In the modern literary world, few names stand out so significantly as that of Arthur Schnitzler. A novelist who brought wisdom, a tremendous breadth and scope, a psychological penetration within his pages; a short-story writer of exquisite subtlety and delicacy; a playwright who infused breaths of life into the nostrils of each of his characters – Arthur Schnitzler was an artist to the tips of his fingers, an artist who was easily one of the outstanding men of genius of our time. Of course, no one can hope to prophesy which of our contemporary literary works will struggle their way into immortality; such prophecy has more than once proved to be dishearteningly inaccurate. Yet, if any of our modern literary achievements are destined to attain permanency, there is little doubt among any of our critics that at least a few of Schnitzler’s unforgettable tales will be numbered among them. Perhaps it will be the wistful and tender sadness of The Lonely Way one of the great plays of our age; perhaps it will be his remarkable psychological studies of men and women – Bertha Garlan, Fraulein Else, Therese – characters which are so vividly etched that they seem to be among us; perhaps, it will be his short stories – exquisite moods, each one of them. But certainly works such as these cannot pass into oblivion! They have the permanency of all great things – that permanency which defies time and customs, a permanency which makes these works as immortal as the art they have so enriched.

Jews may well be proud of Arthur Schnitzler – and proud, not only because he was a man of genius (for that, certainly, is no novelty!) but also because he was one of those very rare souls who did not sell their birthright for a bowl of pottage. Born a Jew, Schnitzler – unlike so many other geniuses – lived as a Jew throughout his entire life. Very few indeed, are the great Jewish artists who have not immersed themselves so deeply in their art as to forget their race and heritage. Arthur Schnitzler not only did not forget his race, he was not only a Jew in heart and in soul throughout his career, but he also enlisted, time and again, his gifted pen for Jewish causes. When he felt the stings of anti-Semitism levelled against the Jew, he wrote Prof. Bernhardi – a supremely vitriolic play about anti-Semitism among physicians. In the Open Road, he discussed the many problems facing the Jew with that clarity, wisdom, and penetration which we had long before begun to associate with his writings. And the number of articles on Jewish questions which he produced is incalculable. Never was he too busy with his other literary achievements to forget or slight his race when it needed his help.

Arthur Schnitzler – who died in his sixty-ninth year – was the son of Johann Schnitzler, a world-famous laryngologist. It seemed, therefore, that Arthur was destined from his birth to be a physician – to carry the name of Schnitzler to still greater heights in the medical field. As a youth Arthur showed himself to be so adept in scientific studies that it seemed apparent that such a son would easily bring honor to the name he bore. He went through his medical studies with ease and rapidity. The professors at the university were extolling his name. He was destined, they prophesied, for a great medical career.

It was at the university that Arthur Schnitzler first was vividly brought to realize that he was a Jew – and what such a responsibility meant. But permit Arthur Schnitzler to speak to you himself, just as he spoke to me when I visited him. »When I was a student at the university, here in Vienna, a few of the more charitable students banded themselves together into a sort of philanthropic society. Our mission was to give charity to needy students. Of course, we could not afford to give very much, but we knew that even a meager few shillings were better than nothing and might spell the difference, to many a student, between living and starvation. It was not very long before discrimination set in. When a student pleaded for financial help and if his name was unmistakably Jewish – he was immediately, and subtly, removed from all consideration. Quite naturally, such discrimination struck me forcibly, and I fought bitterly against this unfair treatment which Jewish students received. But it was a hopeless fight, as I soon enough realized, and before long I was forced to resign from the society. That incident made a profound impression upon me. It was my first realization that the Jew was confronted with problems uniquely his own – and that the problems of the Jew were likewise my own problems.«

When Schnitzler graduated from the university – and he graduated with the highest of honors! – he entered his father’s clinic in order to receive his final medical education under the mature guidance of his father. He profited much from his father’s instructions, and before long he was prepared to set out himself on a medical career. For a few years he travelled through Germany, England, and France to study medical conditions in those countries, and also to lecture frequently. It was not long before he came into his own, before he attained a fame and prestige which dangerously rivalled that of his father. Everywhere he was soon recognized as the foremost specialist of laryngology of his time – having succeeded, even, in writing a very learned paper on the Nervous Diseases of the Voice – and as the fitting successor to his great father. Everyone was now comfortably assured that the young doctor was headed straight towards greatness. The future, it seemed now certain, belonged to him.

