Dr. Arthur
Schnitzler
on the Vienna of To-day
The Gay and Carefree Vienna of »Anatol« Has Vanished Like a Dream – Yet, in Spite
of Terrible Privations, the Viennese Spirit Is Not
Crushed
By Joseph Gollomb
Vienna, April 28.
You look at this city and regretfully wonder. Was there ever a Vienna of the Strauss
waltzes? Of delectable cafés rivalling Paris,
whose coffee and rosette-like rolls of white flour sent the name Vienna around the world? Were these boulevards ever gay at night
with lights and music from every restaurant? Where is the bright-faced populace that
flocked on Sundays to Wiener Wald at the first
excuse for Spring? Is Kreisler’s »Caprice Viennoise« mere fancy? And when you have
studied the faces in the city of to-day you wonder most of all, was there ever a Vienna such as Dr. Arthur Schnitzler, physician, novelist and playwright, pictured in his »Anatol« – the Anatol of lighthearted loves and delicate sorrows, to whom every day was new
with hope, and who elevated the embarrassments of partings with the old loves to such
a graceful art?
Yet that Vienna must have existed once upon a
time, lived and played with life and fashioned a city to its moods. For, although
»Anatol« made its bow to the world over
thirty years ago, it still lives even to the English reading public in Granville Barker’s exquisite version, and in the memories of those who saw John Barrymore play it. Since there is no Ibsen-like freight of social significance in these little
comedies, what has kept them alive so long?
If, as it must be, there is in them the salt of truth, that Anatol once really lived, and with him his city, then it is a
much changed Vienna to-day. The Ring, that girdle of boulevards that encircles the heart of the
city, is still handsome in its way, ponderous with palaces and public buildings, and
is still immaculately clean. In their regal days their architecture was less
expressive of Vienna than of a royalty that
imitated Prussia. But now that these palaces are
awkward with soup kitchens and offices, and somewhat shabby for lack of paint and
repairs, palaces and people are more akin in mood. The outward aspect of the world
you see on the Ring during the day – at night
there are few people and fewer lights – shows no remarkable poverty, although beggars
are plentiful and startlingly theatrical. But it is only the outward aspect of the
city you see on the Ring – the employed, and
those who don’t have to work, and foreigners. The real Vienna of to-day has little heart for the boulevards; and in the back
reaches of the city there is starvation.
However, since Viennese must have cafés, you see them crowded. On the tables there is
plenty of drinking water, a little weak chocolate, spiritless beer, occasionally
coffee, more often a substitute, and little or no sugar or milk. For those who can
afford it a single sardine on a plate – two is a double portion – with a dab of
mustard if you are willing to pay for it. Of bread, even the darkish mongrel kind,
there is none, unless you are dining in some haunt of profiteers. The people sit
beside these nominal excuses for refreshments, looking a little conscious of their
worn clothes, for Viennese know what it is to
dress well. They glance through skimpy journals; paper costs enormously. They comment
occasionally on this or that, and are mildly glad when the music strikes up.
In the biggest cafés there is music; for musicians, like other professionals in Vienna, are plentiful and to be had cheaply. I know
of a leather goods buyer from America who hired a
quintet from a symphony orchestra to play for him a whole evening in his hotel room.
With tips they cost him two and a half dollars, so low is the Austrian krone. In the café you can have an excellent sketch
in crayon made of yourself for twenty cents; thirty for a caricature by a man who
will show you his work in the humorous weekly you are reading. The orchestra plays
superbly and the applause is generous. But it all sounds hollow. Something is not
there. A Strauss-like waltz you seldom hear.
For Vienna, like the rest of Europe, has turned to the popular music of America; America, the young
and vital when Europe is so tired; America so overflowing with barbaric vitality that
the jazz band is its expression. Tunes that ran their brief course in the United States two and three years ago bring real
hand-clapping from the Viennese to-day; and
somehow even to an American they seem to have a
surprising freshness and youth here.
On Sundays the people still flock to Wiener
Wald. But it is only to gather wood. The splendid forests, once the pride of
the Viennese and loved for their green beauties,
are being cut down for fuel; and you see people dragging logs of new wood for miles
back to the city. Recently the park department ordered a general pruning of trees
in
the city, just to give the poor a chance to gather the twigs that fell.
And as to the world of Anatol and his
friends?
I went to Dr.
