize us, heighten our awareness and stimulate our perception”
(TON, 249). The radical and transformative potential of self-styling is,
crucially for Deleuze, not structured around lack. Thus aesthetic represen-
tation is not reducible to the category of necessary fiction that masks a
void, a presence structured around absence or itself a form of the death of
what it seeks to represent. The potential of art is that it re-describes, not
reproduces, the world with which we are familiar. Most important, how-
ever, is that art is concerned with affect, which, far from being simply the
individual’s emotional response to what she sees or hears, is integral to the
process of becoming, the body’s movement between different degrees of
intensity. Art, therefore, opens up modes of being and becoming that are
not based on the familiarity of the self and current norms. In Foucault, for
example, Deleuze discusses the diagram as a form that does not attempt
“to reproduce a persisting world,” but that unmakes “preceding realities
and significations” by constructing “unexpected conjunctions or improb-
able continuums.”37
A diagram may not in itself be the most enticing re-description of the
world: it certainly indicates little concern with the self’s experience of her-
self as finite, and also returns us to the insoluble problem of the relation-
ship of abstraction to a historically contingent understanding of death.
What is enticing, however, as in Copjec’s reading of the death drive, but
with very different presuppositions, is the emphasis on the productive
dimension of aesthetic representation: whether understood as sublimation
or as performing desire, aesthetic representation changes the object, and
does not only, although it may do this as well, point to the impossibility of
saying, the void, etcetera. It is this productive side of representation that
is an integral part of our enjoyment of representations of death in fiction
and art in general, in addition to the undeniable pleasure of apparent
immortality that Bronfen points to. In other words, art, including attempts
to represent death, necessarily affirms life through its re-description of the
world, its production of real effects and of real affects in the present that
are not reducible solely to a relationship with death.
for solutions to the Franza problem. Very funny for the reader is the epi-
sode with the motorcyclist who rescues Franza from the river the night
before their departure for Egypt. Not only does he finish Martin’s
Steinhäger gin, but Martin has to give him his nearly-new winter suit so
that he can finally ride off after midnight, a slightly wobbling “Wildwestreiter”
(F, 52; cowboy). Martin’s fury at what is for him inexplicable suicidal
behavior continues as they approach the border. Martin is very worried
about Franza’s false passport, but she gives a consummate performance of
unruffled confidence, and even “schaute bald schamlos freundlich die
Kontrolleure an” (F, 54; started looking at the officials with unashamed
friendliness). The comedy is further heightened by the clash of Martin’s
furious fantasy of flinging her off the train with her repeated decorous
requests for him to do something for her: “macht es dir etwas aus, mein
Lieber, und bitte” (F, 54; would you mind, my dear, and please).
The interplay of perspectives allows the reader to appreciate the situa-
tion comedy of these episodes, comedy that is reinforced by the witty or
ironic turns of phrase incorporated into the narrative. Martin’s ghastly
realization that Franza may have married Jordan as a father figure when he
sees that Jordan has two warts on his face is reduced to the phrase “Warzen
als Heiratsgrund” (F, 22; She married for warts). Elfi Nemec’s origins are
condensed into “ein Kind vom Gürtel, aber nicht von der Gürtellinie an
ihrer besten Stelle” (F, 27; a ring-road child, but from the wrong side),
and the crucial and intertwined themes of Franza’s idealization of the
desert, the suffering perpetrated by white men, and the limitation of rea-
son are condensed into one pithy sentence: Martin is preparing the first-
aid kit and
es stellte sich heraus, daß sie auch davon nichts verstand, weil von Magen
und Darm und von Gelbfieber bis Malaria in ihrer Welt nichts vorgekom-
men war, nur die Psyche der Weißen, die offenbar bedrohter war, als er
es sich vorstellen konnte. (F, 50)
[it transpired that she didn’t understand much about that either, because
in her world stomach and bowels didn’t figure, nor did yellow fever or
malaria; just the psyche of the whites, which was obviously more threat-
ened than he could imagine.]
Much of the general ironic tone of the first section, of which these are
particularly distilled examples, is closely identifiable with Martin’s general
outlook, but it cannot be solely ascribed to him. The use of erlebte Rede
means that the speaking voice cannot be attributed specifically to Martin
rather than to the narrator, but remains ambiguously both. This ambiguity
also reflects the clear overlap between what are at one level Martin’s obser-
vations of the difference between social appearances and the reality of
poor-quality housing in Vienna, his awareness of the difference between
148 STEPHANIE BIRD
the television film’s representation of Egypt and his memory of it, and the
narrator’s broader thematic interest in the gulf between appearance and
what is really going on, and how to represent this gulf: “Der Rest war aus
den Wiener Zeitungen nicht zu ersehen” (F, 139; The rest was not evident
from the Viennese newspapers).
The narrator’s active participation in the text’s comic aspects means
that the humor cannot be dismissed simply as Martin’s incomprehending
perspective on events. Indeed, the narrator’s enjoyment of comedy is con-
firmed at the end of the story, when a drunk Martin leaves the Altenwyls
after an evening watching a film about Egypt. On this occasion Martin
comes closest to comprehending Franza’s devastation, her critique of the
white man, and her uncompromising expectation of love, to the point
where her phrases enter his head: “Die Liebe aber ist unwiderstehlich” (F,
139; Love, however, cannot be withstood). This is a potentially pathos-
laden occasion, but although Martin feels a terrible “Finsternis” (F, 139;
darkness), comic devices ensure that the pathos, without being denied, is
heavily mediated. We are again presented with situation comedy: Martin
ignores the rules of polite society in which manners and appearance are all,
and where “Finsternis” is not only an emotional state but an opportunity
for Antoinette to hide her glasses and Atti to suppress his yawn. But more
importantly in terms of the narrator’s affirmation of comedy, the narrator
enjoys a pun. Barely able to stand, Martin is forced to take a taxi home,
and “unwiderstehlich” (unable to withstand) takes on a whole new mean-
ing: “Er zahlte nicht ganz dreißig Schilling für die Unwiderstehlichkeit
und kam nachhause” (F, 139; He paid nearly thirty Schillings for failing to
withstand and went home).
The comedy in the novel never tips into ridicule. Malina is careful to
qualify his demand for funny stories by saying “Sag, was sich ohne
Indiskretion sagen läßt” (M, 282; Say what you can without committing
any indiscretion: 177). So in stark contrast to the “höhnisches Gelächter”
(F, 70; scornful laughter) with which Jordan belittles Franza, the comic
devices in Franza do not serve the purpose of humiliation. The comic
devices do not function to humiliate first of all because they are not
ascribed a position of textual superiority. The emotional reality of Franza’s
suffering is powerfully presented alongside the comedy; indeed, if any-
thing, the comic elements are swamped by her point of view. Furthermore,
the shifting between and holding together of incongruous perspectives
also mean that a position of sovereign superiority often associated with
comedy is unsustainable. Most important, however, is the fact that
Martin’s and the narrator’s perspectives are fundamentally and consistently
sympathetic to Franza. These factors provide a framework within which
the incorporation of comedy as an important part of representing suffering
and death conforms to Bachmann’s narrative ethics. Comedy, like fictional
representation more generally, always incorporates an affirmation of life in
DEATH, BEING, AND THE PLACE OF COMEDY 149
the very pleasure it provides. This is why Bachmann’s books can never be
only “books about the end.”43
Notes
1
Simon Critchley, Very Little . . . Almost Nothing: Death, Philosophy, Literature
(London and New York: Routledge, 1997), 25.
2
Keith Ansell Pearson, Germinal Life: The Difference and Repetition of Deleuze
(London and New York: Routledge, 1999), 9.
3
Ingeborg Bachmann, Das Buch Franza (Munich: Piper, 1995).
4
Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany: State U of
New York P, 1996), 232. Subsequent references are cited in the text using the
abbreviation BaT and the page number.
5
Brent Adkins, Death and Desire in Hegel, Heidegger and Deleuze (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh UP, 2007).
6
Adkins, Death and Desire, 69.
7
Simone de Beauvoir, Old Age, trans. P. O’Brian (London: André Deutsch/
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1972), 441.
8
Robert C. Solomon, “Death Fetishism, Morbid Solipsism,” in Death and
Philosophy, ed. Jeff Malpas and Robert C. Solomon (London and New York:
Routledge, 1998), 152–76; here 175–76.
9
Linnell Secomb, “Philosophical Deaths and Feminine Finitude,” Mortality 4.2
(1999): 111–25; here 123.
10
Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity, trans. Alphonso Lingis (Pittsburgh,
PA: Duquesne UP, 1969), 234–35. Subsequent references to this work are cited in
the text using the abbreviation TI and the page number.
11
Emmanuel Levinas, Time and the Other, trans. Richard A. Cohen (Pittsburgh,
PA: Duquesne UP, 1987), 70. Subsequent references to this work are cited in the
text using the abbreviation TO and the page number.
12
Critchley, Very Little, 75.
13
For an excellent discussion of Levinas’s increasing emphasis on suffering see
Peter Dews, The Idea of Evil (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), chap. 5.
14
Luce Irigaray, “The Fecundity of the Caress: A Reading of Levinas, Totality and
Infinity, ‘Phenomenology of Eros,’” in Feminist Interpretations of Emmanuel
Levinas, ed. Tina Chanter (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State UP, 2001),
119–44; here 132.
