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An Goethe
Das Unvergängliche
Ist nur dein Gleichnis!
Gott der Verfängliche
Ist Dichter-Erschleichnis…
Welt-Rad, das rollende,
Streift Ziel auf Ziel:
Not – nennt′ s der Grollende,
Der Narr nennt′ s – Spiel…
Welt-Spiel, das herrische,
Mischt Sein und Schein: –
Das Ewig-Närrische
Mischt uns – hinein!…
Friedrich Nietzsche
(1844 – 1900)
An Goethe
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Eline Arbo, nieuwe maakster bij Toneelschuur Producties, bewerkt voor deze eerste voorstelling zelf de klassieke roman van Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, waarin Werther vecht voor zijn ideale liefde.
En zij daagt je uit na te denken over: Waar geloof ik in? En hoe ver ben ik bereid daarvoor te gaan?
Tijdens zijn verblijf op het platteland wordt Werther hevig verliefd op Lotte, een meisje dat al verloofd is met Albert. Hij gooit zijn hartstocht volledig in de strijd. Wanneer zijn liefde voor Lotte onbeantwoord blijft, ziet hij geen andere uitweg dan de dood.
Goethes eerste roman is na zijn publicatie in 1774, te midden van de ‘Sturm und Drang’-periode, direct een ongekend succes en leidt tot een heuse ‘Werther-Fieber’ onder jongvolwassenen: mannen herkennen zich in zijn verhaal, kleden zich identiek aan hun held en een golf van zelfmoorden raast door Europa.
Eline Arbo over ‘Het lijden van de jonge Werther’
“Ik ben gefascineerd door de stelligheid van Werther om het gevoel als richtlijn voor zijn handelen te gebruiken. Hij is volhardend in zijn houding – met de dood tot gevolg. Is hij een hysterische egoïst of ligt er juist kracht in Werthers irrationele levenswijze? Juist die spanning tussen gevoel en verstand vind ik interessant en wil ik in deze voorstelling onderzoeken.”
Eline Arbo studeerde in de zomer van 2016 af aan de Regie Opleiding van de Amsterdamse Hogeschool voor de Kunsten en viel daar op met haar afstudeervoorstellingen Manifesten en Antigone. Arbo onderzoekt in haar voorstellingen sociaal maatschappelijke thema’s via eigenzinnige concepten.
regie Eline Arbo tekst Johann Wolfgang von Goethe bewerking Eline Arbo gebaseerd op de vertaling van Thérèse Cornips (© 1975 Stichting Thérèse Cornips) met Diewertje Dir, Sander Plukaard, Victor IJdens decor Juul Dekker kostuums Sarah Nixon licht Varja Klosse dramaturgie Thomas Lamers muzikaal leider Thijs van Vuure met dank aan Sofie de Wilde, Roos Matla, Saar Scheerlings, Sarah Lefevre, Eva Bosma, Huib Nelissen Decorbouw
Het lijden van de jonge Werther, theater
Van: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Door: Toneelschuur Producties
Regie: Eline Arbo.
23/9, Toneelschuur, Haarlem.
Tournee t/m 19/10.
vr 06 okt 2017
Den Haag
Theater aan het Spui
wo 18 okt t/m
do 19 okt 2017
Amsterdam
Theater Bellevue
‘Een groot expressionistisch theaterfeest’ ★★★★★ Volkskrant
‘Prachtige vondsten in overtuigend debuut’ Haarlems Dagblad
# Meer info website toneelschuur
Toneelschuur Producties / Eline Arbo:
Het lijden van de jonge Werther, theater
Van Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
Den Guten
Laßt euch einen Gott begeisten,
Euch beschränket nur mein Sagen.
Was ihr könnt, ihr werdet’s leisten,
Aber müßt mich nur nicht fragen.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe poetry
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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
Drei Oden
an meinen Freund Behrisch
Erste.
Verpflanze den schönen Baum,
Gärtner! er jammert mich;
Glücklicheres Erdreich
Verdiente der Stamm.
Noch hat seiner Natur Kraft
Der Erde aussaugendem Geize,
Der Luft verderbender Fäulniß,
Ein Gegengift, widerstanden.
Sieh! wie er im Frühling
Lichtgrüne Blätter schlägt;
Ihr Orangenduft
Ist dem Geschmeiße Gift.
Der Raupe tückischer Zahn
Wird stumpf an ihnen,
Es blinkt ihr Silberglanz
Im Sonnenscheine.