Schnitzler
himself for news of them. The man who has caught the spirit of Vienna’s youth is numerically fifty-seven years old. He is
rather square in build and therefore looks shorter than he is; but an aliveness that
would mean youth at any age gives him dominance in any group. His gray-blue eyes are
warm and bright. His ample brown hair and trimmed beard give no hint of his years
in
spite of the gray in them. He talks fast, well and buoyantly, constantly crowded from
his theme by a swarm of shouldering memories. Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, Heine, George Bernard Shaw and Shakespeare, the last two in German as well as in English, and
a host of other books look down from the shelves of handsome book cabinets. Through
a
panelled window I saw a glimpse of woods with a red sun setting behind the trees;
in
the other direction, down hill, the roofs of Vienna itself. A white porcelain stove in a corner; dark rosewood furniture;
a bowl of brilliant geraniums; framed prints on the wall, all took the warm twilight
comfortably, endearingly.
»The Vienna of ›Anatol‹ lived in the late ’80’s,« Dr.
Schnitzler
said, answering my query. »It belonged to a time of economic ease and freedom
from the weight of social problems clamoring for solution, a time when charming young
idlers could bloom and thrive. It was largely then that the lighthearted, tuneful,
gracefully living Vienna of the foreigner’s
imagination was nearest reality. You mention Strauss waltzes. Strauss’s music is
only a waft of melody through a partly opened door. It happened that his compositions
found favor in the world outside. Vienna had other
waltz music besides Strauss. Its mood was the mood of a sunny day in the spring,
Sunday. Of course, there was the workaday world for the mass of Viennese. But it was not a grinding week in the main. Employment
was not very scarce and good food and good light wines and beer not dear. And then,
too, as soon as winter let| up there was Wiener
Wald to go to and play. The Viennese are a
most lovable people when the sun smiles. They have a veritable talent for laughing,
for melody, for art, for the graces of life. When the sun smiles –« Dr.
Schnitzler
repeated.
»But one of the most characteristic traits of the Viennese is changeableness of mood,« he continued. »And the modern world did
not leave them free for long, free of the cares of maturity. From every side problems
closed in on them – social, political, economic, racial problems which are breaking
down sterner peoples than the Austrians. And
the youthful Vienna of ›Anatol’s‹ day soon vanished like a dream. Long before the
Great War came that Vienna became a changed world.
Possibly it is because I am much older that I see things differently. But I know many
young men to-day. And it seems to me that the present generation is much different
from that of ›Anatol’s‹ day. It is made of
sterner, solider stuff. It has been tempered by fire and hammered on the anvil of
economic life. Our young men since the 80’s have had to choose sides and
fight in many a war. I don’t mean national wars only. They are easier for youth to
weather. You go with the rest, that’s
all. But when it is a case of war
between clericalism against agnosticism and atheism, capitalism against socialism,
militarism against its antagonists – why, then the battleground is often in the heart
and mind and family of the young fellow himself. It is no longer a question of
yielding to contagion. It becomes a matter of heart searching, bitter conflict in
the
home, in the workshop, in the circle of friends where formerly you found only the
problem of what to play. Strikes and election campaigns, mass demonstrations and
repression, military abuse and the hatreds they bred – these were the matters that
soon took up the time and thoughts and emotions of our young people. Oh, they kept
on
playing, too, of course. They will never stop playing. That is in the bone and blood
of the Viennese. But they no longer played with
life.
»You see, the city itself developed like a too fast growing child. In
1850 it was a comparatively small affair surrounded by a fortress.
The Ring, which is now the main artery of the
city, was then only country, a free place, a road. Why, as late as 1890 Mariahilferstrasse was a suburb. To-day it is one
of the busiest of Vienna’s business streets. The
city grew too fast for its small clothes. New demands were made on hearts too young
to meet them. The result was worry, confusion, the punishments of life on all
mistakes of immaturity. From much of this Vienna
has recovered. But it has not recovered its unthinking youth, its untroubled
gayety.
»You must remember that to begin with Vienna was
not quite so light as the world imagines it.« Dr.
