Three Lives: A Biography of Stefan Zweig (18 page)

Back in Vienna, the next celebration beckoned—Friderike’s birthday on 4th December. The two of them had long since adopted the familiar “Du” form of address. Zweig’s diary entry is plain enough: “Afterwards F M came to celebrate her birthday at my place, and a passionate and joyful time it was, with the cards of perversion being put ever more openly on the table.”
¹¹
Next morning he travelled to Munich to attend the premiere of his play there. She had thought about following him again, but in the end they didn’t meet until a few days later, on the Semmering, where he was busy with the first draft of a new novella. Friderike later recounted how in the weeks that followed he was always sending his servant over with bundles of books that he thought she should read. This would have given them plenty to talk about at their subsequent meetings, but in the meantime he had quite different concerns: “I must just make sure that it doesn’t become all about sex and nothing else—which is a real danger.”
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In mid-January 1913 Friderike travelled to Bolzano with her two daughters and their governess in tow. The hope was that the milder climate would be of particular benefit to Suse, whose health was still fragile. Zweig meanwhile returned to the Semmering for a few days, and later travelled to Prague, Dresden and Leipzig. He was able to combine his travels with work on new texts and business meetings, but he himself sensed that he was really running away from his own uncertainty, of which he was becoming increasingly aware. On the one hand there was Friderike von Winternitz, a woman who had captivated him to an unprecedented degree, when hitherto he had regarded any long-term relationship as too time-consuming. But on the other hand he was noting in his diary at the time:

Sexual passion frightens me, because it takes hold of me—rather than me taking hold of it. I shudder at my own virtuosity. I get into conversation [ … ] with a woman, a sculptress, and the next thing she knows she is in my rooms at four o’clock in the morning and sharing my bed. How she stares at me as if it were not true, that way a woman has of waking up next to a man she knows only in the physical sense—but exhaustively, it has to be said.
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Meanwhile he continued to write to Friderike. When he arrived in Paris at the beginning of March for his spring visit he stayed in the Hôtel Beaujolais, which suited him very well with its old-fashioned rooms and the peace and quiet he needed. As in previous years he met up frequently with Romain Rolland, fifteen years his senior, in whom—after Verhaeren, whom both men admired—he had found his second master and mentor. Rolland’s ten-volume novel sequence
Jean-Christophe
, which had begun to appear in 1904 and was completed in the previous year, had impressed Zweig no less than the French writer’s works on the history of art and music. But what fascinated him most was the sheer energy with which this man—who never enjoyed the best of health—had devoted himself to the European cause. They corresponded regularly between meetings, but now they were able to see each other several times a week. They talked at length, developing ideas for a future unified Europe. Amongst other things Rolland was toying with the idea of founding an international journal. One day when they were lunching together in the company of Verhaeren, Rilke and Léon Bazalgette, Zweig sent greetings on a postcard, signed by all those present, to Friderike Maria von Winternitz, who by now was staying at the Neuhäuselgut in the smart Obermais district of Merano in the Tyrol.

Zweig went on excursions and walks through the city with Rilke. He had just returned from Ronda with a deep suntan, and Zweig describes him as they sat together over a meal: “There’s something boyish about him, the way he laughs, his splendid sprightliness. His face is quite undistinguished, the nose is puffy, like a potato, the eyes are flat and clear, the mouth sensuously full; but his hands are very fine and delicate.”
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Now that he was spending time in his company, Zweig was able to experience at first hand what it was that had so enchanted him about Rilke even as a schoolboy—the internalised aesthetic sense in his speaking and writing, the constant striving for perfection in expression and form.

Speaking about Paris in later life, Zweig remarked—as if he felt the need to behave true to stereotype—that for him it had always been partly about women. And 1913 was certainly no different from earlier years in that respect. Quite the contrary, in fact—not content with occasional visits to the music hall or theatre in the company of a lady, he embarked on a much more intensive liaison with Marcelle, a milliner. In the hotel room she told him about her impoverished family circumstances, from which she had escaped by dint of hard work, and about her marriage to a brutal husband, whom she had left. From the outset Zweig could see
that his relationship with this woman could only be a temporary affair, but during the six weeks of his stay in Paris he met up with her as often as he could. Meanwhile Friderike updated him from time to time about the progress of her work on her novel, while he for his part was starting to compare the two women who had caused such an upheaval in his life. He came to the conclusion that Friderike and Marcelle were both serious figures who bore their sufferings with fortitude and were filled with compassion, and he wondered what kind of a figure he cut by comparison, as one who shied away from big emotions.