15
Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, trans. Ann Smock (Lincoln: U of
Nebraska P, 1982), 101.
16
Blanchot, The Space of Literature, 104.
17
Critchley, Very Little, 71.
18
Critchley, Very Little, 43.
19
Maurice Blanchot, The Gaze of Orpheus, trans. Lydia Davis (New York: Station
Hill, 1981), 43.
150 STEPHANIE BIRD
20
Elisabeth Bronfen, Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic
(Manchester and New York: Manchester UP/Routledge, 1992), xi. Subsequent
references are cited in the text using the abbreviation DB and the page number.
21
Ellie Ragland, “Lacan, the Death Drive, and the Dream of the Burning Child,”
in Death and Representation, ed. Sarah Webster Goodwin and Elisabeth Bronfen
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1993), 80–102; here 94.
22
Luce Irigaray, Speculum of the Other Woman, trans. Gillian C. Gill (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell UP, 1985), 102.
23
Irigaray, Speculum of the Other Woman, 53.
24
Margaret Whitford, Luce Irigaray, Philosophy in the Feminine (New York and
London: Routledge, 1991), 115.
25
Luce Irigaray, “The Necessity for Sexuate Rights,” in The Irigaray Reader, ed.
Margaret Whitford (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 199–200.
26
Joan Copjec, Imagine There’s No Woman: Ethics and Sublimation (Cambridge,
MA, and London: MIT Press, 2002), 36. Subsequent references are cited in the
text using the abbreviation IW and the page number.
27
Jacques Lacan, The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, 1956–1960, trans. Dennis Porter
(London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 112.
28
Leo Bersani, quoted in Copjec, Imagine There’s No Woman, 66.
29
Jacques Derrida, Aporias, trans. Thomas Dutoit (Stanford, CA: Stanford UP,
1993), 43. Subsequent references are cited in the text using the abbreviation A and
the page number.
30
Bronfen and Webster Goodwin, Death and Representation, 8.
31
Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge,
MA, and London: Harvard UP, 1982), 51.
32
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia,
trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane (London: Athlone P, 1984),
329. Subsequent references are cited in the text using the abbreviation A-O and
the page number.
33
Adkins, Death and Desire, 184.
34
Ansell Pearson, Germinal Life, 153.
35
Ansell Pearson, Germinal Life, 133.
36
Rosi Braidotti, Transpositions: On Nomadic Ethics (Cambridge: Polity, 2006),
211. Subsequent references are cited in the text using the abbreviation TON and
the page number.
37
Deleuze, Foucault, trans. Seán Hand (London: Athlone P, 1988), 35.
38
Hélène Cixous, The Hélène Cixous Reader, ed. Susan Sellers (London and New
York: Routledge, 1994), 154.
39
Simon Critchley, Ethics, Politics, Subjectivity (London and New York: Verso,
1999), 235.
40
Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1971), 322.
Subsequent references are cited in the text using the abbreviation M and the page
number. The English is taken from the translation by Philip Boehm (New York and
London: Holmes & Meier, 1990), here 203.
DEATH, BEING, AND THE PLACE OF COMEDY 151
41
Hans Höller, “‘Das Komische, mehr als das Tragische, hat seine Noten, seine
nationalen’: Ingeborg Bachmanns Malina,” in Komik in der österreichischen
Literatur, ed. Wendelin Schmidt-Dengler, Johann Sonnleitner, and Klaus Zeyringer
(Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1996), 263–74; here 270.
42
Bachmann, Das Buch Franza, endnote 3. Subsequent references are cited in the
text using the abbreviation F and the page number. All translations are my own.
43
Cixous, Reader, 199.
9: “Liebe ist ein Kunstwerk”: The Appeal
to Gaspara Stampa in Ingeborg
Bachmann’s Todesarten
Áine McMurtry
[. . .] ein Konvolut aus Gestammel und Geheul, aus Hilfe- und
Racherufen, Wahn- und Todesfantasien, kurz: der ungereinigte
Lebensschlamm.
— Peter Hamm, Die Zeit, October 2000
P ETER HAMM’S RESPONSE SET THE TONE for many reviews of Ich weiß
keine bessere Welt (I Know of No Better World).1 Published as a collec-
tion in 2000, these poetic drafts were written by Ingeborg Bachmann
during a period of personal crisis that followed the breakdown of her rela-
tionship with Max Frisch in 1962 and his publication of the semi-autobi-
ographical Mein Name sei Gantenbein (Gantenbein: A Novel) in 1964.2
Bachmann identified aspects of her own person in the female protagonist
of this novel and felt its appropriation of her intimate experience as a kind
of murder. References to death recur throughout Bachmann’s drafts, in
which a female speaker evokes the destructiveness of pain, loss, and
betrayal. As Hans Höller highlights in his published response to Hamm,
such widespread condemnation of the drafts stems from a refusal to
acknowledge the significance of their preoccupation with immediate suf-
fering.3 Höller underlines Bachmann’s late concern with an alternative
authorship that sublimates personal crisis through artistic creation. An
examination of the poetic drafts reveals many correspondences with
Bachmann’s contemporaneous Todesarten (Manners of Death) prose
work, the novel cycle that she had begun in the early 1960s, the composi-
tion of which took up the last decade of her life. Bachmann intended this
cycle to lay bare those intimate abuses and deathly drives repressed and
censored in postwar society:
Die Todesarten wollen die Fortsetzung sein, in einer Gesellschaft, die sich
die Hände in Unschuld wäscht und nur keine Möglichkeit hat, Blut
THE APPEAL TO GASPARA STAMPA IN BACHMANN’S TODESARTEN 153
Gaspara Stampa
Hast du der Gaspara Stampa
denn genügend gedacht, daß irgend ein Mädchen,
154 ÁINE MCMURTRY
These lines, taken from the first of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duineser Elegien
(Duino Elegies, 1922), form probably the most famous reference to
Gaspara Stampa in European literature. Stampa is singled out as a figure
whose artistic refashioning of feelings of hurt provides a model for the
male poet’s own endeavors. As the author of 311 love poems, among the
most acclaimed in Italian literature, Stampa has long appealed to the artis-
tic imagination. Romantic artists fêted the passion and early death of the
broken-hearted “poetess.”7 Predominantly employing the sonnet form,
the poems give a forthright account of carnal passion, as well as betrayal
and abandonment, unprecedented for their era. Recently feminist critics
have come to question the primary ideological, as opposed to literary,
character of the poet’s reception. Their identification of aspects of gen-
dered critique in her work provides a framework for tracing similar strate-
gies in Bachmann’s writing. Patricia Phillippy convincingly demonstrates
how, by identifying with female figures who testify to mistreatment by their
lovers, Stampa accuses and critiques the male-dominated social order.8
Particularly illuminating when considering the critical backlash against
Bachmann’s draft poems is Fiora Bassanese’s attack on an understanding
of Stampa’s sonnets as the journal-style outpourings of a troubled soul.
Bassanese criticizes such interpretations for celebrating a lack of agency on
the part of the female poet. Her reading of Stampa emphasizes the radical
aesthetic and political dimensions of the lyric engagement with private
experience. My article reads the voicing of intimate injury in Bachmann’s
late lyric writing in similar terms and highlights how she rejects aestheticiz-
ing modes for their bogus romanticization of the mortal female subject.
The Stampa sonnet cited throughout Bachmann’s oeuvre begins
“Amor m’ha fatto tal ch’io vivo in foco” (Love has made me live in cease-
less fire). The lyric speaker provocatively compares herself to a salamander
— a Petrarchan symbol of unfulfilled love — to describe a new love affair.
Throughout her oeuvre, Bachmann associates Gaspara Stampa with fire.
Her 1956 love poem “Erklär mir, Liebe” (Tell Me, Love) uses the sala-
mander motif to advocate a passionate, physical mode of existence.9 By
1971 Bachmann had become concerned with the “burning” character of
THE APPEAL TO GASPARA STAMPA IN BACHMANN’S TODESARTEN 155
Liebe ist ein Kunstwerk, und ich glaube nicht, daß es sehr viele Menschen
können. Ob es mir gelungen ist, das Genie der Liebe zu zeigen, weiß ich
nicht. Ich weiß nur, daß die wenigen großen Beispiele so außerordentlich
sind, daß man sagen muß, es gibt zweifellos Menschen, die dort, wo die
anderen ein kleines gelegentliches Talent haben, etwas geschenkt bekom-
men haben; das erwirbt man sich nicht, deswegen ist es etwas
Verbrennendes. Es gibt nur sehr wenig Beispiele dieser Art, zu denen ich
die Briefe der portugiesischen Nonne zähle und die Gedichte der Gaspara
Stampa, die an einen Graf Sowieso gerichtet sind, der sie offenbar sehr
rasch verlassen hat. Ihr ist, glaub’ ich, rasch — wie das im 16. Jahrhundert
häufig war — eine Lungenschwindsucht zu Hilfe gekommen, sich aus
dieser für sie nicht mehr erträglichen Welt davonzumachen. Diese
Gedichte sind einfach unglaublich schön, ich habe in meinem Buch
daraus einen Satz zitiert: “Vivere ardendo e non sentire il male” — dieses
Glühendleben und das Böse nicht fühlen.10
[Love is a work of art and I don’t believe that many people have the
capacity for it. Whether I’ve managed to show love’s genius, I don’t
know. I only know that the few great examples are so extraordinary that
it must be said there are doubtless people who, where others only possess
an occasional talent, have been blessed with a real gift. You can’t acquire
that, that’s because it’s something that burns. There are only a few exam-
ples of this kind, among which I count The Letters of a Portuguese Nun
and the poems of Gaspara Stampa, which are addressed to a Count
So-and-So, who obviously abandoned her very quickly. Rescue came
quickly, I think, in the form of consumption — as was so common in the
sixteenth century — which helped her escape the unbearable world.