Schnitzler
had constantly to retrace his characterizations. It was interesting to see in
him the impulse to sketch a character or a situation with a striking figure of
speech, and to see that impulse overtaken, checked and corrected by the equally
strong passion to present the same subject in all its fullness and complexity. »Along
with Strauss waltzes Vienna has produced steel and surgery and contributions to the
science of criminology and many other things the world would expect of our neighbors,
the Germans. We are always being compared to the
Germans, or contrasted rather. Of course there
is quite a striking difference, but not between us and the Germans as a whole as between us and Prussia. Our immediate neighbors, the Germans of the south, of course blend in with our
character.
»In one respect Vienna has had a hard time growing
up. It finds it hard to take itself or others seriously, particularly itself. North
Germany, for example, has always found Vienna amusing. Well, our people took that as their
cue too. It became the fashion for our correspondents to foreign newspapers to poke
fun at everything Viennese. The result was that no
native talent was prophetic among our people. Now there is a great deal of fine
talent among them. But it has a hard time getting itself appreciated here – until
it
has received approval abroad. Gustave Mahler
found it so; hundreds of others have had the same experience. Look at this, for
example!«
He took up from the desk a sketch in sepia crayon of a young woman’s relaxed body.
It
seemed to me an astounding achievement. It was a matter of lines of crayon on paper.
But they did not seem immobile. Almost I looked for those lines to move lazily,
flexing and turning with the half asleep comfort of that young person.
»It’s the work of a young artist
of the first order,« he went on enthusiastically. »Yet Vienna has not opened its eyes to him; and will not. I suppose, until he
returns a foreign celebrity. And this disinclination of our people to recognize the
intrinsic worth of its own talent has a positive fault. Viennese are prone to accept the shoddy products – not in art, for their
taste is sure in that respect, but of demagogues who lay themselves out to capture
popularity. We had a burgomaster not so long ago who was a genius in his way. He knew exactly the degree of
folly in the Viennese mind and how to cater to it.
As a result his popularity was so tremendous that Emperor Franz Joseph himself was jealous of the huzzahs which greeted
this burgomaster every time he stirred out of his house. He got it all by such
utterances as this: ›Nature knows best.
If I were dangerously ill I would follow the advice of a superstitious wife rather
than that of the wisest doctor!‹ That’s one aspect of Vienna. Another is the great number of bookstores.«
That was one of the things which struck me most forcibly about Vienna. Food is scarce; paper costs appallingly; rags are almost
precious; and yet the bookstores about the city are many and opulent in stock. And
the beauty and color of lithography, the unstinted quality and quantity of material
and the briskness of the business are astonishing.
»There you have it,« Dr.
Schnitzler
commented when I spoke of it. »On the one hand, a readiness to accept the
shoddy demagogue; on the other hand, a keen desire for the best in thought and art.
Reluctance to accept a prophet of their own people and the quick appreciation of the
talent and genius of other lands. I suppose Vienna
is adolescent still; its character is not yet formed; its inconsistencies still lie
side by side, intact and unmodified. Or rather I should say that was the condition
of
affairs with us in 1914. Since then there have been fiery years, years
in which the character of Vienna has aged many
times six years. . . .
»The Crown Prince, Franz Ferdinand, was not
very much liked in Vienna,« Dr.
Schnitzler
went on, his tone changing unconsciously as he came to the war. »But his murder
produced a genuine shock. Before Vienna could
recover from it and to think clearly events came rushing like a mountainslide. Of
course they were largely manipulated; and still more they had their momentum in great
economic and political movements of hostility over which not only Vienna had no control, but even the rulers of the world.
»I feel that our people have no love for militarism and that, left to themselves,
they would have sought a solution less savage than war; but events and institutions
dragooned them into it and Austria was one of
the very first countries to feel the shock of war. In September and
November of 1914 the Russian armies swept into Austria like a tidal wave and it seemed as though
it would go all the way. In Vienna there was quite
a flutter. To flee or not? Some people, notably the very rich – their very wealth
seems to breed a cowardice – did flee in their autos. But in the main Vienna stayed. Some out of pride; others because of fatalism;
many because leaving Vienna would be a discomfort
and a strangeness worse than any evil they could picture of occupation by a foreign
foe.
»The Russians did not come to Vienna, but a terrible measure of war came to the Viennese. Every engagement in the field sent us
back a flood of dead and wounded. Those who had stayed behind to work staggered under
unremitting overwhelming burdens. But of actual physical want in the city there was
little until 1915, when bread cards were first given out. Even then the
prices did not rise badly. So that while our people had superimposed on them the weight
of war, they still had their old Vienna to help
them forget a little.
