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The Poetry and Letters
Kaleidoskope der Mehrdeutigkeit
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Georg Trakl: Other Works
(published by himself)
Translated by Jim Doss and Werner Schmitt.
leads to the German originals.

and the
German version of the Trakl-Site.  

The texts Trakl published beside his cycles "Poems" and "Sebastian in Dream" are divided in two parts:

Publications in the magazine Brenner 1914/5

Other Publications in Lifetime
(Poems - Prose - Reviews)

Publications in the Brenner 1914/5

In Hellbrunn

Again following the blue lament of the evening

Along the hill, along the spring-pond -

As if the shadows of those long dead float over,

Shadows of church princes, noble women -

Already their flowers bloom, serious violets

In evening ground, the crystal wave of the blue spring

Murmurs. So spiritually the oaks green

Over the forgotten paths of the dead,

The golden cloud over the pond.

The Heart

The wild heart became white by the forest;

O dark fear

Of death as the gold

Died in a gray cloud.

November evening.

The crowd of poor women stood

By the bare gate by the slaughterhouse;

Into every basket

Rotten flesh and entrails fall;

Cursed food!

The evening's blue dove

Brought not reconciliation.

Dark trumpeting

Passes through the elm's

Wet gold-foliage,

A tattered flag

Smoking with blood

So that in wild gloom

A man listens.

O! you brazen ages

Buried there in the afterglow.

From the dark hallway

The golden figure

Of the younthtress

Stepped surrounded by pale moons,

Autumn court,

Black firs buckled

In the night-storm,

The steep fortress.

O heart

Shimmering across in snowy coolness.

Sleep

Accursed you dark poisons,

White sleep!

This most strange garden

Of dusking trees

Fulfilled with snakes, moths,

Spiders, bats.

Foreigner! Your doomed shadow

In the afterglow,

A sinister corsair

In the salty sea of misery.

White birds flutter up on the edge of night

Over toppling cities

Of steel.

The Thunderstorm

You wild mountains, the eagles'

Lofty mourning.

Golden clouds

Smoke over stony wasteland.

The pines breathe patient stillness,

The black lambs at the abyss,

Where suddenly the blueness

Strangely falls mute,

The soft hum of the bumblebees.

O green flower -

O silence.

Dreamlike the dark spirits

Of the wild brook shake the heart,

Sinisterness

That descends upon the ravines!

White voices

Straying through dreadful courtyards,

Torn terraces,

The fathers' immense resentment, the lament

Of the mothers,

The boy's golden battle-cry

And unborn shapes

Sighing from blind eyes.

O pain, you flaming contemplation

Of the great soul!

Already in the black melee

Of horses and chariots

A rose-showered of lightning

Twitches in the sounding spruce.

Magnetic coolness

Floats around this proud head,

Glowing gloom

Of an angering God.

Fear, you venomous snake,

Black, die in stone!

There the tears' wild streams

Fall down,

Storm-mercy,

The snowy peaks all around

Resound in menacing thunders.

Fire

Purifies torn night.

The Evening

Moon, with dead heroic figures

You fulfill

The silent forests,

Sickle moon -

With the soft embrace

Of lovers,

The shadows of famous ages

All around the moldering rocks;

So bluishly it shines

Against the city

Where cold and evil

A decaying race dwells,

Preparing the dark future

Of white grandchildren.

You moon-engulfed shadows

Sighing in the empty crystal

Of the mountain lake.

The Night

I sing you wild fissure,

In the night-storm

Piled-up mountains;

You grey towers

Overflowing with hellish grimaces,

Fiery beasts,

Rough ferns, spruces,

Crystal flowers.

Infinite agony,

Which makes you hunt down God

Soft spirit,

Sighing in the waterfall,

In billowing pines.

The fires of the people

All around blaze golden.

Over blackish cliffs

Drunk with death,

The glowing wind-bride plummets,

The blue wave

Of the glacier,

And the bell in the valley

Peals mightily:

Flames, curses

And the dark

Games of lust,

A petrified head

Storms heaven.

The Gloom

You are enormous dark mouth

Within, figure formed

From autumn clouds,

Golden evening stillness;

A greenish dusking mountain stream

In the shadowy area

Of broken pines;

A village

That dies off devoutly in brown images.

There the black horses leap

On misty meadow.

You soldiers!

From hill, where the sun rolls dying

The laughing blood falls -

Speechless

Under oaks! O resentful gloom

Of the army; a radiant helmet

Sank rattling from a purple forehead.

Autumn night comes so cool,

The silent monkess

Gleams with stars

Over broken bones of men.

The Homecoming

The coolness of dark years,

Cyclopean stone preserves

Pain and hope,

Mountains without people,

The autumn's golden breathe,

Evening cloud -

Purity!

Crystal childhood

Gazes from blue eyes;

Under dark spruces

Love, hope,

So that from fiery eyelids

Dew drips into stiff grass -

Irresistibly!

O! there the golden footbridge

Breaking up in the snow

Of the abyss!

The nocturnal valley

Breathes blue coolness,

Belief, hope!

Hail you lonely graveyard!

Lament

Youth out of crystal mouth

Your golden gaze sank into the valley;

Forest's wave red and pale

In the black evening hour.

Evening strikes such a deep wound!

Fear! death's dream-grievance,

Deceased grave and yet

The year looks from trees and deer;

Bleak field and soil.

The shepherd calls the frightened flock.

Sister, your blue brows

Beckon quietly in the night.

Organ sighs and hell laughs;

And a dread seizes the heart;

Would like to look at star and angel.

Mother must fear for her babe;

The ore resounds red in the shaft.

Lust, tears, stony anguish,

Dark legends of the Titans.

Gloom! lonesomely eagles lament.

Surrender at Night

Monkess! enclose me in your darkness,

You mountains cool and blue!

