Walter Benjamin - Radio Benjamin

I don’t know whether Gypsies have ever offered you one of those funny wire-mesh contraptions they piece together in the quiet of their winter caves. You don’t see them very often any more, but they are little works of wonder. With a flick of the wrist a fruit bowl is transformed into a bird cage, the bird cage into a lampshade, the lampshade into a bread basket, then the bread basket again becomes a fruit bowl. But their main craft, their national art, is music. One might say that they’ve conquered entire countries with their fiddle. It’s impossible, especially in Russia, to imagine a large banquet or wedding without Gypsy music, and it just so happens that Gypsy women, through marriage with the Boyars, have ascended to the highest circles of court society. Every Gypsy is a born violinist, but in most cases can’t read a note. Their musical instinct makes up for everything; people say that no one plays the fiery Hungarian melodies like they do. Gypsies are never more proud than when they are holding their violins. There’s a story of a Gypsy who appeared in the council chambers at the castle of a Hungarian duke, and asked the assembled company if they would like to hear him play. Although it was a difficult matter they were discussing, the Gypsy’s offer was so proud and so irresistible that they couldn’t turn him away. The chronicler of this story claims that it was only while the Gypsy was playing his music that the duke arrived at the solution to the problem that had previously vexed him and his councilmen.

Gypsy music is rather melancholy. They are generally a melancholy people. Their language has no word for joy or exuberance. Perhaps this melancholy comes not only from having suffered in so many different places, but also from the dark superstitions that pervade their everyday lives. Have you ever watched a Gypsy woman cross the street? Have you noticed how tightly she gathers her skirts around her body? She does this because, according to the Gypsies, anything that comes into contact with a woman’s clothing can no longer be used. This is why cooking utensils in Gypsy wagons are not placed on tables or shelves, but are hung from the ceiling where they won’t accidentally be brushed by a piece of women’s clothing. Similar superstitions surround the Gypsy’s silver cup, his most prized possession. Imbued with magical powers, this cup must never fall to the ground, because the Earth is sacred. If the cup touches the ground even once, it is cursed by the Earth and can never be used again. But the strangest manifestation of the Gypsies’ inherent melancholy is found in their expressions of love: the silent, eloquent, and serious signs they use to communicate important feelings to each other. For example, if a couple has separated and the man wants to make up, upon seeing her he throws a card, or just a piece of paper, up into the air. Her reaching out to catch it signals that they’re reconciled. If she doesn’t move her hand, however, everything is over between them. And there would be many more such customs to tell. When Goethe was studying in Strasbourg as a young man, he took a passionate and solicitous interest in the most foreign and uncouth of tribes, including the Gypsies. He spoke about them in Götz von Berlichingen. At the same time he was writing the eerie, sad, and rather savage “Gypsy Song,” which you will find among his poems. 3Look it up sometime; reading it aloud would sound so scary that I will refrain from doing so now. But it will remind you of much that I’ve told you today.

“Die Zigeuner,” GS, 7.1, 159–65. Translated by Jonathan Lutes.

Broadcast on Radio Berlin, October 23, 1930. The Funkstunde announced for October 23, 1930, from 5:30–5:50 pm, “Youth Hour, ‘The Gypsies.’ Speaker: Dr. W. Benjamin.”

1Benjamin refers here to a version of the previously mentioned legend whereby the Gypsies, having tried to prevent Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus gaining refuge from King Herod in Egypt, were punished with eternal homelessness by God.

2See Theodor Christian Tetzner, Geschichte der Zigeuner: ihre Herkunft, Natur und Art [History of the Gypsies: Their Origins, Nature and Ways] (Weimar and Ilmenau: B. F. Voigt, 1835), 93.

3Goethe’s early drama, Götz von Berlichingen mit der eisernen Hand: ein Schauspiel [Gottfried von Berlichingen with the Iron Hand: A Play] (1773), contained, in a previous version, the “Zigeunerlied,” or “Gypsy Song” [in Geschichte Gottfriedens von Berlichingen mit der eisernen Hand, dramatisiert, or the “Urgötz,” 1771, published posthumously]. See Goethe, Nachgelassene Werke (Stuttgart: J.G. Cotta, 1833), 173.

On the French calendar, July 14 is marked in red. It’s the national holiday. On this day, for almost 150 years, they have celebrated the storming of the Bastille, which took place on July 14, 1789, and was the first great visible act of revolutionary destruction. The building was seized without much of a struggle. Yet it was a strong fortress; built over the course of fourteen years, from 1369 to 1383, it was protected by massive towers and surrounded by a moat. We still have many images of it. Gloomy and squat, it stood on the edge of the giant city. Its walls were over 400 years old when they fell. Though poorly armed, an enormous mob succeeded in forcing the commandant to surrender it in no time at all. When they stormed through the wide corridors, ransacking the fortress from its cellar vaults up to its rafters, many may have been surprised to find only sixteen poor prisoners inside this house of terror. And this was in proportion to the military presence in the Bastille at the moment of the assault, when the governor had no more than forty Swiss Guards and eighty old soldiers at his disposal. How can we comprehend the immense hatred the people of Paris had for this building, a hatred so savage that the revolutionaries who had granted the governor safe passage could not prevent him from being slain by the people? This is something I hope you’ll understand in a half hour.

First and foremost, the Bastille was no ordinary prison. Only people accused of violating the security of the state were sent there. Some were prisoners of the state, while others were prisoners of the police. Prisoners of the state were those convicted of alleged or actual crimes, conspiracies, treason or the like; the many more prisoners of the police were writers, booksellers, engravers, and even bookbinders who were in some way involved, allegedly or in actuality, with books unpopular with the king and his minions. The Bastille was indeed an unusual prison. On holidays, especially when the weather was good, carefree Parisians could be seen strolling on its embankments and behind the battlements of its towers. Elegant carriages bearing guests of the governor rolled across the drawbridges; musicians arrived to play at gala dinners given by the governor, that is, the director of the prison. Meanwhile, however, the picture inside its mighty towers and dark cellars was quite different. Those outside were as little aware of those inside as those inside were aware of their fellow citizens who were free. Narrow window guards, which are still found in many penitentiaries today, ensured that most prisoners saw no more than just a small corner of sky. Not to mention the dungeons, where a ray of light shone through one tiny slit in the wall, illuminating the cockroaches with which the prisoners had to share their cells. In Paris there were only rumors concerning who was actually held inside the Bastille. No one could prepare for his own arrest. Officers would suddenly appear and pack the captive into a carriage, which was just an ordinary cab, so as not to draw attention. When it arrived in the courtyard of the Bastille and the detainees were let out, the guards held their hats in front of their faces, for no one besides the governor was allowed to know who the prisoners were. Within the Bastille, of course, news traveled fast. Outside, though, not a soul knew who was there, and in a moment I’ll tell you the story of the man in the iron mask, whose identity remains a mystery to this day.