These poems are simply incredibly beautiful; in my novel I quoted one
sentence from them: “Vivere ardendo e non sentire il male” — this living
ardently and not feeling any pain.]
Here Bachmann relates the Stampa phrase not only to states of passionate
physicality, as conveyed by the fire metaphors common in her own early lyr-
ics, but, more significantly, to an aesthetic mode that engages with a condi-
tion of destructive extremity aligned with the female love experience.
As Barbara Agnese has highlighted, Bachmann’s comparison of
Stampa’s poems to love letters long-attributed to a Portuguese nun —
Mariana Alcoforado — recalls Rilke’s Die Aufzeichungen des Malte Laurids
Brigge (The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, 1910) where both
Stampa and Alcoforado are associated with a gendered aesthetic of pro-
156 ÁINE MCMURTRY
die gewaltigen Liebenden [. . .] die, während sie ihn riefen, den Mann
überstanden; die über ihn hinauswuchsen, wenn er nicht wiederkam, wie
Gaspara Stampa oder wie die Portugiesin, die nicht abließen, bis ihre
Qual umschlug in eine herbe, eisige Herrlichkeit, die nicht mehr zu
halten war.12
[those mighty lovers [. . .] who, in the act of calling him, went beyond
the man; who surpassed him when he did not return, like Gaspara Stampa
or the Portuguese Nun, who did not relent until their agony transformed
into a dry, icy splendor that could no longer be contained.]
This state of icy cold contrasts with the sustained fire imagery in
Bachmann’s engagement with Stampa’s writing. Whilst the fin-de-siècle
poet emphasizes the transcendent quality of the verse, the affective con-
nection with the surrounding world determines a writer’s task in the post-
1945 context. In a 1959 speech, Bachmann reiterates the appeal, made
during Rilke’s contemplation of Stampa in the first Duino elegy, that the
oldest kinds of pain should yield artistic fruit. She reworks the modernist
plea for artistic transcendence into an assertion of the need to lay bare the
destructive effects of suffering:
So kann es auch nicht die Aufgabe des Schriftstellers sein, den Schmerz
zu leugnen, seine Spuren zu verwischen, über ihn hinwegzutäuschen. Er
muß ihn, im Gegenteil, wahrhaben und noch einmal, damit wir sehen
können, wahrmachen. [. . .] Wir sagen sehr einfach und richtig, wenn wir
in diesen Zustand kommen, den hellen, wehen, in dem der Schmerz
fruchtbar wird: Mir sind die Augen aufgegangen.13
[So it cannot be the author’s task to deny pain either, to remove its traces,
to hide it away. He must, on the contrary, acknowledge it and once again,
so that we can see, give it form. [. . .] We say very simply and truly, when
we enter this state — bright and sore — in which pain is made productive:
my eyes have been opened.]
[She chewed every single word, then gulped down a fair number of sen-
tences so that she didn’t choke and, then, word for word, again. He wrote
and she read, and now it would always be so, she was over forty and all
she could do was read one book. The book was about her, so she told
herself, he had known her for two years and then no more, but it was
about her. [. . .] nothing but things that she’d told him, told him at night,
when she was lying beside him, in the afternoon, when they were walking
through a wood, as they were cycling, when they were drinking coffee,
what had she been thinking, in two years she really had told him all of
that. Oh yes, she had indeed. She said to herself — guilty. [. . .] He had
been ten years younger than her and, come to think of it, still was, over
there, a few districts on, he was still ten years younger, her butcher, whom
she called a pig, although she was the creature he’d slaughtered, a lamb,
lamb of God [. . .] Still, he had a full name, that Bible-writer, that scrib-
bler of the Passion, he was called Anton Marek and was practiced in the
art of slaughter, familiar, too, with the Mount of Olives and the sponge
soaked in vinegar that she had pressed against her own forehead.]
The narrator’s intractable position here stems from the recognition of her
lover’s abuse and her own complicity. The narrator refers to being ren-
dered witness to a male-narrated account of her life. Her sense of helpless-
ness is thus paralleled with a condition of silence and an inability to write.
Elsewhere in the prose draft the narrator expresses outrage at this bogus
depiction of her person in the fixed fictional narrative. With echoes of
those culinary metaphors central to Bachmann’s late poem “Keine
160 ÁINE MCMURTRY
Gaspara Stampa
Meine Schwester hat mich auch verlassen. (kbW, 116 and 1–10)
The end-stopped lines with their rhymes and internal echoes (“weit” —
“Zeit” — “leidets”; “hier” — “mir” — “ihr”) create a calm tone that
conveys the consolation provided by the sister who, by assuming the
speaker’s pain, is presented as an aesthetic incarnation of the Christ-like
figure of other drafts. Bachmann reworks the symbolic masculine victim-
savior into a sister-poet who does not stand for ultimate religious tran-
scendence but permits immediate human identification. In what appears a
lonely hospital setting, the poetic draft thus begins with a spatial and tem-
poral situating of this eternal nurse-sister who, belonging to both past and
present, forms an imaginative reference point for the speaker.
Through the opening portrayal of the sister’s quasi-physical presence,
Bachmann conveys something of the reassurance of the poetic encounter.
Manifest in those mutual acts of approach signaled in the first two sections
of the poem, a form of exchange is suggested that might comment on the
immediate experience of reading lyric poetry. The speaker’s illness, like
164 ÁINE MCMURTRY
Malina
This reading of Malina begins with a reference to a 1977 work by Roland
Barthes, an acquaintance of Bachmann’s from a period of collaboration on
the international Gulliver journal in the early 1960s.21 A Lover’s Discourse:
Fragments is a prose text that records, in alphabetical order, around eighty
“figures” or “outbursts of language” from the mind of the amorous sub-
ject. Barthes introduces his text by proposing that the extreme solitude of
the modern lover’s discourse renders it an affirmative site, since it exists
severed from social mechanisms of authority. The text presents the lover as
a reader of signs, desperately searching for indications of requited passion
but consistently experiencing love as loss and anxiety. Sigrid Weigel has
alluded to structural parallels between the portrayal of love experience in
A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments and in Bachmann’s writings, particularly
her early love lyrics, as well as a 1958 radio play and Malina.22 I will dem-
onstrate that Barthes’s account of the necessary adoption of the dramatic
method for staging the amorous speech act provides new insight into the
formal achievement of Bachmann’s novel. He writes:
166 ÁINE MCMURTRY
The description of the lover’s discourse has been replaced by its simulation,
and to that discourse has been restored its fundamental person, the I, in
order to stage an utterance, not an analysis. What is proposed, then, is a
portrait — but not a psychological portrait; instead, a structural one which
offers the reader a discursive site: the site of someone speaking within him-
self, amorously, confronting the other (the loved object), who does not
speak. [. . .] Endlessly I sustain the discourse of the beloved’s absence;
actually a preposterous situation; the other is absent as referent, present as
allocutory. This singular distortion generates a kind of insupportable
present [. . .] a pure portion of anxiety. Absence persists — I must endure
it. Hence I will manipulate it: transform the distortion of time into oscilla-
tion, produce rhythm, make an entrance onto the stage of language [. . .].
This staging of language postpones the other’s death [. . .]. To manipulate
absence is to extend this interval, to delay as long as possible the moment
when the other might topple sharply from absence into death.23
Sexual pleasure is not metonymic: once taken, it is cut off: it was the
Feast, always terminated and instituted only by a temporary, supervised
lifting of the prohibition. Tenderness, on the contrary, is nothing but an
infinite, insatiable metonymy [. . .]. Where you are tender, you speak your
plural.32
of her late draft poems do not. For Bachmann, a woman writer in the
German postwar period, the appeal to her literary predecessor — and the
lyric tradition of lover’s protest she represents — provides an aesthetic
context for the gendered expression of intimate abuse. In the resonant
lyric voicing of female accusation Bachmann identified a medium for an
alternative authorship that rebelled against the binary modes and objectify-
ing tendencies of patriarchal culture. With her experimental novel she
devised a dramatic structure to lay bare culture’s systematic eradication of
this voice. By retaining the urgency of the draft poems, yet abstracting
from the former personal mode of utterance, the prose enables the shift to
a reflexive mode concerned with the murderous appropriation of the
feminine within art and culture. In the open appeal to the reader woven
into the fabric of this metonymic narrative, an alternative mode is attained
from which, beyond the deathly silencing of the female voice, the echoing
poetic prose resounds.
