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been quiet onstage for some time we hear, quite softly at first, a breathing that becomes increasingly louder. We recognize it. It becomes louder, that is, larger and larger—a death rattle? A very intense inhaling? Or only a bellows? Or a huge animal?
    It becomes steadily louder.
    Gradually it becomes too large for the house.
    Is it here, is it over there?
    Suddenly it is quiet.
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    After a long time it becomes bright again.
    The house, the cornfield, the beetfield.
    We see neither the cat, nor the warden, nor the ward; not even the beet-cutting machine remains onstage—except for the three backdrops, it is bare.
    Now someone enters from the right: it is the ward.
    He is carrying a small tub in front of him, and wound about his upper body is a rubber hose.
    He is no longer wearing his coveralls.
    The tub is placed on the floor, the hose is unrolled.

    One end of the hose is placed in the tub; the ward takes the other end offstage, straightening the hose in the process.
    We hear the water running into the tub for some time.
    Then the ward returns, a sack of sand in one arm.
    He puts the sack next to the tub.
    He reaches into the sack with his hand.
    He straightens up and lets a handful of sand fall into the tub, without letting the sand slip between his fingers first.
    He again reaches into the sack and, standing, lets a handful of sand fall into the water.
    He again reaches into the sack and, standing, lets a handful of sand fall into the water, nonchalantly, irregularly, unceremoniously.
    He again reaches into the sack and, standing, lets a handful of sand fall into the water.
    Now we hear the isolated chords again.
    The ward reaches into the sack and, standing, lets a hand
    The ward reaches into the sack and, standing, lets a hand

    ful of sand fall into the water.
    ful of sand fall into the water.

    The curtain closes.
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    Translated by Michael Roloff

Quodlibet

    Translator’s note
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    More than any of Handke’s plays to date, Quodlibet (written in 1969, between Kaspar and The Ride Across Lake Constance) requires fairly extensive adaptation to an American linguistic, cultural, and historical environment. Why this is necessary is made apparent by the play itself. What finally surprised me, though, was the comparative ease with which indigenously German allusions—allusions to the various manifestations, public and private, of fascism—can be replaced by American equivalents. In further adaptations, which a cast may want to make, it would be worthwhile to consult the invectives at the end of Handke’s Offending the Audience (Publikumsbeschimpfung) simply to see how “not to overdo it.” This translation is meant as a basic model for American productions.
    M.R.

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    The curtain rises. On the bare stage, one by one, talking quietly to each other, appear the figures of the “world theater”: a general in uniform, a bishop in his vestments, a dean in his gown; a Maltese knight in the coat of his order; a member of a German student corps with his little cap and sash; a Chicago gangster with his fedora and pin-striped double-breasted suit, a politician with two heavily armed CIA bodyguards; a dance-contest couple—he in a dark suit and white turtleneck sweater, she in a short, pert dress; a grande dame in a long evening gown, carrying a fan; another female figure in a pants suit, a poodle on the leash.
    These figures come on stage in no particular order, separately or in pairs, arm in arm or not. Chatting, they slowly walk about the stage, step here and there, laugh softly at some remark or other, walk on again, not that one hears them walking of course. Each chats with the others at some point; every so often one of them stands apart alone as though struck suddenly by some thought before starting a new conversation; only the bodyguards take no part in the conversations; they nod to each other occasionally, that’s all; otherwise they keep peering away