»Then in 1917 Vienna began to lose its lights. That was bad.
Theatres began to close early. Even to-day performances must close at eight. And Vienna without its lights at night and without a
good long evening at the theatre is not itself. Worse still was the early closing
hour for our street railways. Our people are tremendously social, gregarious. Send
them to bed early and you make them suffer, as the young always suffer when they are
sent to bed early. Then on top of that came the endless mounting of carfare, until
to-day it costs something like many times what it used to cost. Our people can no
longer afford to visit their friends at any distance, to go to theatres, to
cafés.
»Deprived of their familiar escape, from the crushing realities of life the Viennese became a changed people – confused, heavy,
spiritless, pondering. A new and terrible experience crept in on them – hunger. One
after another food stocks of every kind became exhausted; on the other hand, prices
went soaring so high that thinking in terms of money took on a kind of craziness.
The
familiar world assumed fantastic proportions. One saw everywhere the giddiness that
comes of slow starvation. Great events came to mean little; a crust of bread, a
broken shoe, a spell of freezing weather, everything. Even the end of fighting in
the
field brought no actual relief. Food stock still went on sinking; prices soared still
higher. The Austrian krone could buy almost
nothing from abroad. The foreigner came and bought everything in Austria for practically nothing – and at his coming prices
leaped up and up.
»It became a tremendously profitable thing to smuggle in food from the country and
to
sell it at illegal rates to the foreigner and the profiteer. The farmer who had food
kept it from the open market for the schleichhändler, who
paid him exorbitant prices and still made a huge profit. Our people saw their own
children starving. And in the big hotels and restaurants, on the Ring and before the Opera
House, they saw overfed, bejewelled, fur-clad schiebers (profiteers) and schleichhändler rolling
in opulence. It made our people exceedingly bitter.«
»How is it they don’t take stones and smash in the windows of hotels and restaurants
and help themselves?« I asked.
»Well, for one thing, the Viennese is not the
explosive kind. Physical violence is rather repulsive to him. Another reason,
however, is that it is not the proletariat who have suffered out of proportion in
all
this as it is the middle-class – the professionals, the people living on incomes,
the
gently bred. Laborers are organized and can force their needs on the attention of
employers, for labor is always in demand and labor has managed to get paid. But the
arts, the luxuries, the refinements of life are dispensed with at such times I know
that the families of even physicians go hungering to-day. And this class of people
have not the hardihood to take up cobblestones and help themselves. But among the
desperately poor and others there has come a new point of view in morality or
unmorality. You hear people saying. ›Since it is permitted to steal!–‹«
He finished with a shrug of the shoulders.
I thought of something I had seen that afternoon. Down one of the main streets of
Vienna a cart full of coal drove slowly. Behind it
walked a man in a soldier’s faded uniform; to guard the coal I thought. Then as the
wagon came abreast me I saw that he was calmly picking out big lumps of coal from
the
wagon and putting them in a sack. If faces mean anything that man was habitually
honest. Nor was there the least sign of guilt or fear in his manner. Having filled
his sack he gave it to his comrade, another soldier who had been walking near him,
and taking from him another sack proceeded to fill that, too. Nobody seemed to notice
the proceeding nor to think anything about it if they did notice it.
»That,« commented Dr.
Schnitzler
, »is common in Vienna to-day, but not
characteristic of it. It simply means that its spirit is submerged.«
»Crushed?« I asked.
»The spirit of Vienna can never be crushed,« he
said with rising enthusiasm. »There is still too much of youth in it left. Relieve
a
little of the load on it and you will see it rise. But it needs a strong friend to
help it up. It needs a country like America to
take it by the hand. And well it would repay any such assistance. It would repay with
talent of every kind. With high intelligence in industry. With a lovingness of
nature. With enthusiasms in work in which it is interested. With music and
lithographic art; with modern science and with a sure taste of beauty; with
machinery, surgery, decoration, music, architecture – all that a great modern city
can give to the world; a city indomitably young in spirit, matured by great
experiences, tempered by fire and made wiser by suffering. The Vienna of the merely gay days, the days of thoughtless youth, is
gone. But it lies in the hands of the Allies whether in its place there develops a
new Vienna which, instead of being a burden to the
world and to itself, becomes one of the great and beautiful cities of
civilization.«