Notes
1
Ingeborg Bachmann, Ich weiß keine bessere Welt, ed. Isolde Moser, Heinz
Bachmann, and Christian Moser (Munich: Piper, 2000), hereafter cited as kbW.
2
Max Frisch, Mein Name sei Gantenbein (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp,
1975).
3
Hans Höller, “Ingeborg Bachmann,” Die Zeit 46, 9 Nov. 2000, 70.
4
Ingeborg Bachmann, “Todesarten”-Projekt: Kritische Ausgabe, ed. Monika
Albrecht and Dirk Göttsche, 4 vols. (Munich: Piper, 1995), 2:77, hereafter cited
as TP. Unless otherwise stated, translations are by the author.
5
See Ellen Summerfield, Ingeborg Bachmann: Die Auflösung der Figur in ihrem
Roman “Malina” (Bonn: Bouvier, 1976), 40; Joachim Eberhardt, “Es gibt für
mich keine Zitate”: Intertextualität im dichterischen Werk Ingeborg Bachmanns
(Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2002), 346; Barbara Agnese, “‘Qual nova salamandra al
mondo”: Zu einigen Motiven aus der italienischen Literatur in Ingeborg
Bachmanns Werk,” in Cultura tedesca 25 (2004): 29–46; here 35–36.
6
Rainer Maria Rilke, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Ernst Zinn, 7 vols. (Frankfurt am Main:
Insel, 1966), 1:686–87. English translation in Rilke, Duino Elegies, trans. Stephen
Cohn (Manchester: Carcanet, 1989), 23.
7
Fiora A. Bassanese, Gaspara Stampa (Boston: Twayne, 1982), 26.
8
Patricia Berrahou Phillippy, Love’s Remedies: Recantation and Renaissance Lyric
Poetry (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell UP, 1995), 93.
9
Ingeborg Bachmann, Werke, ed. Christine Koschel, Inge von Weidenbaum, and
Clemens Münster, 4 vols. (Munich: Piper, 1978), 1:110.
10
Ingeborg Bachmann, Wir müssen wahre Sätze finden: Gespräche und Interviews,
ed. Christine Koschel and Inge von Weidenbaum (Munich: Piper, 1983), 109–10
[Interview with Ilse Heim, 5 May 1971].
172 ÁINE MCMURTRY
11
Barbara Agnese, Der Engel der Literatur: Zum philosophischen Vermächtnis
Ingeborg Bachmanns (Vienna: Passagen, 1996), 121.
12
Rilke, Sämtliche Werke 6: 833.
13
Ingeborg Bachmann, Kritische Schriften, ed. Monika Albrecht and Dirk
Göttsche (Munich: Piper, 2005), 246.
14
Eberhardt, “Es gibt für mich keine Zitate,” 333.
15
“Keine Delikatessen” — Bachmann’s famous farewell to lyric poetry — appeared
along with three other poems, “Enigma,” “Prag Jänner 64,” and “Böhmen liegt
am Meer,” in the fifteenth issue of the Kursbuch journal in November 1968. The
poem expresses despair at linguistic forms that fail to engage with human need and
suffering and begins by using culinary images to highlight the discrepancy between
ornamental lyric features and a basic state of human need. Ingeborg Bachmann,
“Vier Gedichte,” Kursbuch 15 (1968): 91–95.
16
The three additional lines found at the bottom of the same manuscript are to be
understood as a separate fragment. The lines are set apart from the main body of
the text and their description of feelings of intense hatred proves incongruous in
the context of the otherwise dominant tone of lyric despair. The material relating
to Puccini’s Tosca found in the twelve closing lines of the Ich weiß keine bessere Welt
version is similarly to be identified as a lyric draft in its own right.
17
See Georgina Paul, Perspectives on Gender in Post-1945 German Literature
(Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2009) chap.3.
18
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1998),
169.
19
See, for example, Sara Lennox, Cemetery of the Murdered Daughters:
Feminism, History, and Ingeborg Bachmann (Amherst: U of Massachussetts P,
2006), 91.
20
Catríona Leahy, “Bachmann’s Burning Question: Or: reading ‘rauchende
Worte,’” in Re-acting to Ingeborg Bachmann: New Essays and Performances, ed.
Bernadette Cronin and Catríona Leahy (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann,
2007), 112.
21
Bachmann, Kritische Schriften, 606.
22
Sigrid Weigel, Ingeborg Bachmann (Vienna: Zsolnay, 1999), 149, 222, 548.
23
Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard
(London: Vintage, 2002), 3, 15.
24
See Sigrid Weigel, “Zur Genese, Topographie und Komposition von Malina,”
in Werke von Ingeborg Bachmann, ed. Mathias Mayer (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2002),
220–46; here 221.
25
Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina, trans. Philip Boehm (New York and London:
Holmes & Meier, 1990), 139–40.
26
Monika Albrecht, “Die andere Seite”: Untersuchungen zur Bedeutung von Werk
und Person Max Frischs in Ingeborg Bachmanns “Todesarten” (Würzburg:
Königshausen & Neumann, 1989), 352.
27
See Maria Gazzetti, Gabriele d’Annunzio (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1989), 63–64.
28
See Albrecht, “Die andere Seite,” 129–58.
THE APPEAL TO GASPARA STAMPA IN BACHMANN’S TODESARTEN 173
29
Edith Bauer, Drei Mordgeschichten: Intertextuelle Referenzen in Ingeborg
Bachmanns “Malina” (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1998), 176–77.
30
Bauer, Drei Mordgeschichten, 85.
31
Bauer, Drei Mordgeschichten, 76.
32
Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, 224.
10: TV Nation: The Representation of
Death in Warfare in Works by Peter
Handke and Elfriede Jelinek
Elisabeth Krimmer
I N HER STUDY This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil
War, Drew Gilpin Faust investigates social and political changes in the
reality and representation of death during the Civil War era. Although
Faust does not dispute the universal nature of death, she is acutely aware
that, in spite of its universality, “death has its discontinuities.”1 Technological
innovations and changing social formations have a profound impact on
our experience and perception of death. While Faust discusses the cultural
repercussions of the staggering death toll of the Civil War, this essay
focuses on the socio-political conditions that determine the perception of
death in the postmodern era. For the majority of the population in the
Western world, the experience of death in warfare is profoundly shaped by
our dominant media: television and the Internet. In our global visual cul-
ture, the immediacy and perpetual accessibility of images on television and
on the Internet radically transform our perception of violence and death as
death is normalized, de-realized, and commercialized. On television, death
is both perpetually present and always absent, and it is this oxymoronic
structure that produces what Ann Kaplan has referred to as “empty
empathy.”2
In the following, I will analyze the intersection of death, gender, and
the media in Peter Handke’s essays on the war in the former Yugoslavia,
published between 1991 and 2000, and Elfriede Jelinek’s Bambiland and
Babel (2004), her texts on the war in Iraq.3 I chose Handke and Jelinek
because the juxtaposition of these male and female authors shows clearly
what we gain by reading women writers. As we shall see, an acute aware-
ness of gender bias informs every stratum of Jelinek’s texts. She addresses
gender directly and explicitly. Handke also redefines traditional notions of
gender, but this redefinition is a side effect, an unintentional byproduct of
his analysis of how the media change our perception of war. Handke’s texts
do not seek to draw our attention to gender, and his subtle revision of
gender concepts may well go unnoticed. Jelinek’s texts, in contrast, make
it impossible for readers to ignore gender issues. As I will show, both
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 175
authors are acutely aware of the marketability of death, and both portray
the media not as observers but as immediate participants in warfare.4 In
other words, both authors conceive of television as a procurer of “weap-
onized images”5 and of the consumers of these images as complicit in
warfare. As my reading of Jelinek’s and Handke’s texts shows, the medi-
ated nature of televised warfare not only transforms our experience of
death but also forces us to rethink notions of victimization and agency, as
well as our concepts of gender.
In the wars in Yugoslavia and Iraq gender played an important role in
convincing the Western public of the necessity of an armed response and
in the actual conduct of war. In the Yugoslavian context, the rape of
Bosnian women provided a moral justification for Western intervention. In
Iraq the shortage of military personnel led to an increased participation of
female soldiers in combat. The rescue of Private First Class Jessica Lynch
from Iraqi captivity, a relatively easy operation aided by Iraqi medical per-
sonnel, was turned into a sensational television story of national deliver-
ance. The infamous participation of Privates First Class Lynndie England
and Sabrina Harman in the torture of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib actu-
alized stereotypes of female depravity and lethal sexuality. Clearly, the
combination of gender and war makes for an explosive mix open to exploi-
tation in different discursive arenas. Philosopher Kelly Oliver, for example,
points out that media emphasis on the dichotomy of female victim and
she-monster has made it possible to “simultaneously blame feminism for
the abusive women at Abu Ghraib and use it to justify invading Afghanistan
to liberate women.”6
The texts that I will discuss in this essay allow new insights into these
gender stereotypes. Handke, albeit not primarily concerned with gender
discourses, seeks to create a counter-discourse designed to replace the
media’s distortion of reality and in so doing also redefines common
notions of gender. Because Handke conceives of the media as immediate
participants in warfare, women, who are active producers and consumers
of the media, are no longer perceived to be at a distance from war.
