The Awakened Admetus [Der Weg 1948-02]
An original translation of "Der erwachte Admet"
Source Documents:
[LINK] Der Weg 1948 German Scans
Note(s): This article appears in “Der Weg”, a German-language magazine founded in Buenos Aires, Argentina in the years immediately following the destruction of the Third Reich. See the links above for more information on the magazine and its contents.
Title: The Awakened Admetus [de: Der erwachte Admet]
Author(s): Willy Wirth
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 2, Issue 2 (February 1948)
Page(s): 100-104
Referenced Documents:
[LINK] Life Lessons from the Great Books, 13 Euripides Alcestis
The Awakened Admetus
A Story by W. Wirth
The theater in our city had secured the premiere of a prize-winning drama by a young poet. This promising talent had chosen Euripides’ Alcestis as his subject, interpreting and reshaping the ancient Greek legend in his own distinctive way.
The hour of the performance had arrived. The rows in the stalls were filled, and the boxes and galleries were well occupied too. By chance, I found myself seated beside a gentleman friend of mine, a nerve doctor who enjoyed great esteem in his profession. He was reading the theater program as I took my place and greeted him.
“The play seems promising,”
he remarked.
“I’m just reading the synopsis.”
“It’s well worthy of its praise,”
I replied.
“You already know the drama?”
“I bought the text as soon as it was published,”
I answered.
Then the bell sounded. The lights in the hall dimmed, then faded entirely. The rustle of ladies’ dresses as they settled into their seats blended with the soft clatter of folding chairs being lowered. The curtain floated upward.
The play began. The tragedy of life unfolded.
Into the joyful throng of feasting wedding guests stepped a dark, shadowy figure. The merry clamor fell silent; the celebrants paled. The Angel of Death spoke a heavy word:
“Admetus, you must die—tonight.”
The newlywed pleaded for his life, begging that a sacrifice be accepted to spare him.
“If among those dearest to you there is one willing to die in your place, then you are free. In three days, I will come for them—or for you.”
So spoke the Angel of Death before departing. For three days, Admetus sought someone he thought might have little left to live for, someone who might surrender a life already fulfilled or deemed worthless to save one still blooming with promise. In vain. His aged father would not offer himself, nor would his frail, elderly mother. His friend, struck with a fatal illness, clung to hope of recovery. Three days passed. The fateful hour drew near. Then Alcestis, his beloved wife, a beautiful and healthy woman, declared her willingness to die for him. Admetus was shaken. He reflected. He refused her sacrifice, resolved to face death himself.
The curtain fell. The hall’s lights flared to life. The audience dispersed into the intermission. In the corridors, theatergoers mingled. The refined hues of elegant ladies’ gowns and the solemn black of the gentlemen’s evening attire lent a festive air. A murmur of earnest conversation and lively chatter, laced with the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke, drifted through the passages. The doctor walked beside me in silence. We had often attended the theater together, and I knew how a great work could stir him into a state of deep emotion that lingered long after. I also understood that his brooding nature prevented hasty judgments. His keen sense of responsibility forbade superficial “opinions.” What he voiced was measured and deliberate. Yet, for the immediate impression a powerful artwork left on him, he always found a few apt words.
But today, my companion said nothing. Not a sound escaped him about how the play had struck him so far. I was about to ask when I noticed once more that strange expression on the doctor’s face, a look familiar to those who knew him well. This odd shift often came without warning. In the midst of lively talk, he might suddenly fall silent. His eyes would drift to infinite horizons, then turn inward. His face seemed to gaze into a shroud of dread, his features contorted by a piercing pain. But then, with a sudden grip, his stare would sharpen, searching our faces. There was something startled in that forced turn of his gaze, a hint of fear—as if he dreaded being caught on hidden paths.
Only one reason seemed to explain these strange states: a devastating blow of fate had, years ago, robbed him of his wife in a horrific manner. It happened thus: In an era when city halls opened their doors at night to dance-hungry, pleasure-seeking masqueraders, the doctor had indulged his young wife’s wish to attend a costume ball, the most popular of its kind each year. The event unfolded with delight. He took great joy in his lovely wife’s vivacity. But three hours past midnight, a collective weariness set in. The ceaseless dancing and late hour sapped the festive spirit, worsened by the stale air of the hall. The mingled scents of food and wine, powder and perfume, dust and the heat of dancing bodies grew oppressive. The mood waned, resisting all efforts to revive it. So the doctor resolved to leave. He wrapped his wife in her heavy fur coat, and they stepped into their car, driving off into the night.
The next day, newspapers reported that at a sharp bend on the country road along the river, the doctor’s car had likely struck a milestone and plunged into the swollen floodwaters. Only the doctor had escaped. His wife and the driver had drowned. According to the survivor’s account, he had tried to pull his wife to shore through the raging current. But he could not free her from the fur coat and could no longer bear its weight. He had been forced to let her go to avoid perishing himself—lest a three-year-old girl be left without both parents.
