By Henry Albert Phillips
Just as it is – or used to be – the ambition of every young English and American actor
to play »Hamlet,« in like manner it is the dream
of every young Viennese thespian some day to
appear as »Anatol.« These are vital statistics
of the stage.
When that brilliant young Viennese, Joseph Schildkraut, reached the age of twenty,
he told his father, »Now I shall play ›Anatol.‹«
To which that parent, mellowed in the theater – Rudolf Schildkraut – replied: »Listen and mark well, my son. ›Anatol‹ is a sacred tradition among us. Anatol
was a mature man of the world. The first requisite is that the actor at least appears to be the man. How can you, therefore, with the first down scarcely shaved
from your face and with all the appearance of untried youth, dare to essay the part
of a worldly fellow who has had a galaxy of artful women under his sway? No, my son,
go backstage and cool your heels and your ardor for another ten years – then we shall
see.«
Ten years passed that recorded the pyrotechnical career of the younger Schildkraut on the American stage, winning the
required spurs and years that should prepare him for the role that he had envied at
twenty. Now, at the precise age of the celebrated Anatol himself – thirty – Joseph Schildkraut steps into the role.
Legendary Figure Even in Vienna
Since »The Affairs of Anatol« was produced in
1912, with John Barrymore in
the title part, until the present revival, shortened to »Anatol« by the producer, Bela Blau, much has been written in books and elsewhere about the play, but
the author has remained more or less of a mythical figure. (It is worthy of note that
another piece by Dr. Arthur Schnitzler, »The Green Cockatoo,« is being staged by the Civic Repertory Company.)
Arthur Schnitzler is somewhat of a legendary
figure, even in his native Vienna, except among a
small coterie of friends, mostly writers, to whom he is very real and human. Only
the
other day was the chain of happy circumstances that led to my meeting Arthur Schnitzler recalled, when I met the young
director of the present Bela Blau production,
Herr Beer-Hoffmann
Richard Beer-Hoffmann, a major poet in the
German language and father of the present director of »Anatol,« is a neighbor of Dr. Arthur Schnitzler, living in the outskirts of Vienna. One day when I was taking tea with the Beer-Hoffmanns I was asked if I had met Schnitzler. I said »No,« but I would like to meet him,
although I had been told generally that that was impossible. Herr Beer-Hoffmann assured me that it was not difficult at all. He
went to the telephone and called up the doctor. A ten-minute talk followed and he
returned saying he was sorry, but Dr. Schnitzler was averse to meeting strangers.
A few weeks later I told this anecdote to the late Hugo von Hofmannsthal (writer of the scores of many of Richard
Strauss’ famous operas), also an intimate of Schnitzler. He sat down and wrote a letter to him and arranged to make an
appointment for me by telephone after the letter had been received. This led to an
appointment to see Schnitzler that was broken
three times, as though he repented of it, before I was finally invited to come
positively.
Through a most regrettable circumstance I mislaid the precious address – that does
not appear in any directory or
telephone book. I trusted to memory and rang
the bell of nearly every villa on Sternwartestrasse before I hit upon the Schnitzler menage. Every one else informed me that he had heard the name
somewhere, he thought, but had no idea where this person lived. I arrived nearly an
hour later than the appointed time.
Awaited Author in Fear
Dismayed and with fear and trembling, I followed the housemaid into
the house and upstairs. I wondered just what was going to happen to me for thus
practically insulting a great man by keeping him waiting an hour for an appointment
he had never wanted to make. I sat there in his Biedermayer parlor conjuring up
visions of this creator of so many heroes of wild escapades and heroines of so many
pitiful tragedies and of the famous Wiener »Suesse Madl.« I thought of »Casanova’s Homecoming« and of »The Affairs of
Anatol« and at once conceived a daredevil swaggering sort of adventurer. I
remembered now that I had seen Schnitzler’s
photograph once with a long pointed beard that somehow gave me the impression that
he
would be a tall man and slender, with twinkling eyes.
Then he entered the room – or rather, he peeped in first and then tip-toed in, half
fearfully it seemed. He was nothing I imagined him to be. I was wrong in everything
but the beard. He was shortish and a bit roly-poly in figure, a little hunched. His clothes were no more stylish than
his manner was dashing. His coat was too amply cut and he was gemuetlich, which means
»graciously friendly,« if it can be translated at all. He was gentle, sweet-natured
and every remark he made was characterized by charity, or hastily revised for fear
that I would think he was calling things or people names. And above all, he seemed
more scared than I was. The task before me seemed one of assuring him that there was
nothing to be scared about, and I set about it by abjectly apologizing for my being
so unpardonably late and explaining how it came about.