Moreover, Handke’s attempt to redefine our notions of what constitutes
history and of the dichotomy of the sublime and the quotidian also has
far-reaching implications for our understanding of gender.
While Handke’s critical intervention does not focus on gender but
nonetheless impacts our perception of the relation between gender, war,
and history, Jelinek attacks traditional gender roles head-on. By joyfully
embracing and recycling gender stereotypes, her texts explode them from
within. By inhabiting established discourses of femininity, by quoting and
mimicking, Jelinek’s works stage a calculated interruption of traditional
concepts of gender, a process that Jelinek has described as “zur Kenntlichkeit
entstellen” (to distort into recognition).7 Like Handke, Jelinek questions
the traditional association of femininity and victimization and portrays
176 ELISABETH KRIMMER
Handke
Starting in 1991, Peter Handke published a number of texts dealing with
the state of affairs in the former Yugoslavia. Some of these texts, including
Die Fahrt im Einbaum, oder, Das Stück zum Film vom Krieg (The Canoe
Ride or the Play about the Film about the War, 1999), Rund um das Große
Tribunal (Around the Grand Tribunal, 2003), and Noch einmal für
Jugoslawien (Once Again for Yugoslavia, 2005), received little critical
attention.8 Handke’s first four essays, however, instigated a highly contro-
versial public debate in which the author was accused of producing “Blut
und Boden” (blood and soil) literature and of denying genocide.9
Unlike the following three, Handke’s first essay, Abschied des Träumers
vom Neunten Land (The Dreamer’s Farewell to the Ninth Country),10 first
published in the Süddeutsche Zeitung on 28–29 July 1991 (feuilleton sec-
tion, 1), is not primarily based on experiences formed during a trip but
presents a political and philosophical argument against Slovenian inde-
pendence in favor of the Yugoslav union. His second essay Eine winterliche
Reise zu den Flüssen Donau, Save, Morawa und Drina oder Gerechtigkeit
für Serbien (A Journey to the Rivers: Justice for Serbia),11 first published
in the Süddeutsche Zeitung on 5–6 and 13–14 January 1996 (feuilleton
section, 1–3 and 1–4 respectively), records impressions from Handke’s
journey to Serbia in November 1995. This first visit to war-torn Yugoslavia
was followed by many others, at least three per year, during which he was
at times alone and at times with companions, some of whom were illustri-
ous, such as Katja Flint and Claus Peymann, and some who were personal
friends of the author.12 Handke’s translator, Zarko Radakovic, and his
friend Zlatko Bocokic, who, along with his second wife Sophie Semin, had
accompanied Handke on his first trip, also came along for the second one.
The experiences of this second journey in June and July of 1996 are
recorded in Sommerlicher Nachtrag zu einer winterlichen Reise (A
Summery Addendum to a Winter’s Journey, 1996).13 Finally, the fourth
essay, Unter Tränen fragend: Nachträgliche Aufzeichnungen von zwei
Jugoslawien-Durchquerungen im Krieg, März und April 1999 (Asking
through the Tears: Belated Chronicle from Two Crossings through
Yugoslavia during the War, March and April 1999, 2000) draws on two
trips to the sites of Nato bombings in 1999, the year in which Handke
returned the prestigious Büchner prize and left the Catholic Church in
protest against NATO bombings.14
Handke’s essays unleashed a firestorm of criticism. Most of his detrac-
tors focused on the political content of his texts but failed to deal with
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 177
The desire to go behind the mirror, to see for oneself and thus be in a
position to reject the information handed out in newspapers and maga-
zines and on television shows — “der geile, marktbestimmte Fakten- und
Scheinfakten-Verkauf” (the randy market-determined sale of facts and
pseudo-facts, wR, 121) — informs Handke’s writing:
Es drängte mich hinter den Spiegel; es drängte mich zur Reise in das mit
jedem Artikel, jedem Kommentar, jeder Analyse unbekanntere und erfor-
schungs- oder auch bloss anblickswürdigere Land Serbien. (wR, 12)
Handke has frequently been attacked for his bias toward the Serbs, because
he never traveled to the hotspots of war and violence in Bosnia and Croatia
and because his essays do not include discussions of the violence perpe-
trated by the Serbs. Even critics who are sympathetic to Handke’s aesthetic
enterprise object to the fact that he failed to condemn both “Serbian
nationalism and European political hypocrisy.”17 To Handke himself, how-
ever, his Serbophilia is but an attempt to correct an anti-Serb bias in the
media.18 Handke, an avid consumer of newspapers and television, is con-
178 ELISABETH KRIMMER
vinced that the Western media are guilty of biased reporting and wrongful
intervention, and wonders: “Welche Kriegsseite war, was die Getöteten
und die Gemarterten betraf, fürs Berichten und Photographieren die
Butterseite” (wR, 40; Which of the warring parties was, in terms of those
killed and martyred, the sunny side for reports and photographs)? He
claims that, while some victims are accorded prominence, others are
reduced to the status of “Neben-Tote” (collateral dead) or “Seiten-Opfer”
(Tr, 47; sidelined victims).
In order to uncover bias, Handke analyzes the style and language of
major European newspapers and, to a lesser extent, refers to and corrects
factual errors. In Tränen, for example, he points out that all major news-
papers featured the murder of two Kosovo Albanians by Serbs above the
centerfold, whereas the retraction of the story — it was found that both
supposed victims were still alive — was offered in a marginal position sev-
eral days later. In Handke’s view, the bias in reporting results from the
media’s inability to situate current events in their historical context, and
from their enslavement to the “gedächtnislosen Moloch Aktualität” (SN,
84; amnesic behemoth timeliness). In contrast, Handke makes a case for
reading the war with respect to its “Vorgeschichte” (SN, 83; prehistory)
and attempts to represent the perspectives of average Serbian people.
Throughout, Handke relates his conversations with locals. He gives equal
weight to male and female voices, old and young, and includes a variety of
professional people, ranging from a librarian to a physician, from a waitress
to a bishop. Moreover, in his third and fourth essays Handke engages in a
dialogue with the male and female readers of his previous essays. His
Sommerlicher Nachtrag, in particular, contains several passages in which he
replicates the responses of Serbian readers to his Reise.
In his effort to set the record straight, Handke is particularly attuned
to problems relating to the representation of death. In spite of his hyper-
critical attitude toward the media, Handke concedes that at times the
inherent nature of language, that is, the unbridgeable gap between word
and world, between sign and signified, accounts for the failure to convey
the grave reality of death. When Handke visits a destroyed car factory, for
example, he points out that neither photographs nor films of the site could
possibly do justice to the immensity of the damage because the nature of
such destruction does not lend itself to photographic appropriation (Tr,
117). But he is also acutely aware of the manifold opportunities for the
manipulation and misrepresentation of death in warfare and realizes that
the conditions of contemporary publishing and telecommunication are
conducive to lies and distortions. According to Handke, where death is
presented as a news item, it is necessarily attended by a failure to mourn:
[You media de-realize or, rather, deform and spoil every form of compas-
sion by first participating in the bombing and then bartering away the
stories of your (“your” in every sense of the word) bombing victims, in a
manner similar to your states whose perfectly functioning accomplices
you are.]
and peace, demands the exclusion of the local victims of physical violence.
As Peter Strasser points out, Handke’s works cannot provide information
about certain aspects of the world, because they cannot be assimilated to
the idealism of his texts.23 Handke’s muted recording of the horror of war
seeks to portray suffering without doing harm to the victim’s dignity, but
it also silences the victims of war and removes them from direct view.
In spite of their condescending components and at times vitriolic
attacks on the Western media, Handke’s essays constitute deliberate
attempts to break out of the dominant history of war. Handke seeks to
direct our gaze away from the big men and big battles of history toward
what he repeatedly refers to as “dritte Dinge” (wR, 51; third things) or
“Nebendraußen” (besides outside), an expression that Handke borrows
from Hermann Lenz’s eponymous poem.24 Both terms refer to the fabric
of everyday life on which a peaceful community could be built. In
Handke’s writing, the realm of the everyday is not only the last arena of
authenticity, but it is also in great proximity to the sublime and even the
sacred.25 Unsurprisingly, this shift away from war and big history toward
the essential minutiae and trivia that make up our lives, that is, toward the
realm that has traditionally been identified as female, also has implications
for the representation of gender. Because Handke consciously blurs the
borders between the sublime and the quotidian, between the sacred and
the everyday, his focus on “common life” does not simply reverse but
rather destabilizes the dichotomies of private and political and of male and
female.
In his effort to convey his conversations with locals, to render a picture
of everyday life in Serbia, Handke reproduces the stories of many women.
Throughout Reise and Nachtrag, women appear as important witnesses, as
keepers of memory, as mourners, survivors, citizens, and even as fighters.
Engaged as eyewitnesses, women offer their version of the ethnic strug-
gles. Handke portrays the Serbian women he encounters as powerful
agents and frequently refers to their warrior days as partisans in the Second
World War. Thus, an older woman, mother-in-law to one of his two com-
panions, is described as female chief (“Häuptlingin”) and partisan fighter
(SN, 22; “Partisanin”), and an old woman in Banja Luka is also introduced
as a guerilla fighter. Handke not only relates her story but also provides a
detailed description of the scars that bear witness to her participation in the
Second World War (Tr, 99).