Dark dew bleeds down;

Cross towers steeply in the star-glitter.

Purply mouth and lies broke

Cool in the decayed chamber;

Laughter still shines, golden play,

A bell's final knells.

Moon-cloud! Blackish

Wild fruits fall at night from the tree

And the room becomes the grave,

And this wandering on earth the dream.

In the East

The people's dark rage resembles
The wild organs of the winter storm,
The purple wave of the battle,
Defoliated stars.

With broken brows, silver arms
The night beckons dying soldiers.
In the shadows of the autumn ash tree,
The ghosts of the slain sigh.

Thorny wilderness girds the city.
The moon chases the terrified women
Away from bleeding stages.
Wild wolves broke through the gate.

Lament

Sleep and death, the somber eagles,
Swoop nightlong around this head:
The icy wave of eternity
Would engulf the golden image
Of man. On horrible reefs
The purple body is shattered
And the dark voice laments
Over the sea.
Sister of stormy gloom,
Look, a frightened boat sinks
Under stars,
The silent countenance of night.

Grodek

In the evening the autumnal forests resound
With deadly weapons, the golden plains
And blue lakes, over which the sun
Rolls more somberly; night embraces
Dying warriors, the wild lament
Of their broken mouths.
Yet silently in the meadow
A red cloud, in which an angry god dwells,
Gathers spilled blood, moony coolness;
All roads end in black rot.
Under golden branches of night and stars
The sister's shadow staggers through the silent grove
To greet the ghosts of heroes, the bleeding heads;
And quietly the dark autumn flutes resound in the reeds.
O prouder grief! you brazen altars,
An enormous pain today nourishes the hot flame of the spirit,
The unborn grandchildren.

Revelation and Decline

Strange are the nightly paths of men. As I moved sleepwalking past rooms of stone, and in each a still lamp burned, a copper candlestick, and as I sank freezing onto the bed, the black shadow of the strangeress stood overhead, and silenly I hid my countenance in the slow-moving hands. Also the hyacinth had blossomed blue at the window and the old prayer rose on the purple lips of the breathing one, crystalline tears sank from the eyelids wept over the bitter world. In this hour I was the white son in my father's death. In blue showers the night wind came from the hill, the dark lament of the mother dying away again and I saw the black hell in my heart; minute of shimmering stillness. Quietly an unspeakable countenance stepped from the limy wall - a dying youth - the beauty of a race returning home. Moony-white the coolness of the stone embraced the waking temple, the steps of the shadows faded on decayed stairs, a rosy round dance in the small garden.

Silently I sat in a deserted inn under smoky rafters and lonely with wine; a radiant corpse bent over a dark shape and a dead lamb lay at my feet. Out of rotting blueness the pale figure of the sister stepped and thus her bleeding mouth spoke: stab black thorn. Alas my silver arms still resound from wild thunderstorms. Flow, blood, from the moony feet, blossoming on nightly paths, over which the rat shoos screaming. You stars, flicker in my arched brows; and the heart rings quietly in the night. A red shadow with a flaming sword broke into the house, fled with snowy forehead. O bitter death.
And a dark voice spoke out of me: I broke my black horse's neck in the nocturnal forest because insanity leapt from his purple eyes; the shadows of elms fell on me, the blue laughter of the well, and the black coolness of the night, as I, a wild hunter, roused a snowy deer; my countenance died off in a stony hell.
And a drop of blood fell shimmering into the wine of the lonely; and when I drank, it tasted more bitter than poppy; and a blackisch cloud encircled my head, the crystal tears of damned angels; and quietly blood ran from the silver wound of the sister and a fiery rain fell over me.

At the edge of the forest, I will walk, a silent shape, from whose speechless hands the hairy sun sank; a stranger at the evening hill, who weeping lifts the eyelids over the stony city; a deer that stands silently in the peace of the old elder; o restlessly the dusking head listens, or the hesitating steps follow the blue cloud at the hill, also serious stars. To the side the green seed guides silently, shyly accompanies the doe on mossy forest paths. The huts of the villagers are mutely closed in silence, and the blue lament of the wild brook is frightening in the black wind-lull.
But as I climbed down the rocky path, insanity seized me and I screamed loudly in the night; and as I bent with silver fingers over the silent waters, I saw that my countenance had left me. And the white voice spoke to me: kill yourself! Sighing, the shadow of a young boy arose in me and gazed at me radiantly out of crystal eyes, so that I sank down weeping beneath the trees, the mighty star-firmament.

Peaceless wanderings through wild stone far away from evening hamlets, flocks returning home; far away the sinking sun grazes on a crystal meadow and its wild song convulses, the lonely cry of the bird fading away in blue rest. But quietly you come at night as I lay waking on a hill, or raging in a spring thunderstorm; and always blacker gloom clouds the abandoned head, horrible lightning bolts terrify the nocturnal soul, your hands tear my breathless breast.

As I walked in the dusking garden, and the black figure of evil left me, the hyacinthine stillness of the night embraced me; and I rode in a curved boat over the resting pond and a sweet peace touched my petrified forehead. Speechless I lay under the old willows and the blue sky was high above me and filled with stars; and as I died off beholding, fear and the deepest pain died inside me; and the blue shadow of the boy rose, radiant in darkness, soft chant; over greening treetops, crystal cliffs the white countenance of the sister rose on moony wings.

With silver soles I descended thorny stages and I stepped into the whitewashed chamber. Calmly a candlestick burned inside and I buried my head silently in purple linen; and the earth ejected a childish corpse, a moony shape, which slowly stepped out of my shadow, plunged with broken arms down stony abysses, flaky snow.

Other Publications in Lifetime

(Poems - Prose and Reviews)

The Morning Song

Now stride down, titanic fellow,

And awaken the much-loved slumbering woman!

Stride down, and gird

The dreaming head with tender blooms.

