Schnitzler, Old, Admires America’s Young Vigor.
Is sorry He Put Off Coming Until Too Late
By David Ewen
Now that Arthur Schnitzler, the famous German
novelist and playwright, is growing old his deepest regret is that he has never
visited America. It is true that men far older
than he have successfully made the trip across the ocean. Only recently, Sir George Henschel, the English composer and conductor came here to help the Boston Symphony Orchestra celebrate its fiftieth
anniversary – and Sir George has already seen
his eightieth year. A man, however, is as old as he feels – and, though Arthur Schnitzler is only sixty-eight, he feels
much, much older. His face is deeply
wrinkled. His eyes are dull and appear sad and tired over heavy bags, he walks with
a
heavy gait and with stooped back. In spirit and in flesh he is already an old
man.
But though he is old and feels that death cannot be very far away, there is by no
means any melancholy or despair in him.
»Younger men than I have been known to
die,« he said softly and peacefully – one could easily see that the contemplation
of
death did not frighten him in the least. »I have worked hard during my life, and when
the time comes I am quite prepared to go. Of course, as long as life is spared me
so
long will there be more and more work for me to complete. My pen is never idle. I
am
now working on three books, and should it be fated that I complete them all I shall
gladly begin work on others. However, I am always ready to drop my pen, because I
feel and know that I have lived both wisely and well during my lifetime. At least
my
conscience in that direction is clear.«
And a moment, later he added, as though in
afterthought: »But I do have one deep regret. My greatest sorrow at present is that
I
have never visited your remarkable country, and
therefore have never had the enviable opportunity of seeing it and studying it at
first hand. And, unfortunately, I am now too old to remedy this!«
We were sitting on the comfortably
soft couch in Arthur Schnitzler’s charming study. The walls are covered with bookcases heavily lined with books. One of these bookcases, modestly
covered by a velvet curtain, contains all of Arthur
Schnitzler’s works in all translated languages. The one window of the room
looks out upon a luxuriously fertile garden, where during the spring, summer and early autumn Dr. Schnitzler does all of his writing. It was rapidly becoming dusk, and the room – as we
were talking – was becoming suffused with a serene, mellow darkness. Schnitzler did not trouble putting on the light.
He was buried in the softness of the couch and he was quietly speaking to me about
America.
»I have no illusions about America being something of a Utopia in the miniature,« he said,
»for I well know that it is nothing of the sort. But America interests me profoundly – and has interested me for many years
already – because it obviously points the way to the future. Whether we are at
harmony with this future or not; whether, even, this future is a desirable one, is
beside the point – nor is it a question I would care particularly to discuss now.
The
fact remains that this future is almost inevitable, and whether we like it or not
we
must accept it. Tomorrow Europe will be what America is today – and if we are interested in
ourselves we must inevitably be interested in America too. You have led the way in industry, politics and finance. I
frankly feel that it will not be very long before you will likewise lead the way in
matters artistic too.
Says Europe Lacks Our Vigor In
Literature
»From what I have heard and from what I have
read I have gathered the fact that America is
creating a new, unique form of art and culture – a type uniquely its own and one
which strongly points toward being the art and culture of the future. That is why
I
was so eager to visit America, to try to feel its
atmosphere and spirit and to try, perhaps, to understand it. Unfortunately, I
procrastinated too long.«
Dr. Schnitzler was speaking about our unique art. Was he, perhaps, acquainted with
our literature?
»Quite naturally, many of your writers have time
and again come to my notice – and from time to time I have come across much that
impressed me very, very deeply. Names at the moment elude me. But I can say, at the
very least, that you have two outstanding great novelists, and certainly at least
one
profound dramatist. Both Theodore Dreiser and
Sinclair Lewis (Note: At the time of the
conversation it was not yet known that Sinclair
Lewis was the Nobel prize winner) have
contributed something new and original to the novel. We Europeans find a vigor and vitality in both Dreiser and Lewis which
is simply lacking over here. Such prose – palpitant and alive – could have come only
from an American. And such messages, as their
novels express, are intrinsically American. As
for Eugene O’Neill, he is to me one of the
greatest figures in contemporary drama. I personally, found his ›Strange Interlude‹ to be prolix and outmoded; this business
of the ›aside‹ is neither original nor of artistic importance, it seems to me. It
is
such a naive trick to tell what is in a character’s mind which a little bit of
subtlety would have accomplished with far more aptness. But in his earlier plays –
in
›All God's Chillun Got Wings‹, and in his
›Emperor Jones‹ – he is a truly great figure.
These plays grew out of American soil. Their
supreme strength lies not only in the fact that, taken from artistic standards, they
are great plays, but also in the fact that these plays could not possibly have come
from a European pen. In the drama, as well as in
the novel, America is now fully emancipated.
»But what impresses me most about America is its remarkably experimental nature, it
is constantly alert to new ideas and thoughts, far more alert than Europe can hope to be. Take such inventions as the motion
picture – and now the talking picture and the radio and, you will find that in America these have become in a bewilderingly short
time, an integral part of American life. Such
open-mindedness to new things has, undoubtedly, given America the reputation of constantly pursuing new fads. But this, far from
being a regrettable state of affairs, is to me most commendable. It is a healthy
condition in which it is comparatively easy to make gigantic strides forward in the
future in scientific and artistic matters. It is the proper soil in which fruit can
blossom with most fertility.
»You say in America that the drama is dying? To me, of course, such a fear is
ridiculous. An art can never die. True, drama, because of certain inevitable
conditions, is in a sort of stagnancy: fluctuating periods of stagnation and
fertility are inevitable in the life of every art. But to say it is dead, especially
when you Americans have a man like Eugene O’Neill in your midst, is futile
pessimism.
»Talking pictures can never replace the spoken
drama. I do not deny the importance of the talking picture as a new type of artistic
expression – but it is a type of artistic expression different from the spoken drama.
Talking pictures may supplement the drama, but they will never supplant it. At its
best it will be eighth lively art – and an art in which, I am confident, America will prove to be supreme.«