»I write many things at once,« he was soon
telling me, one moment as solemn as an owl, the next with a twinkle in his eyes that
never quite approached merriment. He showed me a little room in which he sometimes
worked, although for the most part he wrote standing up before a little oldfashioned
slant desk that stood before a broad bay window looking out into his gardens, from
which he seemed to derive no end of inspiration both from working in them and looking
down upon them.
I asked him to explain how he could write more than one thing at a time.
Writes Play and Novel Together
»I like to write a play and a novel at the same time. By that I mean when I am tired
of writing one I turn to the other and find it refreshing. The styles of writing the
two are so very different. I find fiction is more confining and I feel the dead
weight of it after I have been writing steadily for some time; whereas playwriting
is
always exciting and I pause when it has exhausted me by carrying me breathlessly or
passionately to some denouement. I play one off against the other and find that many problems that seemed
impossible yesterday come with less difficulty when I turn back to them after a day’s
exercise in a quite different field of creation. My last two books and a play I wrote
in this manner – all at once, so to speak. And I finished them all at one time
nearly.
»My critics sometimes say that I am always concerned in some way with the virtue of
women. I suppose that is true, since I find that most of the passionately dramatic
things of life – especially its tragedies – are concerned with the virtue – or lack
of it – of women. There are some who say that the virtue of women has altered since
the war. But I do not think so. The change is really not so great as we read. People
are much the same; surely human nature has not altered. The human boundaries only
are
changed – more freedom is given to go out, which, alas, has its corollary, implying
there is more freedom to invade the private life and person. There are chain and
penalties of freedom as well as of imprisonment.
»The great thing is that women in ever increasing numbers are no longer in the home,
but are out working, and that I find in itself is a very excellent change. If it
gives the woman freedom it also equips her with independence. She earns her own money
and can choose her own friends, lovers if she will, like a man. Of course there is
always danger of her losing the indispensable qualities of womanhood.«
Between the lines and words, we may discern Schnitzler’s attitude toward »The Affairs of
Anatol.« Written in those days of gay Vienna, before the war, any romantic adventures were possible – nay,
probable, according to Schnitzler. Only Schnitzler would have dared to write and try to
produce the most audacious play of its period – »Reigen« – that was variously acclaimed and mobbed – even in liberal Vienna – and finally proscribed even in the
printing. The gloomiest tragedy stalks through his mind rubbing elbows or wings with
oafish comedy and elfish fantasy. Always tinged and pierced with the flaming spear
of
virtue.
Refuses to Visit America
The next time I saw Schnitzler, he had finished »Spiel im Morgengrauen« but three days before and had selected
this title after many changes. He was as happy as a child over it. His »Traum Novelle« was running in »Vanity
Fair« at
the time. His novels were all being published regularly in English and his plays were
being spoken of frequently for our stage.
»Why don’t you come to America – you would create a vogue, like so many other
foreigners?« I asked him.
»Oh, no, I am afraid of many things.
For one thing it takes too long on the water. I would like to go to America, perhaps, as a private man and make a journey through
the country for pleasure – not to lecture. I would like to see little of New York, but much of the country. But I am
afraid they would not let me have my way and do these things. They invite me to come
and write films!« He shrugged his shoulders expressively. »I much prefer to send them
by post.
»And then I am afraid of critics, all critics, people who write about me. I am afraid
of you. At some time they suddenly say the wrong thing. It already is too late. That
dictum can never, never be corrected once it has appeared! If a critic knows me well,
then he knows me too well to write about me. If he knows me but slightly, then how
can he know enough to write intelligently about me?«
»I hope some day the Theater Guild will give my
›Bernhardi,‹ about which we have
corresponded. And there is a new translation of my ›Lonely Way‹ that should be done in America.
»I know it will not be as in Russia where they
steal the things of the foreign artist. For thirty years they have played my ›Fairy Tale,‹ but I have not received a single
kopek for it. Many years ago a Russian actor looked me up as the author of a famous
play in Russia. ›But it cannot be my play?‹
›Oh, yes,‹ he insisted. ›I have spent many days in the magnificent home bought by
the
producer from the proceeds.‹
»If he would not send me money, at least he might have written me a few words saying
how much he enjoyed the house my piece had given him!«