Ignite the fearing sky with blazing torch,

So that the paling stars ring out dancing

And the flying veils of the night

Vanish flaming up,

So that the cyclopean clouds scatter,

In which the winter, escaping from the earth,

Still howling threats with icy showers,

And the celestial distances open in bright purity.

And then you climb, gloriously, with flying tresses

Down to earth, she receives the rutting suitor

With blessed silence, and trembling in deep showers

By your so wild, storm-racing embrace,

She opens her holy womb to you.

And the drunkard is seized by sweetest intuition,

When bloom-glowing you awaken for her

The germinating life, its high past presses

To a higher future,

That resembles you, as you resemble yourself,

Loyal to your will, ever moved,

So that in her an eternal mystery

Renews itself in high beauty again in the future.

Dream Wanderer

Where are you, who walked by my side,

Where are you, countenance of heaven?

A rough wind jeers me in the ear: you fool!

A dream! A dream! You jester!

And yet, and yet! How was it once,

Before I walked into night and abandonment?

Do you know it still, you fool, you jester!

My soul's echo, the rough wind:

O fool! O jester!

Didn't she stand with pleading hands,

A sad smile around the mouth,

And called in night and abandonment!

What merely did she call! Don't you know it?

It sounded like love. No echo bore

Back to her, to her this word.

Was it love? Woe, that I have forgotten!

Only night around me and abandonment,

And my soul's echo - the wind!

That jeers and jeers: O fool! O jester!

The Three Ponds of Hellbrunn

The First

Around the flowers the blowflies reel
Around the pale flowers on dull flood,
Go away! Go away! The air burns!
In the depth the glow of putrefaction glows!
The willow weeps, the silence stares,
A sultry vapor brews on the waters.
Go away! Go away! This is the place
For black toads' disgusting rut.

The Second

Images of clouds, flowers, and people -
Sing, sing, joyful world!
Smiling innocence reflects you -
Everything it likes becomes heavenly:
It amicably transforms darkness into light,
Distant things become near. O joyful you!
Sun, clouds, flowers and people
Blessedly breath the peace of God.

The Third

The waters shimmer greenish-blue
And calmly the cypresses breathe,
The evening sounds bell-deep -
Then the depth grows immeasurably.
The moon rises, the night turns blue,
Blossoms in the reflection of the floods -
An enigmatic Sphinx face,
On which my heart wants to bleed to death.

The Three Ponds in Hellbrunn

Wandering along the black walls

Of evening, silverly the lyre

Of Orpheus sounds forth in the dark pond

But spring drips in showers

From the branches in wild showers

Of the night wind silverly the lyre

Of Orpheus sounds forth in the dark pond

Dying away at greening walls.

Far away palace and hill shine.

Voices of women, who long ago passed away,

Weave tenderly and darkly colored

Over the white nymphish mirror.

Lament their fleeting fate

And the day dissolves in the green

Whispers in the reeds and hover back -

A thrush frolics with them.

The waters shimmer greenish-blue

And calmly the cypresses breathe

And their gloom immeasurable

Flows over into the evening-blue.

Tritons emerge from the flood,

Decay trickles through the walls

The moon wraps itself in green veils

And wanders slowly on the flood.

St. Peter's Cemetery

Rocky isolation is all around.

Death's pale flowers shudder

On graves which mourn in darkness -

But this mourning has no agony.

The heaven smiles down silently

In this dream-locked garden,

Where silent pilgrims wait.

The cross wakes on each grave.

The church rises up like a prayer

Before a picture of eternal grace,

A few lights burn under the arcades

Mutely pleading for poor souls -

Meanwhile the trees bloom in the night

To wrap the countenance of death

In their beauty's glimmering abundance,

Making the dead dream deeper.

A Spring Evening

A shrub filled with larvae; evening foehn in March;

A mad dog runs through a gaunt field

The priest's bell is ringing through the brown village;

A bleak tree writhes in black pain.

In the shadow of old roofs maize bleeds;

O sweetness which satisfies the hunger of the sparrows.

Through the yellowed reed a deer breaks shyly.

O lonely-standing before waters silent and white.

Unspeakable the walnut tree's dream figure rises.

The friend is pleased by the countrified play of the boys.

Decayed huts, decrepit feelings;

The clouds wander deeply and blackly massed.

In an Old Garden

Mignonette-scent drifts away in the brown greenness,

Glimmering shivers on the beautiful pond,

The willows stand wrapped in white veils

In which moths draw errant circles.

Deserted the terrace suns itself there,

Goldfish glisten deeply in the water’s mirror,

Sometimes clouds swim over the hill,

And slowly the strangers go forth again.

The bowers shine bright, since young women

Passed here in the early morning,

Their laughter remained hanging on small leaves,

In golden hazes a drunken Faun dances.

[Evening Round Dance]

Aster fields, brown and blue

Children play there by crypts

In the bright lilting air

Gulls hover silver-grey.

Strange life lives in the vine.

Play louder you violins

Which lust! Racing round dance

Shivering the night comes in.

You laugh so loud brown Gret

The sea dreams woozy in the mind

While a just withered rose

Blows down before me.

Evening Round Dance

Aster fields brown and blue,

Children play there by crypts,

In the evening winds,

Wafted past in clear winds

Gulls hover silver-grey.

Horn sounds echo in the floodplain.

At the old inn out-of-tune fiddles

Scream more insanely,

By the windows a round dance sweeps,

A multi-colored ringlet round dance sweeps,

Raging and drunk from wine.

Shivering the night comes in.

Laughter flutters up, drifts away,

Mockingly a lute strums,

Quietly a still rhombus,

Full of gloom a rhombus

Descends at the threshold.

Clingclang! A sickle mows.

Dreamlike the candle's light weaves,

Paints this young flesh decayed,

Clingclang! In the fog hear it echo,

After the rhythm of the fiddles echo,

And beyond a naked skeleton dances.