Unlike Jelinek, whose ventriloquism, as we shall see, is highly stylized
and never presumes to represent the voice of an Other, Handke’s attempt
to render the Serbian perspective at times turns into a colonization of the
voice of the Other. Throughout his essays he makes frequent and highly
problematic judgments about the authenticity of the voices of those con-
structed as subalterns.26 He wonders, for example, whether “das slowe-
nische Volk sich das Staat-Spielen nicht bloss einreden lassen [hat] — welch
182 ELISABETH KRIMMER
Jelinek
While Jelinek’s early dramas feature conventional dialogue and traditional
plots, her later texts abandon psychological and narrative consistency in
favor of free-flowing narrative voices or, as Corina Caduff puts it, charac-
ters who are mere vehicles of language.29 Like Das Werk and In den
Alpen,30 Jelinek’s texts on the Iraq war, the play Bambiland and the three
monologues Babel, which were added for the première in Zurich, make no
attempt to represent psychologically consistent characters. Instead they
offer a melée of narrative voices intermingling citations from the most
prized proponents of Western literature and philosophy with motifs and
jingles from popular television shows, advertisements, and, most recently,
websites. Instead of insisting on originality, Bambiland highlights and
satirizes its citationality. Jelinek prefaces her text with an ironic acknowl-
edgement section, in which she thanks her sources:
Meinen Dank an Aischylos und die Perser, übersetzt von Oskar Werner.
Von mir aus können Sie auch noch eine Prise Nietzsche nehmen. Der
Rest ist aber auch nicht von mir. Er ist von schlechten Eltern. Er ist von
den Medien.
The prominent place accorded to the media in this introductory note, along
with the title — the Bambi is Germany’s most coveted media award — testi-
fies to the importance of media critique in Jelinek’s writing, a critique that
is not directed at specific contents but rather analyzes the ways in which the
televised mediation of reality transforms our experience of the world.
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 183
Although it is a text about war, Bambiland does not follow the con-
ventional form of war reportage but is conceived as a media diary or blog,
a running commentary on the day’s news. The text acquires its critical
dimension not through explicit judgments and incisive comments but
rather by imitating the modus operandi of the media it seeks to critique.
The incessant banal banter of Jelinek’s narrative voices, the relentless jux-
taposition of the trivial and the sublime, the commercial and the sacred,
represent an ironic attack on the genre of infotainment that characterizes
the televised portrayal of war.
Jelinek presents television not as a means of conveying information
but as an instrument of manipulation. Interestingly, this distortion is not
to be imagined as a falsification of authentic data after the fact but consists
rather in the transformational effect of television on any reality it seeks to
represent:
Man will immer wohlwollend verstanden werden, sonst würde man ja gar
nichts sagen in die vielen Kameras und Mikros . . . Man selbst sagt immer
nur, was man über sich gedacht haben will, nicht was man denkt.
(B, 16–17)
unbestechliche, sieht sie” (B, 47; Only the eye of the camera, the incor-
ruptible one, sees the streets of foreigners). The text illustrates the prob-
lematic méconnaissance of the Other that results from such faux familiarity
by presenting a barrage of mutually contradictory stereotypes, in which
Arabs are presented as simultaneously devoid of feelings and as incapable
of controlling their excessive feelings, simultaneously weak-minded and
dangerously cunning. But again, what Jelinek is interested in is not prima-
rily the distortion of facts through careless or mendacious reporting but
the fundamental transformation of the quality of experience through
television:
Hier, das Bild, es erscheint und leuchtet hell . . . Sein und Schein.
Schauen Sie! Das alles ergibt kein Sein an sich, das ergibt überhaupt kein
Sein mehr, was aber gleich ist dem Sein . . . Sein und Schein, die beide
eins sind, auch das habe ich bewirkt, indem ich das Fernsehen erfunden
habe. (B, 82)
[Here, the image, it appears and shines brightly . . . Being and appear-
ance. Look! All that does not equal being per se, it equals no being at all
anymore, which, however, is equal to being . . . Being and appearance,
which are both one, I did that as well by inventing television.]
Television has displaced reality as we used to know it and has usurped life
to the point where television now is the essence of life.
Like Handke, Jelinek conceives of television as a weapon of perception
and, as such, it is an instrument of war. Bambiland designates television as
an appendix and accomplice of war, “ein praktisches Zusatzgerät zu all
diesen Bomben” (B, 82; a practical auxiliary apparatus for all these bombs)
and likens it to the tracer bullet whose trail of light allows us to follow the
path of war:
Unseren Fernseher, den behalten wir, unsren Altar, der darf nicht spurlos
fort, der ist doch die Spur! Der ist unsre Leuchtspurmunition, damit wir
im Dunkeln sehen, wie er einschlägt der Blitz im Strom des feindlichen
Heers. (B, 17)
[Our television, that we’ll keep, our altar, that cannot be gone without a
trace, it is the trace! It is our tracer bullet so that we see in the dark how
it hits, lightning, in the stream of the foreign army.]
As the use of the term “altar” indicates, Jelinek also suggests that Western
culture has endowed television with a quasi-sacral significance. Television
is a substitute religion, the altar at which we worship, and it is the inter-
mediary that interposes itself in every human interaction: “wir Verführer
von niemand, wir Verführer des Bildes allein” (B, 19; we seducers of
nobody, we seducers of the image alone). Because television performs
functions previously attributed only to religion, the dominance of televi-
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 185
sion also has drastic implications for our perception of and relation to
death.
In order to show how television distorts our perception of pain and
death, turning them into “death lite,” Jelinek relies largely on parody and
pastiche. In Bambiland’s characteristic montage of the sacred and the
trivial, of the sublime and the colloquial registers, death loses its dignity
and gravity. The text intermingles reports of uranium bombs with refer-
ences to Snickers bars and proclaims that the Western army delivers death
just as the Easter bunny brings eggs. “Wegwerfsoldaten” (disposable sol-
diers) become the logical equivalent of “Wegwerfbilder” (B, 154; dispos-
able images). In Jelinek’s TV nation, death cannot be rendered as a
sorrowful personal event of deep significance but becomes a matter of
casual regret. Again and again Jelinek invokes the dirge of Greek tragedy
only to disrupt it with an abrupt switch to the jargon of television advertis-
ing: “der Männer Blüte fallend fortgerafft. So viele Männer einfach
verschwendet! Ich hätte den einen oder andren sicher noch brauchen
können” (B, 42; the flower of manhood swept away dying. So many men
simply wasted! I could surely have used one or the other). Petty complaints,
incomprehension, and apathy have taken the place of concern, sorrow, and
mourning:
Wäre es Ihnen bitte möglich, mir dieses Bild jetzt genauer zu erklären?
[. . .] Ich sehe, dass diese sieben Frauen samt Kindern, ich weiß nicht wie
viele von welcher Sorte, jetzt in dem Kleinbus erschossen worden sind.
Manche sprechen von zehn. Aber ich kann mir keinen Reim darauf
machen. (B, 68)
Pain and death are by their very nature incommunicable, but the distance
to the pain of the Other is drastically increased if it is conveyed through
television and the Internet: “Ich fühle direkt, ich fühle alle Arten von
Grausamkeit direkt am eigenen Leib, ohne sie je spüren zu müssen. Ja, das
geht wirklich bis ins körperliche hinein, echt, aber zum Glück doch nicht
echt” (B, 142; I feel directly, I feel all kinds of cruelty directly on my own
body without having to ever experience them. Yes, this really extends to
the corporeal, really, but fortunately not actually).33 In Jelinek’s text, tele-
vision and the Internet are not media that encourage empathy but rather
serve to obfuscate our inability to perceive the pain of the Other. Because
death and pain are mediated through commercialized images, our existen-
tial distance from the pain of the Other loses its innocence. Witnessing is
no longer a potentially productive act but a form of complicity. Typically,
186 ELISABETH KRIMMER
Jelinek does not describe this dynamic but seeks to hammer it in through
puns and metaphors and by directly addressing the reader.34 Thus in
Peter’s monologue in Babel, Jelinek employs Gulf War terminology to
describe the excessive interest in the Internet video of a beheading, which
leads to the crash of the server: “wie dieser liebe Server jetzt unter Ihrem
Wüstensturm zusammengekracht ist” (B, 142; just like this dear server has
now crashed under your desert storm). Without recourse to explication,
Bambiland’s style and tropes leave no doubt that, in a TV nation, every-
body is implicated in the dynamic of war.35 Irrespective of their distance
from the battlefield, television viewers are complicit in the warfare they
watch on screen.
Jelinek’s focus on images locates the logic of our culture in a televi-
sion imperative: televideo, ergo sum. Television endows its subjects with
a heightened form of reality so that “alles alles vom Fernsehen beseelt
wurde” (B, 91; everything everything was animated by television). In our
global visual culture, images on television or on the Internet not only
define who we are, but they also eclipse and displace the people or sub-
jects they purport to portray: “Es wird im Fernsehen zu einer
Persönlichkeit ausgerufen, das bloße Foto, aber die dazugehörige völlig
bloße Person ist weg” (B, 159; On television a personality is declared, the
mere photo, but the corresponding completely bare person is gone). The
fact that images are now the carriers of essence has drastic repercussions
for our perception of life and death itself. Because of their perpetual pres-
ence in visual culture, the dead can never disappear completely. Tellingly,
Babel’s narrative voices all speak to us from beyond the grave. Because
their images circulate freely, their deaths have become unreal. Conversely,
the power over life and death is no longer a primary form of power but
has become a means to an end. In Bambiland, the meaning of the photos
of tortured prisoners in Abu Ghraib is located not only in a master-slave
dynamic but also in a perverted desire to participate in our contemporary
image culture.
