Arthur Schnitzler

The good European- if so miscast an animal is yet extant-may
take pride in the knowledge that in at least one art Europe is yet rich,
that she possesses at least six living writers of prose fiction who are in
the deepest sense Masters - six men whose work, like that of the Painters
of the Renaissance and of the Sculptors of Greece, will not be forgotten.
One thinks of Anatole France, of Marcel Proust, of Thomas Hardy, of George
Moore, of Thomas Mann, and of Arthur Schnitzler.

In England and in America the name of Thomas Mann is, one confesses
with shame, scarcely known, but that of Arthur Schnitzler has now for
nearly a generation been rightly honoured. It may astonish to learn that
not more than half a dozen contemporary German authors are even by name
familiar to the cultivated English-reading public. Sudermann had, twenty
years ago, what we may call a succès de scandale; of his works one may
anyhow allow that they are oiled and that they run. Hugo von Hoffmannsthal
is known through his librettos for the Strauss operas and through some
excellent translations of his untranslatably poignant verse. Gerhardt
Hauptmann's name is so widely noised among his compatriots that also in
England and even across the seas definite reverberations thereof exist,
but in his case one knows of little beyond the name and perhaps that pro-
file à la Goethe. Sundry of Jacob Wassermann's somewhat ambitious romances
have of late years been imported to America; the genius of their crude
colouring has warmed not only the proletariate. Arthur Schnitzler remains
much more widely read and much more widely admired in both England and
in America than any other living writer of German; a very large proportion
of his work has already been translated into English. I have here space
to mention only the outstanding. .

-2-

Since the appearance nearly a generation ago of the porcelain
and rococo Anatole, his position as master-artist has been assured.
Ridiculously enough, Americans have even tried - and with popular success-
to make out of these glancing scenes a full-face moving-picture! The in-
effable Literatur was, before the war, excellently acted in New York;
the intelligent recognized again the perfect craftsman of the stage, the
ironic poet of life. Last winter the ungodly rumpus over Reigen (recently
published in America) was discussed and deplored; one was disillusioned
at the knowledge that the Catholic Church and the Puritan Unchurchexercised
in Vienna the same unpleasant and untutored effrontery as in New York.
This winter the appearance of a translation of Casanova's Heimfahrt opened
to the non-German reading public this ultimate and individual refinement
of Schnitzler's very personal art. Doktor Gräsler, Badearzt, whereof
the lucid and meticulous delineation may, with justice, be likened to a
painting of Vermeer of Delft, is about to appear serially in the Dial of
New York, and afterward in book-form.

By his insistence upon the essential significance of plot,
Arthur Schnitzler earns not only the ghostly approval of Aristotle; he
earns also honour among strange peoples. For plot is one thing which in
a translation can really be given again. Thus the priceless account of
Das Schicksal des Freiherrn von Leisenbohg can be relished in English as
in German; thus the intricate and fantastic knot of Casanova's Heimfahrt
can in a translation too be elaborately and glitteringly unraveled. The
close, rich texture of these ornate tales is surely the most valuable profit
of those long walks through the Wiener Wald of which all good Viennese
know. Precious incidents, lucid details, call back and forth; salute
meticulously across this grave, complex, and honest orchestration; not
less significantly athwart the yellow dry-rot, the deciduous dusk, of

-3-

Casanova's Heimfahrt, than under that hard angular lamp which illuminates
-ironically scented-
the operating-table-ironically scented of Reigen.

Character, too, can be relished the world over. Nowhere is
Schnitzler more the master than in his manipulation of that astute scalpel
by which which he opens the hearts, petty and significant, of subjects
disreputable and honoured. Casanova is here no longer the mere intriguing
rogue he liked to write himself. The sallow, preserved skin, the sallow,
preserved heart, of this ragged-plumed, light lover, of this pedant of
the flesh, have become to us more yellow-toothed and eatingly real than
any simply living apparition could ever, in this thin world, be. Now that
the gentleman in question has at last been run to ground (the legs of his
lies were long enough anyhow to run some ways) and that another of our
sordid heroes has gone the way of Adam and of Homer, we are the more glad
to have by us, under the clear glass of Schnitzler's prose, this pungent
hero, this renowned insect, active and authentic.