For a long time the moon looks inside.

[Night Soul]

Silently the moldering forest again receives

The babbling spring,

Lament that sounds forth crystalline in the darkness.

Taciturnly a blue deer descended from black forests,

The soul,

When it was night; a snowy wellspring over mossy stages.

The water murmurs blood and weapon-turmoil

From forgotten times in the pine ground.

The moon shines always in decayed rooms,

Drunk with dark frosts silver larva

Inclined over the sleep of the hunter,

Head, which abandons its legends.

O then the other one opens the slow hands,

So that he receives the light,

Sighing in enormous sinisterness.

Night Soul

Taciturnly a blue deer descended from black forests,

The soul.

When it was night; a snowy wellspring over mossy stages.

Blood and weapon-turmoil from bygone times

Murmur in the pine ground,

The moon shines always in decayed rooms;

Drunk with dark poisons, silver larva

Inclined over slumbering shepherds,

Head, which silently abandons its legends.

O, then the other one slowly opens the cold hands

Under stony arches

Quietly a golden summer rises in the blinded window

And the steps of the dancing woman ring in the green

The night long,

Oftener in purple gloom the screech owl calls the drunkard.

Night Soul

Taciturnly a blue deer descended from the black forest,

The soul,

When it was night, a snowy wellspring over mossy stages.

Blood and weapon-turmoil from bygone times

Murmur in the pine ground.

The moon shines quietly in decayed rooms;

Drunk with dark poisons, silver larva

Inclined over the slumber of the shepherds;

Head, which silently abandons its legends.

O, then the other one rotting in purple sleep

Opens the slow hands

And silverly the flowers of winter bloom

At the forest’s edge, the sinister ways

Into the stony city glisten;

Oftener out of black gloom the screech owl calls the drunkard.

Prose and Reviews

Dream Country
An Episode

Sometimes I must think back to those silent days, which are like a wondrous, fortunately spent life to me, which I could unquestionably enjoy like a gift from kindly, unknown hands. And that small city in the valley rises again in my memory with its broad main street, through which a long avenue of gorgeous linden trees stretches, with its angular alleyways filled by the secret working lives of small buyers and craftsmen - and with the old town fountain in the middle of the plaza, that so dreamily splashes in the sunshine, and where in the evening love-whispers sound in the murmur of water. But the city seems to dream of a past life.
   And softly curved hills, over which solemn, taciturn fir forests stretch, lock the valley away from the external world. The summits nestle gently against the far, light-filled sky, and in this contact of sky and earth it seems to one that space is part of the homeland. All at once the figures of people come to my senses, and before me again the life of their past renews, with all its small sufferings and joys, which these people dare to confide to one another without shyness.
   I spent eight weeks in this remoteness; these eight weeks are to me like a detached, own part of my life - a life for itself - full of an inexpressible, young happiness, full of a strong longing after far away, beautiful things. Here my boyish soul received for the first time the effect of an important experience.
   I see myself again as a schoolboy living in a small house with a small garden in front of it, somewhat remote from the city, hidden almost completely by trees and bushes. There I inhabited a small garret, which was decorated with wonderfully old, faded pictures and I dreamed some evenings away here in the stilnness, and the stilnness took into itself and lovingly preserved my sky-high, foolishly-fortunate boyish dreams and later brought them back to me often enough - in the lonely dusk hours. Often also in the evening I went down to my old uncle who spent nearly the entire day by his ill daughter Maria. Then we three sat for hours in silence together. The tepid evening wind blew in through the window and bore all sorts of confused noise to our ear, that simulated indeterminate dream images to us. And the air was filled with the strong, intoxicating scent of roses, flowering by the garden fence. Slowly the night crept into the room and then I stood up, said “good night,” and went back to my room to dream for still another hour into the night outside.
   At first I felt something like a fearful anxiety in the presence of the small invalid, which later changed into a holy, reverent shyness at this silent, strangely poignant suffering. When I saw her, a dark feeling arose in me that she will have to die. And then I was afraid to look at her.
   When I roamed the forests during the day, I felt glad in the isolation and stillness, when I stretched myself out tiredly then in the moss, and for hours glanced into the light, flickering sky, which one could see so far into, when a strange, deep feeling of happiness befuddled me there, then I suddenly thought of the ill Maria - and I stood up and overpowered by unexplainable thoughts, meandered around aimlessly and felt a dull pressure in head and heart that made me want to weep.
   And when sometimes in the evening I went through the dusty main street, which was filled with the scent of flowering linden trees, and in the shadow of the trees saw whispering couples standing around; when I saw how two people slowly strolled near the quietly splashing well in the moonlit, nestled close together as if they were one, and there an ominous hot shiver flowed over me, at that the ill Maria came into my senses; then a quiet yearning to something unexplainable overtook me, and suddenly I saw myself with her, strolling arm in arm down the street in the shadow of the fragrant linden trees. And in Maria's large, dark eyes a strange glimmer shone, and the moon let her narrow face appear still more pale and transparent. Then I fled back to my garret, leaned at the window, saw in the dark sky where the stars seemed to expire, and for hours I was gripped by confusing daydreams until sleep overtook me.
   And still - and still I have not exchanged ten words with Maria. She never spoke. I sat by her side for hours and looked into her sick, suffering face and felt again and again that she had to die.
   In the garden, I lay in the grass and inhaled the scent of a thousand flowers; my eye got drunk on the bright colors of the blooms over which sunlight flooded and I listened to the stillness in the air, only occasionally interrupted by the call of a bird. I heard the fermenting of the fruitful, sultry earth, the mysterious noise of the eternally creating life. At the time I darkly felt the greatness and beauty of life. At that time it also seemed that life belonged to me. But then my gaze fell on the bay window of the house. There I saw the sick Maria sitting - silent and immobile, with closed eyes. And all my pondering was again drawn in by the suffering of that one being, and remained there - became a grievous, only shyly admitted yearning, which I found puzzling and confusing. And shyly, silently, I left the garden, as I had no right to remain in this temple.
   Whenever I came by the fence there, I broke off one of the large, shiny red, heavily scented roses like in my thoughts. Quietly I wanted to scurry past the window, as I saw the trembling, delicate shadow of Maria's figure defined against the gravel path. And my own shadow touched hers as if in an embrace. Yet I now came to the window, as if kept by a fleeting thought, and placed the rose I just broke off in Maria's lap. Then I slipped away noiselessly, as if I was afraid of being caught.
   How often has this little process that seemed so significant for me been repeated! I don't know. For me, it was as if I put one thousand roses into the ill Maria's lap, as if our shadows embraced innumerable times. Maria has never mentioned this episode; but I have felt from the gleam of her large shinning eyes that she was happy about it.
   Perhaps these hours, when we two sat together and silently enjoyed a large, calm, deep happiness, were so beautiful that I did not need to wish any more beautiful. My old uncle silently approved of us. But one day, when I sat with him in the garden amid all the bright flowers, over which dreamily large yellow butterflies hovered, he said to me with a quiet, thoughtful voice: “Your soul goes out to the suffering, my boy.” And in doing so he lay his hand on my head and appeared to want to say something more. But he was silent. Perhaps he also did not know what he had thereby awaken in me and what has revived powerfully in me since that time.
   One day, when I again came to the window where Maria usually sat, I saw that her face was paled and had paralyzed in death. Sunbeams flitted over her light, delicate figure; her free-flowing golden hair fluttered in the wind, it seemed to me as if she had not been carried off by an illness, as if she would be dead without visible cause - a mystery. I put the last rose into her hand, she took it to the grave.
   Soon after Maria's death I traveled off to a large city. But the memory of those still days filled with sunshine stayed alive in me, perhaps more alive than the noisy present. I will never see that small city in the valley again - yes, I avoid visiting it once more. I believe I could not do it, even if sometimes a strong longing overcomes me after those eternally young things of the past. Because I know I would only look in vain for what went by without a trace; I wouldn't find there what is only still alive in my memory - like the present - and that would probably be a useless agony for me.