Whenever that peculiar change overtook the doctor’s demeanor, one might trace it to a stray word, to things we could not fathom, which must have summoned the memory of that awful event so vividly that it seized and overwhelmed him entirely.
As we paced the theater’s corridor, it seemed to me this state had never been so stark as in those moments. At times, his face twisted so sharply that I thought I saw a fracture in it, marring it like a crack in a treasured cup. This sight kept me from asking how he’d found the play thus far.
“Perhaps,”
I mused,
“the play’s themes struck chords tied to his own experience.”
I did not wish to intrude on his thoughts. Then the bell rang, and we returned to the hall. The performance resumed.
The hour arrived when Admetus awaited death. He felt strong enough to meet his inevitable fate with calm and without fear. Then the Angel of Death appeared—and at the sight, a startling will to live surged within Admetus. He yearned to survive at any cost. Once more, Alcestis offered herself in his stead. Admetus stood frozen, locked in motionless silence. Slowly, the Angel of Death advanced toward Alcestis, his hand already rising to claim her, when Admetus lunged forward.
“Let her live!”
he cried, his voice raw with torment. Too late. Death had touched his wife, and she fell lifeless into his arms.
The play ended. For a few seconds, a deathly stillness gripped the hall. Then a thunderous applause erupted, honoring both the shattering finale and the drama’s superb execution. I joined in the ovation, caught up in the fervor, and lost track of my neighbor. As I prepared to leave, I found myself alone. The doctor had slipped away unnoticed.
I hurried out to find him and spotted him at the cloakroom. Wordlessly, we left the building. At the corner of the theater square stood a dance café. There we paused. Our paths diverged here. I sensed he meant to take his leave. Preempting him, I asked,
“Are you heading home?”
He merely nodded.
“Might I convince you to join me at this café?”
I pressed.
“After that play?”
he exclaimed, astonished.
“You think it tasteless to let the weight of this performance dissolve amid a public bustle? But the Greeks,”
I countered,
“followed their tragedies with satyr plays—and they were surely a people of taste. They pitted the mournful forces of fate against the buoyant fullness of unquenchable life. Their audiences, gripped and shaken by tragedy, longed to be lifted into a joyful, lighthearted mood, to be filled at last with the simple nearness of affirmed existence. For they cherished life, and to live meant not succumbing. The tragedy lies behind us,”
I went on,
“and the present has its own satyr play—the jazz band in that dance café.”
He gazed at me, first with wide-eyed surprise, then with a faint, doubtful smile tugging at his lips. He wavered, mulling over my words. To me, it seemed the rigid mask of his face softened, the dark shadows around his mouth and eyes beginning to lift. For a moment, he was silent. Then he resolved, saying,
“You’re right. One mustn’t let oneself be overcome. One must rise above emotion to find true freedom.”
The café buzzed with life. Couples swayed on the dance floor to a jazz band’s rhythms. They moved to the latest hits, their carefree tunes borne by the violin and spiced with the exotic wail of a saxophone. Among them were stylish young men with blank faces, their smooth pallor almost powdered, and slender girls in sleeveless dresses with skirts so short that, dancing or sitting, they revealed the graceful curve of their knees.
It struck me that these youths cared little for sparking conversation. Likely, they asked nothing more of each other than mastery of the newest American dance steps. Their faces mirrored a primal calm, a breezy shallowness devoid of yearning, much like the music they followed.
The doctor grew talkative. We spoke of the play. I praised its noble artistry but questioned whether the poet had fully succeeded in making Admetus’ fleeting acceptance of his wife’s sacrifice resonate with modern sensibilities. Despite the drama’s striking reimagining, this Greek tale felt distant from the mindset and emotions of today’s audience.
“Do you think so?”
the doctor replied, his eyes not meeting mine. They wandered again into boundless expanses, into the enigma of his private visions. That familiar shadow briefly crossed his face.
“In every life,”
he said slowly,
“there may come moments that reveal an Admetus within us. One must have lived it.”
He paused, then added softly,
“And I have.”
He stared ahead, still, for a beat. Then his gaze snapped to me with that odd suddenness, almost hostile. Challenged, I responded,
“I sense where your thoughts lead, and forgive me if I tread there, offering a justification you won’t allow yourself. Back then, you let your wife slip to the flood to spare your child the loss of both parents.”
He looked at me, uneasy, and said nothing.
“Pardon me,”
I pressed on,
“I shouldn’t have spoken of it—or urged you to come here with me.”
“Why not?”
he shot back quickly.
“I know you brought me here hoping this dancing youth and light music might free me from my heavy stirrings.”
He scanned the twirling couples and said,
“This shallow, mindless pleasure hardly merits comparison to a satyr play. I sensed you didn’t fully buy your own reasoning. Yet you’ve succeeded. I feel unburdened, compelled at last to confide in a caring friend. I must renounce a lie that has cloaked my actions. I was coward enough to let it stand—for six years.”