But his contemporaries had reckoned without him. In his fortieth year, Schnitzler (with triumph ringing in his ears, and fame and success at his right hand) suddenly did the mad thing. He announced that he was forever through with medicine and that he would definitely give himself up to literature. Who can hope to explain how such things happen? Something had been long hidden in Schnitzler’s heart, and at last it was crying for life, for expression, for the sunlight. And Schnitzler heeded the call meekly and bravely. And so, in the face of his bewildered friends and relatives – some of whom thought he had gone mad, and others of whom were confident that this was only an ephemeral whim – Schnitzler hid himself from society for a full year. And he wrote his first play, Das Maerchen. And then the great physician exchanged his laurels and became now the great literary figure. Who will doubt that he had exchanged wisely?

»Many of my friends,« Dr. Schnitzler told me, in speaking about this incident, »still feel that I am a finer doctor than a literary man, and really have greater confidence in my treatments than in my novels and plays.« Perhaps. Yet when we read those pathetic, beautiful tales about women, which he has fashioned for us with such a tender hand, we may regret the passing of the great physician but we hail the arrival of a still greater literary figure. Medicine has other celebrated laryngologists, but literature has only one Arthur Schnitzler.

As Arthur Schnitzler and I were ramblingly discussing matters of literary and religious interest, I had the enviable opportunity of studying the great man at close range. We were sitting on the comfortably soft couch in his charming study. The walls were covered with books. One of these bookcases, modestly covered by a velvet curtain, contained Arthur Schnitzler’s works in all translated languages. The one window of the room looked out upon a luxuriously fertile garden where, during the spring, summer, and early autumn Dr. Schnitzler did 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 his couch – talking.

From so close a range I could clearly see that in spirit and in flesh Arthur Schnitzler was an old man. True, many another man at his age still feels energetic and full of life. Just recently, Sir Georg Henschel – who is already eighty years old – came to America from England to guest-conduct the Boston Symphony Orchestra. But a man is as old as he feels, and Arthur Schnitzler then felt aged, indeed! The deep wrinkles of his face, the grayness of his beard and hair, the heavy bags under his eyes, his stooped back, his heavy gait, and his tired look all testified that his nearly seventy years weighed heavily upon him.

And yet, although Schnitzler felt his age very keenly, the realization brought him no pain or regret. He looked upon his old age, and the coming of death, with a philosophical stoicism which was as refreshing as it was beautiful. »Younger men than I have been known to die,« he said to me softly and peacefully – and I could clearly see that the contemplation of death held no terror for him. »I have worked hard during my life, and when the time comes, I am ready to go. Of course, as long as life is spared me, there will be more and more work for me to do. I am at the very present moment at work upon three books and, should they be fated to reach completion, I shall begin work on other books. However, I am always ready to drop my pen because I know that I have worked wisely and well during a lifetime. My conscience, at least, is clear in that direction.«

Schnitzler lived in the outskirts of Vienna – in a luxurious villa on Sternwartestrasse – which peeps out upon the glorious nearby Vienna woods. Here he used to stay the greater part of his time, working with an industry astonishing for a man so old and so famous. In the back of his home there extends a tremendous garden – a Wiener-Wald in miniature – in which Schnitzler, on pleasant days, did his literary work. Winter and unfavorable weather found him in his study, on the second floor of his home, almost always alone. For when Schnitzler was deep in work upon a new book he never permitted anyone to disturb him during working hours. His food was served in his study, and not even his family was permitted to interrupt him for any reason.

He was a very careful, slow literary worker. Although he invariably worked upon two or three books at one time, each book received the most minute and scrupulous attention. Every page of his was revised dozens of times, and when a book was at last completed it was put aside for six months or a year, after which it underwent another minute and careful revision. It took an overwhelming amount of effort, pain and work to create any part of a Schnitzler story. That is why, perhaps, each of his works – even his earliest ones – are such cameos of artistic perfection.

From where did Schnitzler get his literary material? The slightest scene, the most minute episode was sufficient to inflame his vivid imagination into a mighty and uncontrollable conflagration. A nude girl, running through some wild growth on the outskirts of Vienna, brought innumerable little questions to Schnitzler’s alert mind. The answer to those questions was Fraulein Else. Another out-of-the-way episode – a chance remark by an acquaintance at a cafe – made possible his None But the Brave. And so, any little happening was possible material for a complex novel. And his notebooks and files were overcrowded with such little incidents! Who can tell how these unimportant episodes would have been translated into classics under Schnitzler’s touch had life been granted him for a few more years?