I know of no other German writer whose prose is so easy to read
as that of Arthur Schnitzler. The German tongue is capable of effects
which a less highly-inflected language could not compass; these large-
calibred and heavily-shotted periods are surely the just vehicle for the
consummate expression of intellectualised emotion. Luther and Nietzsche
translated into French and into English are no longer Luther and Nietzsche.
And since Tacitus manipulated the sombre and passionate machinery of his
Latin, there have been no periods so heady and so charged as those of
Friedrich Nietzsche. But where in Zarathustra the spirit and the flesh
are one, in the works of too many of his country-men, one feels the writer
staggering beneath a wig of cannon-balls and girders. The effect is not
that of living energy. This is one reason why German literature in general
is not more regarded and more read abroad. And just because Arthur

-4-

Schnitzler writes German as though it were French, just because he writes sentences that are all of a piece, can we all enjoy him more than other German writers of fiction. That grand manner which we relish in the great German moralists is, we allow, native and natural to the tongue itself. But that generous structure which, in the passionate sermonising of a Nietzsche, carries conviction and intoxication, for the purposes of simple narration is too much like stilts. It is as though Tschekov were to be acted in the mask and the cothurni of the Greek Tragedians. But the German of Arthur Schnitzler is simplicity itself. Neat, Attic, and, one might almost say, aseptic, it possesses that quality of invisibility which is perhaps the most difficult of attainment of all those various manners by which an artist may convey his content. And this is, par excellence, the manner for prose fiction. As we perceive men and women without sensing the air through which we look, so we perceive the creations of Schnitzler without sensing the medium of this perfect prose.

Vienna is surely the most diversely lettered, the most—culturally— variously watered, of European cities. Oxford has only the Greeks and, unfortunately, Hegel. But Vienna is schooled from Venice as from Paris, from Moscow as from London. This is not inappropriate that Canaletto, learned, sober, and measured builder, should have painted here some of his most nobly ordered canvases. And it is not strange that Schnitzler, who too, learned, sober, and measured, should love his Canaletto, and that Schnitzler should be a Viennese. But in the best of Schnitzler, in, for example, Casanova's Heimfahrt, we have in a high degree that quality which, as Dr. Auernheimer has so perceptively pointed out, was first consciously introduced into literature by the Frenchman, Flaubert—that quality which we designate "atmosphere". Dr. Auernheimer speaks of this

-5-

same quality as having come into painting with the Impressionists of Nineteenth Century France. But here in Vienna, where you possess the most beautiful Guardis in the world, you should not be unaware that there worked in Venice a full century earlier one who was already a true Impressionist. In this intangible and precious atmosphere of Casanova's Heimfahrt, in this "air" which we never consciously perceive, in this "air" which we always indubitably and adorably and elaborately experience, we recognize that the miracle of the first great Impressionist, the miracle of the last great Italian painter, again lives.

But I like best to think of Schnitzler as a very wise and a very tender master of ballet. With how punctual yet courteous a stick he pokes and twirls through the complicated and wan rhythms of life itself these dry crackling tissue-paper hearts! And what hearts are not of tissue-paper?

Arthur Schnitzler

-2-

Since the appearance nearly a generation ago of the porcelain and rococo Anatole, his position as master-artist has been assured. Ridiculously enough, Americans have even tried - and with popular success- to make out of these glancing scenes a full-face moving-picture! The in effable Literatur was, before the war, excellently acted in New York; the intelligent recognized again the perfect craftsman of the stage, the ironic post of life. Last Winter the ungodly rumpus over Reigen (recently published in America) was discussed and deplored; one was disillusioned at the knowledge that the Catholic Church and the Puritan Uchurch exercised in Vienna the same unpleasant and untutored effrontery as in New York. This winter the appearance of a translation of Casanova's Heimfahrt opened to the non-German reading public this ultimate and individual refinement of Schnitzler's very personal art. Doktor Gräsler, Bedearzt, whereof the lucid and meticulous delineation may, with justice, be likened to a painting of Vermeer of Delft, is about to appear serially in the Dial of New York, and afterward in book-form.