Von seinen Zweigen
Wünscht das Mädchen
Im Brautkranze;
Früchte hoffen Jünglinge.
Aber sieh! der Herbst kommt,
Da geht die Raupe,
Klagt der listigen Spinne
Des Baums Unverwelklichkeit.
Schwebend zieht sich
Von ihrer Taxuswohnung
Die Prachtfeindin herüber
Zum wohlthätigen Baum,
Und kann nicht schaden,
Aber die Vielkünstliche
Ueberzieht mit grauem Ekel
Die Silberblätter.
Sieht triumphirend,
Wie das Mädchen schauernd,
Der Jüngling jammernd
Vorübergeht.
Verpflanze den schönen Baum,
Gärtner! er jammert mich.
Baum, danke dem Gärtner,
Der dich verpflanzt!
Zweite.
Du gehst! Ich murre. –
Geh! laß mich murren.
Ehrlicher Mann,
Fliehe dieses Land!
Todte Sümpfe,
Dampfende Octobernebel
Verweben ihre Ausflüsse
Hier unzertrennlich.
Gebärort
Schädlicher Insecten,
Mörderhöhle
Ihrer Bosheit!
Am schilfigten Ufer
Liegt die wollüstige
Flammengezüngte Schlange,
Gestreichelt vom Sonnenstrahl.
Fliehe sanfte Nachtgänge
In der Mondendämmerung,
Dort halten zuckende Kröten
Zusammenkünfte auf Kreuzwegen.
Schaden sie nicht,
Werden sie schrecken. –
Ehrlicher Mann,
Fliehe dieses Land!
Dritte.
Sei gefühllos!
Ein leichtbewegtes Herz
Ist ein elend Gut
Auf der wankenden Erde.
Behrisch! des Frühlings Lächeln
Erheitre deine Stirne nie;
Nie trübt sie dann mit Verdruß
Des Winters stürmischer Ernst.
Lehne dich nie an des Mädchens
Sorgenverwiegende Brust,
Nie auf des Freundes
Elendtragenden Arm.
Schon versammelt,
Von seiner Klippenwarte,
Der Neid auf dich
Den ganzen luchsgleichen Blick,
Dehnt die Klauen,
Stürzt, und schlägt
Hinterlistig sie
Dir in die Schultern.
Stark sind die magern Arme
Wie Pantherarme,
Er schüttelt dich
Und reißt dich los.
Tod ist Trennung!
Dreifacher Tod
Trennung ohne Hoffnung
Wiederzusehn.
Gerne verließest du
Dieses gehaßte Land,
Hielte dich nicht Freundschaft
Mit Blumenfesseln an mir.
Zerreiß sie! Ich klage nicht.
Kein edler Freund
Hält den Mitgefangnen,
Der fliehen kann, zurück.
Der Gedanke
Von des Freundes Freiheit
Ist ihm Freiheit
Im Kerker.
Du gehst, ich bleibe.
Aber schon drehen
Des letzten Jahres Flügelspeichen
Sich um die rauchende Achse.
Ich zähle die Schläge
Des donnernden Rads,
Segne den letzten,
Da springen die Riegel, frei bin ich wie du!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
Dämmrung senkte sich von oben
Dämmrung senkte sich von oben,
Schon ist alle Nähe fern;
Doch zuerst emporgehoben
Holden Lichts der Abendstern!
Alles schwankt ins Ungewisse,
Nebel schleichen in die Höh;
Schwarzvertiefte Finsternisse
Widerspiegelnd ruht der See.
Nun im östlichen Bereiche
Ahnd ich Mondenglanz und -glut,
Schlanker Weiden Haargezweige
Scherzen auf der nächsten Flut.