From the Golden Chalice
Barrabas
A fantasy

But it happened at the same hour, when the Son of Man was lead out to Golgotha, which is the place where they execute thieves and murders.
   It happened at the same high and glowing hour, when He completed his work.
   It happened that at the same hour a large number of people drew noisily along Jerusalem’s streets - and in the midst of these people Barabbas, the murderer, walked and carried his head defiantly high.
   And decorated strumpets with red-painted lips and made up faces were all around him and grabbed at him. And men were around him, whose eyes gazed drunk with wine and vice. But the sin of the flesh lurked in their talking, and the fornication of their gestures was the expression of their thoughts.
   Many, who met this drunken procession, joined it and cried: “Long live Barrabas!” And all screamed: “Live Barrabas !” Someone also cried: “Hosiannah”. But they hit this one - because only a few days ago they had shouted “Hosiannah” to One who came drawn into town as a king, and they had strewn fresh palm branches before him. But today they strew red roses and cheered: “Barrabas!”
   And as they passed by a palace, they heard string playing and laughter and the noise of a great revelry. And from the house a young person stepped in a solemn vestment. And his hair shone from scented oils and his body smelled of the most precious Arabian essences. His eye shone from the joys of the revelry and the smile of his mouth was lustful from the kisses of his lover.
   When the young man recognized Barabbas, he came forward to him and spoke:
   “Step into my house, o Barabbas, and you shall rest on my softest pillows; step inside, o Barabbas, and my maids will anoint your body with the most precious balms. By your feet a girl will play on the lute its sweetest tunes and from my most precious chalice I will offer you my most fiery wine. And into the wine I want to throw the most glorious of my pearls. O Barabbas, be my guest for today - and for this day my love, which is more beautiful than the red of a morning in spring, belongs to my guest. Step inside, Barabbas, and wreath your head with roses, enjoy this day, since the One whom they set thorns on the head dies.”
   And as the youth spoke thus, the people cheered him and Barabbas climbed onto the marble stage like a victor. And the younth took the roses that wreathed his head and put them around the temples of the murderer Barabbas.
   Then he stepped with him into the house, meanwhile the people on the streets were cheering.
   On soft pillows, Barabbas rested; maids anointed his body with the most delicious balms and by his feet the lovely string play of a girl sounded and on his lap the lover of the youth sat, more beautiful than the red of a morning in spring. And laughter sounded - and the guests intoxicated themselves with egregious joys, because they all were enemies and despisers of the only One - Pharisees and subjugates of the priests.
   At the appointed hour, the youth ordered silence, and all noise muted.
   Then the youth filled his golden chalice with the most delicious wine, and in the vessel the wine became like glowing blood. He threw a pearl in and handed the chalice to Barabbas. The youth, however, reached for a chalice of crystal and drank to Barabbas:
   “The Nazarene is dead! Long live Barabbas!”
   And everyone in the hall cheered:
   “The Nazarene is dead! Long live Barabbas!”
   And the people in the roads cheered:
   “The Nazarene is dead! Long live Barabbas!”
   But suddenly the sun expired, the earth shook in its bedrock and a monstrous horror came over the world. And the creatures trembled.
   In this same hour the work of redemption was accomplished!

From the Golden Chalice
Mary Magdalene
A dialog

Before the gates of the city Jerusalem. Evening appears.