By his insistence upon the essential significance of plot, Arthur Schnitzler earns not only the ghostly approval of Aristotle; he earns also honour among strange peoples. For plot is one thing which in a translation can really be given again. Thus the priceless account of Das Schicksal des Freiherrn von Leisenboh can be relished in English as in German; thus the intricate and fantastic knot of Casanova's Heimfahrt can in a translation too be elaborately and glitteringly unraveled. The close rich texture of these ornate tales is surely the most valuable profit of those long walks through the Wiener Wald of which all good Viennese know. Precious incidents, lucid details, call back and forth; salute meticulously across this grave, complex, and honest orchestration; not less significantly athwart the yellow dry-rot, the deciduous dusk, of

-3-

Casanova's Heimfahrt, than under that hard angular lamp which illuminates
-ironically scented-
the operating-table-ironically-scented of Reigen.

I know of no other German writer whose prose is so easy to read
as that of Arthur Schnitzler. The German tongue is capable of effects
which a less highly-inflected language could not compass; these large-
calibred and heavily-shotted periods are surely the just vehicle for the
consummate expression of intellectualised emotion. Luther and Nietzsche.
translated into French and into English are no longer Luther and Nietzsche.
And since Tacitus manipulated the sombre and passionate machinery of his
Latin, there have been no periods so heady and so charged as those of
Friedrich Nietzsche. But where in Zarathustra the spirit and the flesh
are one, in the works of too many of his country-men, one feels the writer
staggering beneath a wig of cannon-balls and girders. The effect is not
that of living energy. This is one reason why German literature in general
is not more regarded and more read abroad. And just because Arthur

-4-

Vienna is surely the most diversely lettered, the most culturally variously watered, of European cities. Oxford has only the Greeks and, unfortunately, Hegel. But Vienna is schooled from Venice as from Paris, from Moscow as from London. It is not inappropriate that Canaletto, learned, sober, and measured builder, should have painted here some of his most nobly ordered canvases. And it is not strange that Schnitzler, (he too, learned, sober, and measured,) should love his Canaletto, and that Schnitzler should be a Viennese. But in the best of Schnitzler, in, for example, Casanova's Heimfahrt, we have in a high degree that quality which, as Dr. Auernheimer has so perceptively pointed out, was first consciously introduced into literature by the Frenchman, Flaubert- that quality which we designate "atmosphere". Dr. Auernheimer speaks of this

-5-

But I like bert to think of Schnitzler as a very wise and a very tender master of ballet. With how punctual yet courteous a stick he pokes and twirls through the complicated andwan rhythms of life itself these dry crackling tissue-paper hearts! And what hearts are not of tissue-paper?

Arthur Schnitzler

The good European- if so his casted and animal is yet extant-may
take pride in the knowledge that in at least one art Europe is yet rich,
that she possesses at least six living writers of prose fiction who are in
the deepest sense Masters - six men whose work like that of the Painters of
the Renaissance and of the Sculptors of Greece will not be forgotten. One
thinks of Anatole France, of Marcel Proust, of Thomas Hardy, of George Moore,
of Thomas Mann, and of Arthur Schnitzler.

In England and in America the name of Thomas Mann is, one confesses
with shame, scarcely known, but that of Arthur Schnitzler has now for nearly
a generation been rightly honored. It may astonish to learn that only
three of four contemporary German Authors are even by name familiar to
the cultivated English-reading public. Sudermann had, twenty years ago,
what we may call a succes de scandale; of his works one may anyhow allow
that they are oiled and that they run. Hugo von Hoffmannsthal is known
through his librettos for the Strauss operas and though some excellent trans-
lations of his untranslatably poignat verse. Gerhardt Hauptmann's name is
so widely known among his compatriots that also in England and even across
the seas definite reverbations thereof exist, but in his case one knows of
little beyond the name and perhaps the profile a la Goethe Arthur Schnitzler
is than much more widely read and much more widely admired in England and
in America than any other living writer of German; a very large proportion
of his work has already been translated into English. I have here space to
mention only the outstanding.