In other respects the city offered him heavenly opportunities—without the regrets. For this visit, like those of earlier years, was a chance to do the rounds of the antiquarian booksellers. Those establishments in particular that specialised in autograph manuscripts could count on at least one visit from Dr Zweig whenever he was in town. This time he had set his sights on some manuscripts by Stendhal, which he finally succeeded in buying at auction. He had also wanted desperately to acquire the
Fêtes galantes
of Paul Verlaine, and ended up paying a lot less for the text than he had feared. Verlaine was like an old acquaintance to him, and he had kept on coming back to his work ever since publishing the anthology of adaptations eleven years previously. As so often, the purchase of the manuscript was not just about completing his collection; it also tied in with a new publishing project he planned for the coming year at Insel Verlag. For him, the subject of Verlaine was far from exhausted, and his ambition to promote interest in French literature in the German-speaking world was as strong as ever.

Among the other new acquisitions he brought back from this trip was Rilke’s
Die Weise von Liebe und Tod des Cornets Otto Rilke
(the name Otto was changed to Christoph when the work went into print), the title that had successfully launched the Insel-Bücherei series. The precious manuscript had been given to him by the author himself. The year before he had already received two notebooks from Rolland containing the text of the final volume in the
Jean-Christophe
cycle.

After his return from France Friderike began to move things forward. In the autumn she and her daughters moved out of the apartment she shared with Felix von Winternitz and rented new quarters in Baden, just outside the city limits of Vienna. Her husband had known about her relationship with Zweig for a long time—as had her father-in-law. In order to clarify the situation she now began to talk openly of divorce. In this she was partly motivated by the hope of dispelling Zweig’s own reservations—when she
suggested that she come and join him again during one of his trips to the South Tyrol, his response had been very non-committal. In October he had travelled to Merano, not returning home until the end of November. Before that he had visited Genoa, Palermo, Naples and Rome. It was becoming increasingly evident that what she saw as a release from her marital situation could well become a constriction for him, seriously cramping his previous lifestyle.

As the year approached its end, he had several new publications to show for it.
Der verwandelte Komödiant
had finally been published in book form, and his translation of Verhaeren’s Rubens went into print. He sent his publishers a long mailing list for the distribution of review copies. Critics who particularly mattered to Zweig were Franz Servaes, Felix Braun, Julius Bab and Berta Zuckerkandl at the
Wiener Allgemeine Zeitung
and Ludwig Ullmann, who wrote for the
Wiener Mittagszeitung.
In addition he wanted the new book to be sent to all those who had received a copy of the earlier volume on Rembrandt.

Always concerned to boost his sales figures, and not convinced that he could rely entirely on his publishers, Zweig immediately informed Leipzig whenever a forthcoming performance of one of his plays was announced. This was to ensure that sufficient copies of the work in question would be available locally, and that local newspaper reviewers would ideally have their own copies of the text several days before the first theatre performance.

This year also saw the publication of his essay
Vom Autographensammeln,
the first piece he had written about his passion for collecting, which only an intiated few had previously known about. But at this stage he was careful not to broadcast his interest too widely. So he was pleased when the piece was published by the
Vossische Zeitung
in Berlin, also appearing, with a few additions, under the title
Die Autographensammlung als Kunstwerk
in the
Deutscher Bibliophilen-Kalender
, which was only distributed to bibliophiles and collectors. “To be honest, I would not have wanted to see the essay in the
Neue Freie Presse
, for one thing because it would have made me a target for the curious here in Vienna, who wanted to view my collection, and for another because I don’t want people here in Vienna to know just how much of my income goes on satisfying my passion for collecting.”
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After just a few weeks in Vienna, which were punctuated by a visit to Hermann Bahr in Salzburg and a lecture tour of Germany, Zweig was back in Paris again by the middle of March 1914. Alongside his usual activities
he was now spending a lot of time in the Bibliothèque Nationale, where, together with the translator Gisela Etzel-Kühn, he was sifting through the papers of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore with a view to writing a major study of her.