Jelinek’s narrative voices from beyond the grave deconstruct the life-
death dichotomy and the categories of victim and perpetrator. In
Bambiland and Babel, victim and perpetrator are not mutually exclusive
categories, and victimization is by no means synonymous with innocence.
The narrative voice of the third monologue in Babel, for example, is that
of one of the US contractors whose flayed and mutilated body was exhib-
ited on a bridge in Fallujah. Clearly, the violence inflicted on his body
could not be more gruesome. And yet his suffering does not erase the
unlawfulness of his own actions in the war. Tellingly, the contractor is lik-
ened to the mythic figure of Marsyas, who challenged the God Apollo in
a contest of music and was flayed alive for his daring. Marsyas’s story is
often cited as an instance of hubris and just punishment, but it is also a
story in which crimes and martyrdom are made to coexist.
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 187
Conclusion
Handke’s and Jelinek’s texts are strikingly similar in their analyses of the
role of our dominant media in shaping and transforming our experience of
death and warfare. But they differ in other important ways. Jelinek’s text
is a highly self-conscious intervention in gender discourses, while Handke’s
reconceptualization of gender is the by-product of his analysis of the rela-
tion between war and the media and of his focus on the “Nebendraußen,”
the fabric of our everyday lives. Furthermore, Jelinek’s “anarchic destruc-
tiveness takes place without any attempt at an imaginary reconstitution of
society,” as Elizabeth Wright points out,39 while Handke seeks to show the
way out of a history of violence and war. However, even though Handke’s
writing is inspired by a utopian project, his texts remain self-consciously
aware of the precarious, even futile, nature of such an endeavor. Jelinek’s
texts, on the other hand, evince intellectual pessimism, but their aesthetics
is designed to effect the kind of changes that the texts declare to be impos-
sible. Combining perceptive critique with subtle metaphorical links, asso-
ciative chains, and mantra-like incantations, Jelinek’s texts address our
conscious and unconscious mind alike. Both Handke and Jelinek conceive
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 189
of language as a key to our mind and world and both produce texts that
are vitriolic in their critique of the media and passionate in their desire to
effect political change.
Notes
1
Drew Gilpin Faust, This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil
War (New York: Knopf, 2008), xi.
2
Ann Kaplan, Trauma Culture: The Politics of Terror and Loss in Media and
Literature (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 2005), 94.
3
Elfriede Jelinek, Bambiland, Babel: Zwei Theatertexte. (Reinbek bei Hamburg:
Rowohlt, 2004). Subsequent references to these works are cited in the text using
the abbreviation B and the page number.
4
Although this trend has reached new extremes, it is by no means a recent phe-
nomenon. See, for example, the apocryphal missive by publisher Randolph Hearst
to the artist Frederic Remington: “You furnish the picture and I will furnish the
war,” cited in Neal Gabler, Life: The Movie; How Entertainment Conquered Reality
(New York: Random House, 1998), 68. For an analysis of the interaction of media
and the military see Walter Jertz and Carsten Bockstette, “Militärpolitische
Perzeptionen und die Zukunftsperspektiven des strategischen Informations-
managements: Die Entwicklung der Krisenkommunikation von der Kosovo
Operation Allied Force 1999 zur Operation Iraqi Freedom,” in Der Krieg in den
Medien, ed. Christian Büttner, Joachim von Gottberg, and Verena Metze-Mangold
(Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2004), 51–72. See also Heinz-Peter Preusser, ed.,
Krieg in den Medien (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005).
5
Nicholas Mirzoeff, Watching Babylon: The War in Iraq and Global Visual Culture
(New York: Routledge, 2005), 80.
6
Kelly Oliver, Women as Weapons of War: Iraq, Sex and the Media (New York:
Columbia UP, 2007), 39.
7
Elfriede Jelinek, Jutta Heinrich, and Adolf-Ernst Meyer, Sturm und Drang:
Schreiben als Geschlechterkampf (Hamburg: Klein, 1995), 49. Unless otherwise
stated, all translations are by the author.
8
Peter Handke, Rund um das Große Tribunal (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp,
2003); “Noch einmal für Jugoslawien.” Literaturen: Das Journal für Bücher und
Themen July and August (2005): 82–103; and Die Fahrt im Einbaum, oder, Das
Stück zum Film vom Krieg (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1999).
9
Some contributions to this debate are published in Tilman Zülch, ed., Die Angst
des Dichters vor der Wirklichkeit: 16 Antworten auf Peter Handkes Winterreise nach
Serbien (Göttingen: Steidl, 1996).
10
Peter Handke, Abschied des Träumers vom Neunten Land: Eine Wirklichkeit, die
vergangen ist; Erinnerung an Slowenien (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1991).
11
Peter Handke, Eine winterliche Reise zu den Flüssen Donau, Save, Morawa und
Drina oder Gerechtigkeit für Serbien (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1996), 50.
190 ELISABETH KRIMMER
Subsequent references to this work are cited in the text using the abbreviation wR
and the page number.
12
Georg Pichler, Die Beschreibung des Glücks: Peter Handke, eine Biographie
(Vienna: Ueberreuter, 2002), 176.
13
Peter Handke, Sommerlicher Nachtrag zu einer winterlichen Reise (Frankfurt am
Main: Suhrkamp, 1996). Subsequent references to this work are cited in the text
using the abbreviation SN and the page number.
14
Peter Handke, Unter Tränen fragend: Nachträgliche Aufzeichnungen von zwei
Jugoslawien-Durchquerungen im Krieg, März und April 1999 (Frankfurt am Main:
Suhrkamp, 2000). Subsequent references to this work are cited in the text using
the abbreviation Tr and the page number.
15
For an analysis of Handke’s media criticism see Hubert Lengauer, “Pitting
Narration against Image: Peter Handke’s Literary Protest against the Staging of
Reality by the Media,” in Whose Story? — Continuities in Contemporary German-
language Literature, ed. Arthur Williams, Stuart Parkes, and Julian Preece (Berne:
Peter Lang, 1998), 353–70.
16
Handke’s criticism of the media and his aversion to mediated reality are com-
plemented by a deep concern with the search for “Wirklichkeit” (reality), which he
defines as unmediated experience of the world and immediate sensual presence
through walking, tasting, observing, listening. In Handke’s works the representa-
tion of such “Wirklichkeit” is endowed with a quasi-religious significance. The
writer turns into a poet-priest, who seeks redemption through art. This redemp-
tion, however, is either always already elusive or remains perpetually deferred.
17
Matthias Konzett, The Rhetoric of National Dissent in Thomas Bernhard, Peter
Handke, and Elfriede Jelinek (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2000), 94.
18
See Scott Abbott, “Modeling a Dialectic: Peter Handke’s A Journey to the Rivers
or Justice for Serbia,” in After Postmodernism: Austrian Literature and Film in
Transition, ed. Willy Riemer (Riverside, CA: Ariadne, 2000), 340–52; here 342.
19
See Linda Williams, Screening Sex (Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2008), 155–80. See
also Günther Höfler, “Medien/Krieg in deutschsprachigen Stücken des 21.
Jahrhunderts am Beispiel von Elfriede Jelineks Bambiland/Babel und Werner
Fritschs Hydra Krieg,” in Information Warfare: Die Rolle der Medien (Literatur,
Kunst, Photographie, Film, Fernsehen, Theater, Presse, Korrespondenz) bei der
Kriegsdarstellung und -deutung, ed. Claudia Glunz, Artur Pelka, and Thomas F.
Schneider (Göttingen: V&R unipress, 2006), 501–12; here 505.
20
Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux,
2004), 66.
21
In Reise, Handke laments that journalists conceive of themselves as judges and
calls them “Kriegshunde” (123).
22
See Scott Abbott, “Handke’s Yugoslavia Work,” in The Works of Peter Handke:
International Perspectives, ed. David N. Coury and Frank Pilipp (Riverside, CA:
Ariadne P, 2005), 359–86; here 368–70.
23
See Peter Strasser, “Sich mit dem Salbei freuen: Das Subjekt der Dichtung bei
Peter Handke,” in Die Dichter und das Denken: Wechselspiele zwischen Literatur
DEATH IN WARFARE IN WORKS BY HANDKE AND JELINEK 191
und Philosophie, ed. Klaus Kastberger and Konrad Paul Liessmann (Vienna:
Zsolnay, 2004), 117–38; here 126.
24
For the full text of the poem see http://www.hermann-lenz-preis.de/index_01.
html (accessed 8 Aug. 2009).
25
On the everyday and the sublime in Handke see Carsten Zelle, “Parteinahme
für die Dinge: Peter Handkes Poetik einer literarischen Phänomenologie (am
Beispiel seiner Journale, 1975–1982),” Euphorion 91.1 (2003): 99–117; here 99.