Since the appearance nearly a generation ago of the porcelain and
rococco Anatole, his position as most-artist has been assured. Rediculously
enough, Americans have even tried-and with popular success-to make out
of these glancing scenes a full-face moving-picture. The ineffable Literatur
was, before the war, excellently acted in New York; and the intellegent re-

-2-

cognized again the perfect craftsman of the stage, the ironic poet of
life. Last winter the ungodly rumpus over Reigen (recently published
in America) was discussed and deplored; one was disillusioned at the
knowledge that the Catholic Church and the Puritan Unchurch exercised
in Vienna the same unpleasant and untutored effrontery as in New York.
This winter the appearance of a translation of Casanova's Heimfahrt opaned
to the non-German reading public this ultimate and individual refinement
of Schnitzler's very personal art. Doktor Grasler, Badeartz, whereof the
lucid and meticulous delimitation may, with justice, be likened to a
painting by Vermeer of Delft, is about to appear serially in the Dial
of New York, and afterward in book-form.

By his insistence upon the essential significance of plot,
Arthur Schnitzler earns not only the ghostly approval of Aristotle; he
earns also honor among strange people. For plot is one thing which
a translation can really be given again. Thus the priceless account of
Das Schicksal des Freiherrn von Leisenbohг can be relished in English as
in German; thus the intricate and fantastic knot of Casanova's Heimfahrt
can in a translation too be elaborately and glitteringly unraveled. The
close, rich texture of these ornate tales is surely the most valuable
profit of those long walks through the Wiener Wald of which all good
Viennese know. Precious incidents, lucid details, call back and forth;
salute meticulously across this grave, complex, and honest orchestration;
not less significantly athwart the yellow dry-rot, the deciduous dusk
of Casanova's Heimfahrt, than under that hard angular lamp which illuminates
the operating-table, ironically scented in vial of Reigen.

Character, too, can be relished the world over. Nowhere is
Schnitzler more the master than in his manipulation of that astute scalpel
by which which he opens the hearts, petty and significant, of subjects
disappearing

-3-

disreputable and honored. Casanova is here no longer the mere intriguing rogue he liked to write himself. The sallow, preserved skin, the sallow preserved heart, of this ragged-plumed, light lover, of this pedant of the flesh, have become to us more yellow-toothed and eatingly real than any simply living aparition could ever, in this thin world, be. Now that the gentleman in question has at last been run to ground (the legs of his lies were long enough anyhow to run some ways) and that another of our sordid heroes has gone the way of Adam and of Homer, we are the more glad to have by us, under the clear glass of Schnitzler's prose, this pungent hero, this renowned insect, active and authentic.

I know of no other German writer whose prose is so easy to read as that of Arthur Schnitzler, the German tongue is capable of effects which are less highly-inflected language cannot express; these large-calibrated and heavily-shotted periods are surely the only just vehicles for the expression of intellectualised emotion. Luther and Nietzsche translated into French or English are no longer Luther and Nietzsche. And since Tacitus manipulated the somber and passionate machinery of Latin, there have been no periods so heady and charged as those of Friedrich Nietzsche. But where in Zarathustra the spirit and the flesh are one, in the works of too many of his country-men, one feels the writer staggering beneath a wig of cannon-balls and girders. The effect is not that of living energy. This is one reason why German literature in general is not more regarded and read abroad, and just because Arthur Schnitzler writes German as though it were French, just because he writes sentences that are all of a piece, we can all enjoy him more than other German writers of fiction. That grand manner which we relish in the great German moralists is, we allow, native and natural to the tongue itself. But that generous structure

-5-

But I like best to think of Schnitzler as a very wise and very
tender master of ballet. With how punctual yet courteous a stick he
pokes and twirle through the complicated and wan rhythms of life itself
these dry crackling tissue-paper hearts. And what hearts are not of
tissue-paper?