He also spent time with Marcelle again. They were exciting days, during which he even went on a major excursion with her. Friderike learnt about all this from Zweig himself, and in her letters she did her best to play the plucky “lamb” (his pet name for her). During these same weeks she was fighting for a divorce from her husband, who had initially agreed to a permanent separation, only to stall Friderike for a while—and then come round in the end after all. The whole thing was a huge strain on her nerves, and in order to avoid unnecessary publicity they decided to have the case heard not in Vienna, but before the district court in Baden.

While the outcome was still in the balance, Friderike was planning to join Zweig in Paris. In a letter she offered her services as a typist for his work, and for the rest promised to keep herself to herself, do some sightseeing and not disrupt his usual travel schedule. She arrived in mid-April and moved into the same hotel, the Hôtel Beaujolais. A few days earlier he had almost been beside himself over a sensational new acquisition for his manuscript collection, but in the end managed to calm himself, as his diary relates:

Then I went, in the rain—it’s raining here all the time—to Blaisot’s bookshop, [ … ] and there I purchased—quick as a flash, hastily, hungrily, and in spite of the feeling that I might be paying too much—the Balzac novel
Une Ténébreuse Affaire.
I was completely overwrought, confused, unable to think clearly, all fired up, and it took an assignation to calm me down. I then went to see Marcelle, and we spent a very peaceful night together—in spite of everything.
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Even after Friderike’s arrival in Paris Zweig continued to see Marcelle on a regular basis, although of course the two women never actually met. When she wrote to him Friderike adopted a cheerful tone, telling him about her shopping trips in the city, and even voicing her concern when on one occasion he was waiting in vain to hear from Marcelle. Many years after Stefan’s death she was asked about his then mistress, and could not resist taking a dig at her—the lady in question was not in the same class, she replied.
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After more than two weeks in this complicated
triangular arrangement, Stefan and Friderike travelled back to Vienna together.

Shortly afterwards a selected group of writers and translators received a letter asking whether they would be interested in contributing translations of their own to a German edition of the works of Paul Verlaine in several volumes. The letter was signed by Insel Verlag and by the appointed editor of the new edition, Stefan Zweig. Within a short time the first replies came back, most of them positive—publisher and editor had a sufficiently impressive track record of earlier projects to inspire confidence in the outcome of the present venture. The Insel-Bücherei, for example, now comprised well over one hundred volumes. Number 122 in the series, which appeared in 1914, was Zweig’s novella
Brennendes Geheimnis
, one of his best-known works, which had already been included in the collection
Erstes Erlebnis
. Published as a separate edition, it now sold even better, with 10,000 copies printed in the first year alone.

So the list of acceptances for collaboration on the Verlaine edition was impressive enough, including as it did names like Karl Klammer, Max Brod, Richard Dehmel, Walter Hasenclever, Hermann Hesse, Klabund, Rainer Maria Rilke, Johannes Schlaf, Hugo Wolf and Paul Zech. And Zweig himself planned to contribute some adaptations of his own to the project, as well as penning the introduction. Only Richard Schaukal, in his day job now an assistant secretary at the Austrian Ministry of Public Works, started carping and moaning, just as he had done years earlier with Zweig’s first Verlaine anthology, published back then under the Schuster & Loeffler imprint. When he failed to respond at all to the publisher’s initial circular, Zweig wrote him a letter saying how sorry he was not to be including Schaukal’s translations in the planned edition. The letter was posted on 2nd May 1914 and delivered to the addressee the next day. Schaukal now spent the 3rd of May in his office composing no fewer than five drafts of his reply, all of which have survived in his literary papers. In his tireless efforts to find the right words he reached alternately for the pen and the typewriter, and also tried several different types of paper: the Ministry’s official letterhead, his own private notepaper and the same paper with a black border (the legacy, no doubt, of a past personal bereavement). But in each case the tenor was the same—the assistant secretary was not disposed to pledge his literary gifts up front to any and every purpose. He expected to be courted rather more assiduously for his collaboration, if he was even to consider offering it.