Durch bewegter Schatten Spiele
Zittert Lunas Zauberschein
Und durchs Auge schleicht die Kühle
Sänftigend ins Herz hinein.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
Den Originalen
Ein Quidam sagt: »Ich bin von keiner Schule;
Kein Meister lebt, mit dem ich buhle;
Auch bin ich weit davon entfernt,
Daß ich von Toten was gelernt.«
Das heißt, wenn ich ihn recht verstand:
»Ich bin ein Narr auf eigne Hand.«
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
The Sorrows of Young Werther (73 = The end) by J.W. von Goethe The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole town were immediately in commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed: his head was bound up, and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs were motionless; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then weaker--his death was momently expected. He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon his bureau. I shall say nothing of Albert's distress, or of Charlotte's grief.The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing the news: he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed his hands and face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him till he expired; and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Werther breathed his last. The presence of the steward, and the precautions he had adopted, prevented a disturbance; and that night, at the hour of eleven, he caused the body to be interred in the place which Werther had selected for himself. The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The body was carried by labourers. No priest attended. THE END The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan. fleursdumal.nl magazine
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (72) by J.W. von Goethe A neighbour saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but, as everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it. In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into Werther's room with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seized her. She wakened her husband, and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears faltered forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet, entering the forehead, over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his right arm: the blood came, and he still continued to breathe. From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was in full-dress costume. The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan. To be continued fleursdumal.nl magazine
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (71) by J.W. von Goethe
“See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from
which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me,
and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the
hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock
at the brazen portals of Death. Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of
dying for you! how gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you;
Charlotte! And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom, with
what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate! But it is the
lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for their friends, and by
their death to augment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom
they are beloved.
“I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has
been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your
father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to
be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom
the first time I saw you, surrounded by the children–Oh, kiss them a
thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend! I
think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly have
I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you, how
impossible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be buried
with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all
appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road. But
peace! I pray you, peace!
“They are loaded–the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte,
Charlotte! farewell, farewell!”
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (70) by J.W. von Goethe
He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers: he tore and
burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm.
They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have
perused. At ten o’clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle
of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose room,
as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated in
another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing, that
he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master
having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six
o’clock.
“Past eleven o’clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I
thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in
these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and
through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by the
impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal heavens.
No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the Almighty
supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon the
constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for when
I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your
door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld
it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my
felicity! and even still–But what object is there, Charlotte, which
fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all
sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which you
have consecrated by your touch?
“Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray
you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a
thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and returning
to my home.
“I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner of the
churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two lime-trees–there
I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will, do this much for his
friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not choose
that their bodies should be buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy
wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some remote valley, or near the
highway, where the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass
by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (69) by J.W. von Goethe
The arrival of Werther’s servant occasioned her the greatest
embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to
his wife, saying, at the same time, “Give him the pistols. I wish him
a pleasant journey,” he added, turning to the servant. These words
fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke: she rose from her seat
half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically
toward the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly
wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert
hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the
fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word. As
soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once
to her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She
anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point
of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting
him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might
acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehensions; then she saw that
such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce
Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind friend whom she
had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation, which was
carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the morning were
forgotten.
When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received
them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given
them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent
his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:
“They have been in your hands you wiped the dust from them. I kiss them
a thousand times–you have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my design,
and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It was my
desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is gratified.
I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you gave him the
pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am–not one
farewell! How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which
makes you mine for ever? Charlotte, ages cannot efface the impression–I
feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you!”
After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing
up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling debts.
He soon returned home, then went out again, notwithstanding the rain,
walked for some time in the count’s garden, and afterward proceeded
farther into the country. Toward evening he came back once more, and
resumed his writing.
“Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests,
and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console
her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my affairs! Farewell! We
shall meet again, and be happier than ever.”
“I have requited you badly, Albert; but you will forgive me. I have
disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust between you.
Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And oh, that my death
may render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and the
blessing of Heaven be upon you!”
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (68) by J.W. von Goethe
A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately
subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never
thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the
prudent and the good have before now hesitated to explain their mutual
differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances,
until circumstances have become so entangled, that in that critical
juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all parties, an
understanding was impossible. And thus if domestic confidence had been
earlier established between them, if love and kind forbearance had
mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even
yet have been too late to save our friend.
But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe from
the character of Werther’s correspondence, that he had never affected
to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often discussed
the subject with Albert; and, between the latter and Charlotte, it had
not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so opposed
to the very idea of such an action, that, with a degree of irritation
unusual in him, he had more than once given Werther to understand that
he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them into
ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of incredulity.
Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt disposed to view
the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she never
communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes experienced.
Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed
embarrassment. He was himself out of humour; his business was
unfinished; and he had just discovered that the neighbouring official
with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage.
Many things had occurred to irritate him.
He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and
Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the evening
previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that
several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired, leaving
Charlotte alone.
The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new
impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness,
and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse prompted her
to follow him; she took her work and went to his study, as was often
her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters.
It seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some
questions: he gave short answers, and sat down to write.
Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte’s feelings became
more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining
to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her
heart; and her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as
she endeavoured to hide her grief, and to conceal her tears.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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