“A lie?”
I blurted.
“People believe,”
he continued,
“I saved myself at my wife’s expense for our child’s sake. They believe it and absolve me with it.”
Astonished, I asked,
“And that’s not true?”
“No!”
he confessed.
“Hear me out!”
He steadied himself with an eerie calm, then began:
“As we left the masquerade, a light snow had started, turning suddenly into a fierce blizzard as we drove through that treacherous stretch of road. In an instant, thick flakes coated the car’s windows, blinding the driver. Before he could slow, disaster struck. A jolt, a lurch! My wife and I were flung from our seats as the car plunged into the churning flood.
By some miracle, no windows shattered, keeping the water from rushing in full force. I stayed alert, grasping in a flash what must be done. With one arm, I gripped my wife; with the other, I forced the door open. The flood hadn’t reached it yet—the car had tipped to the opposite side. A second more, and the high water would have swept us away inside, sinking us to the riverbed.
Barely had I freed us when the current snatched us, dragging us far from shore. My wife made no sound—she must have fainted. I struggled to keep us afloat, but only briefly. My sodden clothes, and worse, her waterlogged fur coat, now dreadfully heavy, pulled us under. I fought the icy flood in desperation. Water grazed my head, then closed over me. In my death throes, driven by an unconscious urge to survive—I don’t know how—I must have let her go, abandoning her to the elements. I broke the surface, gasping for breath.
Then, in the moonlight, ten meters off, drifting toward the river’s heart, I saw something floating—my wife! Only then did I realize what I’d done. I turned swiftly to save her, or more likely, to die with her. But then came the strangest thing: I thought I heard a child’s cry. ‘Our little one,’ flashed through my mind. That thought made me falter, and my wife succumbed to her fate. I saw her swept further into the current, saw her sink, the water passing over her without care.
Freed from a paralyzing spell and numb shock, I hurled myself with my last strength toward the saving shore. When my feet touched solid ground, the full weight of it hit me. I nearly collapsed, drained and gripped by horror.”
His voice had risen with agitation. He drew a deep breath and reached for his glass. Then he went on:
“A nearby inn still glowed with light. I dragged myself there, wading through flooded streets nearly to my knees. And oddly, that fateful cry still echoed in my ears. Was it a trick of my fevered nerves? Was it real? In the inn, one room shone bright, its window open. A woman’s silhouette stood framed within. And wasn’t I right? Didn’t a child’s wail drift from that room into the night?
Once I’d recovered a little and recounted the accident, I learned the figure was the innkeeper’s wife. She suffered from asthma and, seized by a fierce attack, had craved fresh air. Her child had woken and begun to cry. Had I heard that sound over the water at the crucial moment? Or was it a whisper from my subconscious, a false echo sparked by the sudden thought of my daughter?
I don’t know. But this much is certain: I’d forsaken my wife before I ever thought of saving myself for our child.”
He finished his confession and gazed quietly ahead. He seemed lighter. I was profoundly moved.
“You’ve given me a deeper understanding,”
I said at last.
“You may be right. A shard of Admetus likely slumbers in us all. Not everyone faces the moment that awakens it.”
We sat in quiet accord, wordless. Then a loud guest at a nearby table caught my eye. A stout, bald man, he masked his pate with a few thin strands. Between stubby fingers, he clutched a thick cigar. His puffy face bespoke a taste for coarse pleasures. Beside his chair, two wine bottles chilled in a cooler. Someone had once named him a cinema director. Across from him sat his wife, her plump face bearing two prying, spiteful eyes and a wide mouth curled in a bold smirk. Every word he barked about the theater performance carried clear, delivered with smug certainty. His kind, seated around him, lapped it up.
“Dull stuff they put on tonight,”
he griped.
“No action at all. Barely anything to see. Pure fakery. Theater’s finished. Film’s left it in the dust—the future’s all cinema.”
That was the gist of his rant.
Then he proposed to his wife that they make up for it with a dance. He heaved himself up, striding to the band with the smug air of a man unhindered by doubts or decorum. I watched him haggle with the violinist, slipping him a fat note with obvious flair—a man keen to prove his largesse.
The music swelled. Violins sang, a waltz rhythm pulsed through the room. Couples spun, and the cinema director twirled his wife about with gusto. The doctor listened, startled.
“To this music—”
he said, his tone sharp with reproach. Then he turned to me:
“Let’s go.”
I nodded assent.
As we left the café, he lingered at the door, ear bent to the lilting Viennese waltz. I glanced at him, questioning.
“To these strains,”
he said,
“I danced with my wife for the last time that terrible night.”
We stepped into the empty, moonlit street. A storm had ravaged the parks, scattering leaves, twigs, and soft white blossoms across the ground. Yet, amid the ruin, a potent scent of acacia and fresh roses hung over the square—a fragrance that seasoned our breath, rich and alluring, a siren call to life.