AGATHON: It is time to return to the city. The sun has set and it is dusking over the city already. It has become very silent. - But why don't you answer, Marcellus, why do you look so absently into the distance?
MARCELLUS: I remembered that there in the distance the sea washes the shores of this country; I remembered that beyond the sea, the eternal, god-like Rome rises to the stars, where no day lacks a celebration. And I am here on this strange earth. All this I remembered. But I forgot. It is probably time that you return to the city. It's dusking. And at the time of twilight a girl is waiting before the gates of the city for Agathon. Don't let her wait, Agathon, don't let her wait, your beloved. I say to you the women of this country are very peculiar; I know they are full of mysteries. Do not let your beloved wait; because one never knows what can happen. In a moment dreadfulness can happen. One should never miss the moment.
AGATHON: Why do you speak like this to me?
MARCELLUS: I mean if she is beautiful, your beloved, you should not let her wait. I say to you a beautiful woman is something eternally unexplainable. The beauty of woman is a mystery. One does not see through her. One never knows what a beautiful woman can be, what she is forced to do. That is it, Agathon! Alas you - I knew one. I knew one, I saw things happen which I shall never fathom. No person would ever fathom them. We never see the reason for the events.
AGATHON: What did you see happening? I beg you, tell me more about this!
MARCELLUS: Let us go. Perhaps an hour has come when I am able to say it without trembling before my own words and thoughts. (They slowly walk the way back to Jerusalem. Stillness is around them.)
MARCELLUS: It took place on a glowing summer night, when fever lurks in the air and moon confuses the senses. There I saw her. It was in a small tavern. She danced there, danced with naked feet on an expensive carpet. I never saw a woman dancing more beautifully, more intoxicated; the rhythm of her body showed me strange dark dream images, so that hot feverish shivers shook through my body. It looked to me as if this woman played in dance with invisible, delicious, hidden things, as if she embraced god-like beings, that no one saw, as if she kissed red lips inclining to her demandingly; her movements were those of the highest lust; it seemed as if she was overwhelmed with caresses. She seemed to see things which we could not see, and played with them in dance, relished them in the egregious ecstasies of her body. Perhaps she lifted her mouth to delicious, sweet fruits and sipped fiery wine, when she threw back her head and her look was directed upward demandingly. No! I did not understand this, nevertheless everything was strangely alive - it was there. And then sank cloakless, only overflowed by her hair, down to our feet. It was as if the night had gathered into a black clew in her hair and removed her from us. But she gave herself, gave her wonderful body, gave to everyone who wanted to have it. I saw her love beggars and commoners, princes and kings. She was the most lovely hetaera. Her body was a delicious vessel of joy, the world has not seen more beautiful. Her life belonged to joy alone. I saw her dancing during binges and her body was showered with roses. But she stood in the midst of bright roses like a just flourishing, single beautiful flower. And I saw her crowning the statue of Dionysus with flowers, saw her embrace the cold marble like she embraced her lovers that she smothered with her burning, feverish kisses. - - And then one came, who walked by, wordless, without gesture, and was clothed in a hairy garment, and dust was on his feet. He walked by and looked on her - and was past. But she gazed after Him, paralyzed in her movement - and walked, walked, and followed that strange prophet, who had perhaps called her with the eyes, followed His call and sank down to His feet. Humbled herself before Him - and looked up to Him as if to a god; served Him, like the men served Him who were around Him.
AGATHON: You are not yet at the end. I feel you want to say more.
MARCELLUS: I do not know more. No! But one day I found out that they would nail that eccentric prophet to the cross. I found it out from our governor Pilate. And then I wanted to go out to Golgotha, wanted to see that one, wanted to see Him die. Perhaps a mysterious event would become obvious to me. I wanted to gaze into His eyes; His eyes would have perhaps spoken to me. I believe they would have spoken.
AGATHON: And you did not go!
MARCELLUS: I was on the way there. But I turned back. Because I felt I would meet her outside, on the knees before the cross to pray to Him, listening to the fleeing of His life. In ecstasy. And then I turned back again. And in me it remained dark.
AGATHON: But that strange one? - No, we will not speak of that.
MARCELLUS: Let us be silent about it, Agathon! We can do nothing else. - But look, Agathon, how it glows strangely dark in the clouds. One could guess that behind the clouds an ocean of flames blazes. A godly fire! And the sky is like a blue bell. It is as if one heard it ring in deep, solemn tones. One could even suppose that there above in the unattainable heights something happens, about which one will never know anything. But one can anticipate it sometimes when the large silence has descended over the earth. And still! All this is very confusing. The gods love to give us humans unsolvable mysteries. But the earth does not save us from the guile of the gods; because it is also full of bewitching. Things and people confuse me. Certainly! The things are very taciturn! And the human soul does not give away its mysteries. When one asks, it is silent.
AGATHON: We want to live and not question. Life is full of beauty.
MARCELLUS: We will never know about much. Yes! And therefore it would be desirable to forget what we know. Enough of it! We are soon at the goal. But look how abandoned the roads are. One sees no more people. (A wind rises up.) This is a voice that says to us we have to look to the stars. And silence.
AGATHON: Marcellus, look, how high the grain stands in the acres. Each blade bends earthward, heavy with fruit. The harvest days will be wonderful.
MARCELLUS: Yes! Festive days! Festive days, my Agathon!
AGATHON: I will go with Rachel through the fields, through the fruit-heavy, blessed acres! O you wonderful life!
MARCELLUS: You are right! Be happy with your youth. Youth alone is beauty! It suits me to wander in the darkness. But here our ways separate. Your bloved waits for you, for me - the silence of the night! Farewell, Agathon! It will be a wonderfully beautiful night. One can remain in the outdoors a long time.
AGATHON: And can look up to the stars - to the mighty tranquility. I will go merrily on my way and praise the beauty. Thus one honors oneself and the gods.
MARCELLUS: Do like you say, and you do right! Farewell, Agathon!
AGATHON (contemplative): Only one thing I still want to ask you. You shouldn't think anything by it that I ask this. What was the name of that strange prophet? Tell me!
MARCELLUS: What use is it to you to know! I forgot his name. But no! I remember! I remember! He was called Jesus and was from Nazareth!
AGATHON: I thank you! Farwell! May the gods be kind to you, Marcellus! (He goes.)
MARCELLUS: (lost in thoughts) Jesus! - Jesus! And was from Nazareth. (He goes slowly and pensively on his way. Night has appeared and in the sky innumerable stars shine.)