26
He comments, for example, that the breaking apart of the Yugoslav union was
not a personal experience for individual Slovenians (Handke, Abschied des
Träumers, 34).
27
Handke, Abschied des Träumers, 43.
28
Mireille Tabah, “Genderdifferenz als kulturelle Performanz bei P. Handke,” in
Jahrbuch für Internationale Germanistik: Geschlechterdifferenzen als Kulturkonflikte,
vol. 10, ed. Jean-Marie Valentin (Berne: Peter Lang, 2005), 71–76; here 74.
29
Corina Caduff, “Elfriede Jelinek,” in Deutsche Dramatiker des 20. Jahrhunderts,
ed. Alo Allkemper and Norbert Otto Eke (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 2000), 764–78;
here 766.
30
Elfriede Jelinek, In den Alpen: Drei Dramen (Berlin: Berlin Verlag, 2002).
31
Gabler, Life: The Movie, 10.
32
Jean Baudrillard, Selected Writings, ed. and trans. Mark Poster (Stanford, CA:
Stanford UP, 2001), 170.
33
The alienation from death because of the distortion created by the media finds
its real-life equivalent on the battlefield, where Western technology holds the death
of the Other at a distance. Jelinek illustrates the transfer of agency from humans to
intelligent weapon systems through mock admiration of technological prowess and
through anthropomorphization, claiming, for example, that the tomahawk knows
what it is doing (see B, 28).
34
See Brechtje Beuker, who points out that Jelinek constructs an “embedded
reader,” who is drawn into the war: Brechtje Beuker, “Theaterschlachten: Jelineks
dramaturgisches Konzept und die Thematik der Gewalt am Beispiel von
Bambiland,” Modern Austrian Literature 39 (2006): 57–71; here 63.
35
Blödorn makes a similar point when he speaks of the visual complicity of the
television audience. See Andreas Blödorn, “Medialisierung des Krieges: Mit Susan
Sontag in Elfriede Jelinek’s Bambiland,” in Gegenwartsliteratur, ed. Paul Michael
Lützeler and Stephan K. Schindler (Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 2006), 142–63; here
156.
36
Friederike Eigler, “Gewissenlose Erkenntnis: Frauen-Bilder und Kulturkritik bei
Elfriede Jelinek und Friedrich Nietzsche,” Seminar 30.1 (1994): 44–58; here 45.
37
See Marlies Janz, who claims that in citing and appropriating traditional gender
stereotypes Jelinek deprives them of meaning. See Marlies Janz “Falsche Spiegel:
Über die Umkehrung als Verfahren bei Elfriede Jelinek,” in Gegen den schönen
Schein: Texte zu Elfriede Jelinek, ed. Christa Gürtler (Frankfurt am Main: Neue
Kritik, 1990), 81–97; here 82. In Jelinek’s text gender is not a simple category but
complicated by class and race relations. Bambiland emphasizes differences between
192 ELISABETH KRIMMER
rich and poor, suggesting that it is the poor who pay the price of war: “Die Reichen
schicken ihre Kinder nicht hierher, das steht fest” (59–60; The rich don’t send
their children here, that much is certain).
38
For a detailed analysis of Margit’s monologue see Bärbel Lücke, “Der Krieg im
Irak als literarisches Ereignis: Vom Freudschen Vatermord über das Mutterrecht
zum islamistischen Märtyrer; Elfriede Jelineks Bambiland und zwei Monologe;
Eine dekonstruktivistisch-psychoanalytische Analyse,” Weimarer Beiträge 50
(2004): 362–81; here 374–78.
39
Elizabeth Wright, “An Aesthetics of Disgust: Elfriede Jelinek’s Die
Klavierspielerin,” Paragraph 14.2 (1991): 184–96; here 193.
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the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
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Günderrode, Karoline von, works by: Herder, Johann Gottfried, 52, 54, 64,
“Adonis Todtenfeyer,” 51–52, 64; 66
“Ariadne auf Naxos,” 54, 64–65; heroism, in women, 7, 101, 102, 107,
“Die Bande der Liebe,” 63; 108, 112, 113, 146. See also
“Buonaparte in Egypten,” 53; Heldenmädchen
“Edda,” 54; Gedichte und Heyden, Susanne von, 58
Phantasien, 54; “Geschichte der Hippel, Theodor Gottlieb von, works
schönen Göttin und edlen Nympfe by: Über die Ehe, 90–91
Kalypso,” 53; Hildgund, 54; historical drama, 3, 6, 57, 83. See also
Immortalia, 62–63; Der historical tragedy
Kanonenschlag oder das Gastmahl des historical tragedy, 6, 71–73, 82
Tantalus, 53; Magie und Schicksal, Hitchcock, Alfred, 117, 131 n. 12
58; “Die Malabarischen Witwen,” 5, Höller, Hans, 145, 152
65; Melete von Jon, 51–52, 68 n. 1, Holofernes (biblical figure), 7, 82,
56; Nikator, 54; “Orphisches Lied,” 101–13
54; “Scandinavische Weissagungen,” Homer, 53, 55, 67
54; Studienbuch, 54, 62, 64; Udohla, Hörnlein, Michael, works by: Der
54–55 Sich selbst überlebende König Jehißkia,
42
Hamm, Peter, 152
Handke, Peter, 9, 174–82, 184, 188– Ibsen, Henrik, works by: When We
89 Dead Awaken, 169
Handke, Peter, works by: Abschied des idealisation, 140
Träumers vom Neunten Land, 176, illness, 4, 5, 6, 10, 12, 13, 15, 17,
182, 191 n. 26; Eine winterliche 19–21, 24, 32, 33–34, 39, 41, 42,
Reise zu den Flüssen, 176, 177–78, 66
INDEX 221
immortality, 51, 62–63, 64–65. See also Kuntsch, Margaretha Susanna von,
afterlife 43–44, 49 n. 22
Iokaste (mythical figure), 187
incest, 94 Lacan, Jacques, 138–39; objet a, 139
Irigaray, Luce, 8, 137, 139, 141 Lambert, Lothar, works by: In
Isis and Osiris (mythical figures), 54 Haßliebe Lola, 124
Leahy, Catríona, 165
Jack the Ripper, 126 Leconte, Patrice, works by: Félix et
Jacobins, 6, 71, 76, 77, 79, 83. See also Lola, 124, 126–27, 128
Marat, Jean-Paul Leichenpredigt, 2, 3, 4, 12–30, 32, 39,
Jael (biblical figure), 24, 26 43
Janitschek, Maria, works by: “Königin Lenz, Hermann, 181
Judith,” 7, 106–8, 113 Leyser, Polycarp, 15
Jannings, Emil, 119 Levinas, Emmanuel, 134, 136–37,
Jelinek, Elfriede, 4, 182, 191 n. 37 142
Jelinek, Elfriede, works by: Babel, 9, Li, Hong, 125
174–76, 181, 182, 186, 187–189; Li, Hong, works by: Zu Zhou, 124,
Bambiland, 9, 174–76, 181, 182– 125–26, 128
85, 186, 187, 188–89; In den Alpen, Licher, Lucia Maria, 65
182; Das Werk, 182 Linton, Anna, 1, 2, 48 n. 12
Jesus Christ, 19, 20, 21, 34, 39–41, Llewellyn, Nigel, 14
98, 158, 163 Lola, 7–8, 10, 116–30; in Der blaue
Joan of Arc, 72, 73, 74, 82 Engel, 119–21; in Félix et Lola, 126–
John the Baptist, 20 27; in Lola rennt, 124–25; in Lolita,
Johns, Jasper, 140 121–23; in Monella, 128–30; as
jouissance, 8, 116, 119, 130, 139, transgendered, 7, 124; in Zu Zhou,
140–41 125–25
Judith, 1, 7, 101–13; as biblical figure, Lucius, Marie Salome, 14
24, 26, 82, 101–2; eroticization of, Ludaemilia Elisabeth von
7, 102, 103–6; in German literature, Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, 43, 47 n. 6
102–13; in works by women writers, Lustmord, 117
106–13 Luther, Martin, 39, 41, 54
Juno (mythical figure), 67 Lyne, Adrian, works by: Lolita, 121–
22, 123, 126
Kafka, Franz, 145 Lynch, Jessica, 175
Kaiser, Georg, works by: Die Jüdische Lux, Adam (historical figure), 76. See
Witwe, 106 also Westphalen, Christine, works by:
Kant, Immanuel, 140 Charlotte Corday
Kaplan, Ann, 174
killers, women, 1, 2, 6, 7, 10, 71–87, Machtemes, Ursula, 91
106, 107, 109, 111–13. See also madness in women, 6, 73–75, 82, 89,
warriors 96
King Hezekiah, 42 Magdalena Sibylla, Duchess of
Kleist, Heinrich von, works by: Württemberg, works by: Gott
Penthesilea, 1 geweytes Andachts-Opffer, 43,
Kord, Susanne, 71 48 n. 19
Kubrick, Stanley, 121, 122, 123 Manasse(s) (biblical figure), 104, 106,
Kulp, Johannes, 50 n. 25 108, 109, 110, 111
222 INDEX