Abandonment

1

Nothing interrupts the silence of abandonment anymore. Over the dark, aged tops of the trees the clouds expand and are reflected in the greenish-blue waters of the pond that shines like an abyss. And unmoving, as if sunken in mournful surrender the surface rests - day-in, day-out.
   In the middle of the taciturn pond the palace rises up to the clouds with pointed, ramshackled towers and roofs. Weeds grow rampantly over the black, burst walls, and at the round, blind windows the sunlight recoils. In the gloomy, dark yards pigeons fly around and seek a hiding place in the chinks of the walls.
   They always seem to fear something, because they fly timidly and scurry past the windows. Down there in the yard the fountain splashes quiet and fine. From the fountain basin the thirsty pigeons drink now and then.
   Through the narrow, dusty hallways of the palace sometimes a musty whiff of fever streaks, so that the bats flutter up terrified. Otherwise nothing disturbs the deep rest.
   But the bedrooms are dusty black. High and bleak and frosty and full of deceased objects. Through the blind windows sometimes a tiny light comes that is absorbed by the dark again. Here the past has died.
   Here one day it stiffened into a single, distorted rose. In its unsubstantialness time passes carelessly.
    And the silence of abandonment permeates everything.

2

No one is able to enter the park anymore. The branches of the trees are entangled a thousandfold, the whole park is nothing more than one gigantic organism.
   And eternal night weighs under the vast roof of leaves. And deep silence! And the air is soaked with vapors of decay.
    But sometimes the park awakes from heavy dreams. Then it floats out a remembrance to cool, starry nights, to deeply hidden, clandestine places, when it eavesdropped on feverish kisses and embraces, to summer nights, full of glowing splendor and glory, when the moon conjured up woozy images on the black ground, to people, who strolled with a graceful gallantry, full of rhythmic movements under its roof of leaves, who murmured sweet, kind words to each other with delicate, promising smiles.
   And then the park sinks again into its death-sleep.
   The shadows of blood-beeches and firs sway on the waters and from the pond's depth a dull, sad mumbling comes.
   Swans move through the shining floods, slowly, motionless, their slender necks stiffy upright.  They move along! Around the deceased palace! Day-in, day-out!
   Pale lilies stand at the edge of the pond among sharply colored grasses. And their shadows in the water are paler than they are.
   And when they die away others come from the depths. And they are like small, dead woman-hands.
   Large fish swim curiously around the pale flowers with rigid, glassy eyes, and then dive into the depth again - soundlessly! 
    And the silence of abandonment permeates everything.

3

And up there in a cracked tower the count sits.  Day-in, day-out.
   He looks after the clouds, which move over the tops of the trees, brightly and purely. He likes to view the sun glowing in the clouds in the evening when it sets. He listens to the noises in the heights: to the cry of a bird that flies past the tower or to the sounding roar of the wind when it sweeps around the palace.
   He sees how the park sleeps, dull and heavy, and sees the swans gliding through the glittering floods - which swim around the palace.  Day-in!  Day-out!
   And the waters shimmer greenish-blue. But the clouds that move over the palace reflect in the waters; and their shadows shine in the floods, radiant and pure, like themselves. The water lilies wave to him, like small, dead woman-hands, and rock in the quiet sounds of the wind, sadly dreamy.
   On everything that surrounds him here dying, the poor count glances like a small, crazy child over whom a doom stands, and no longer has the strength to live, who dwindles like a morning shadow. 
    He listens to only the small, sad melody of his soul: the past!
   When evening comes, he lights his old, sooted lamp and reads in huge, yellowed books about the past's greatness and glory.
   He reads with a fevered, resounding heart, until the present, where he does not belong sinks away. And the shadows of the past rise up - gigantic. And he lives the life, the superb, beautiful life of his fathers.
   At nights, when the storm hunts around the tower, so that the walls creak in their bedrocks and birds shriek fearfully before his windows, the count is overcome with a nameless sadness.
   Doom weighs on his centuries-old, exhausted soul.
   And he presses his face to the window and looks into the night outside. And there everything appears to him vastly dreamlike, ghostly! And frightful. Through the palace he hears the storm race, as if it wanted to sweep all the dead things out and scatter them into the air. 
   But if the confused phantom of the night sinks away like a conjured shadow - again the silence of abandonment permeates everything.

Head Stage Director Friedheim

It is a difficult undertaking to survey the fruitful, rich activity of a man who worked in public for many years and therefore received his assessment from the world at large; it is difficult to emphasize out of such work what is most essential, to thereby characterize it, and to bring all the intentions, that must remain undone only through the disfavor of circumstances, in harmony with the events - like seed and harvest.
   For three years Mr. Friedheim presided over the city theater as artistic leader - three years of restless, serious work he can look over and say to himself: I gave it my best, I applied my best artistic knowledge and conscience. And so it is only fair, that the public bestow their approval at all times on the activities of this man, that he completely earned, therefore I also want to satisfy myself with a presentation of the essentials.
   The season of 1903, which was particularly rich with novelties, brought us the exemplary productions of Halbe's “River”, Werkmann's “Crossroads' Attacker”, Gustav Streicher's “Stephan Fadinger”, Schönherr's “Solstice Day”, Beyerlein's “Taps”. These productions, which placed tremendous requirements on parts, showed Mr. Friedheim as an efficient, untiring stage director. That Mr. Friedheim is in no way inferior as actor than director is proven by his achievements, e.g. in “The Vicar from Kirchfeld” as Wurzelsepp, as the police constable in “Taps”, as Striese, as Stauffacher, as Padre in “Renaissance”. From the new productions of the next year, I want to single out “Traumulus,” which was staged for Friedheim's benefit, and furthermore the “Veil of the Maya”, and Seebach's “The Invisible Ones”. In each of these works, Mr. Friedheim had to embody the major figure, his shining achievements as director Niemeyer, as Socrates and Master Builder should be still in the memories of everybody. His acting as Franz Moor resulted in a letter of approval from Mayor Berger. Not to be omitted are the merits Friedheim earned with the performance of “Wallenstein's Encampment” and the fragment “Demetrius”. A rich selection of the good and the best was presented during this year's play season. Salzburg was the first stage in the province that brought Schönherr's “Family“ after Vienna. For his shining direction Mr. Friedheim received the personal thanks of the poet. To mention further is the performance of the “Brothers of St. Bernard”, of the “Private Lecturer” (Prutz), “Small Dorrits”, and the play with a purpose “Stone between Stones”. An act, which Mr. Friedheim can look back on with justifiable pride, is the wonderful production of “Salome”.
   Uninterrupted, joyful in deeds, Mr. Friedheim has fulfilled his responsible office until the end, despite several lately accumulating difficulties, which particular groups placed in his way. On Saturday, Mr. Friedheim takes his leave from Salzburg in “Narcissus”. To appeal to the audience now is probably not necessary, because an evening of honor is prepared for Mr. Friedheim in memory of what he has been to our theater - a small thanks for great effort. However, in the history of our theater, Mr. Friedheim will have an esteemed place - in history, like in the memory of those who have learned to prize him in these years of his activity.

Gustav Streicher

This writer has arisen out of the Austrian provincial literary movement, a follower and by-product of naturalism, which formulated its program with the catchword “homeland-art” and which, although enough was written over it, still did not experience the appreciation that should have come. With the sudden ebbing away of naturalism, which came and went like a storm, naturally homeland-art lost its ground, in which it had become deeply rooted, and the whole movement, based on the juvenile overflowing strength of a good and valiant will, was to break its most innate course, and saw itself now robbed of its nourishing and impelling forces. And today, when the unforeseen possibilities of a promising art and thorny, dangerous ways reveal themselves to the searching view, the storm and stress of the last decades become just a memory that covers a first pallor.
   Among the representatives of this former homeland-art movement, Gustav Streicher is one of the most distinctive personalities, and his artistic development is just as interesting as instructive. He began with naturalism - his first work “On Nikolo Day” is from that heavy, dark, heroic-fanatical grassrootedness which is peculiar to the most consistent naturalists -, sought in his next work, “Stephan Fadinger,” the way to a historical tragedy in an ample style, still based on and within the poetic methods of naturalism, and found himself finally beside Ibsen, with a little known drama called “Love’s Sacrifice”, that tries to solve a psychological problem of the subtlest kind through the methods of modern soul-analysis; after some years of apparent inactivity (a comedy, which would extensively shape the problem of the modern woman, remained a fragment) Gustav Streicher shows up in a new phase of his development as a new-romantic.
   The development of this writer could appear astonishing and strange, if it did not find its natural explanation from the conditions described at the beginning. And it is explainable, if a poet, whose essence is so pronounced dramatically, whose talent for a linear development had to appear before, had gone through such deep crises. His drama “Mona Violanta” that Streicher read Friday evening in Mirabell Hall is from the tradition of soulful tragedies the new-romantics love. They move one into cool ecstasies, which make one dream, whose plot one should not tell because thereby so much goes lost. One ponders and dreams about this strange Violanta, who walks like a cool shadow through a dream, feels the disgust that shakes her body, when she remembers her dead husband, who with senile perversion drools over her body blossoming with youth; one believes to see the ghost of the dead one, when Violanta sees him walking at her side, with abhorrent, vicious gestures seeking sickening contact with his wife, hears the woman scream out and break down under the terrible force of the dead power, and knows: she must summon the rawest forces of life to get rid of the dead, must become a strumpet in order not to die away in hysterical convulsions. It is strange how these verses penetrate the problem, how often the sound of the word expresses an unspeakable thought and sets the volatile mood. In these verses is something of the sweet, woman-like art of persuasion, which seduces us to listen to the melody of the word, and not to notice the word’s substance and weight; the minor-sound of this language tunes the senses thoughtfully and fulfills the blood with dreamy tiredness. Foremost in the last scene, when the condottiere rises, a full, brazen tone blares in major key over the scene and the drama loosens up with a flying culmination into a Dionysian song of life’s joyfulness.
   That the lecturing poet was not completely able to emphasize the entire force of mood of his work, that much of the glittering beauty of the dialogues was lost, should be kindly excused. The public followed him gladly into his world and rewarded with gratitude for an hour of having a look into the depths of a strange existence.

[Jakobus and the Women. A novel by Franz Karl Ginskey; L. Staackmann's Publishing House, Leipzig.]

Mood in this book is, unfortunately, only mood. The already weak action drowns in mood, the psychology is unclear and splashes on a lovely surface, the characterizations of the people are meager, unrealistic, confusing. And for all these principal defects there should be some pretty affected sceneries or lyricisms to compensate. No! This book is missing everything to make it a novel, over which nobody is mislead by the sought-after solemnity of style that is handled so industriously since Jakob Wassermann's “Renate Fuchs”, and with which the most eccentric, boring, and shallow things become exaggerated. Mauvaise music! And if I consider that the Gallic novel represents the zenith of an unparalleled cult of form, and that the Russian epic became the fountainhead of the most enormous spiritual revolution, then the majority of our novels produced in Central Europe strike me as not more than - printed paper.

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