Three Lives: A Biography of Stefan Zweig (26 page)

Nonetheless he had decided that as soon as the peace looked reasonably secure he would return to Austria. A little normality was injected into Zweig’s life as an author by the successful premiere of his new play
Legende eines Lebens
in Hamburg on 25th December 1918. Meanwhile the first premieres of
Jeremias
in Austrian and German cities were also announced.

In March 1919, as he was preparing to leave Switzerland, he received the gift of a manuscript from Rolland entitled
La jeunesse suisse.
On the last page he had added an inscription, a declaration of independence for the mind. It was doubly emblematic—it was a mark of their spiritual and intellectual friendship, but for Zweig it was also an important addition to his manuscript collection, to which he planned to devote more time again after an extended break from it. In January he had already resumed his collecting with a resounding coup, securing a double leaf from the second part of Goethe’s
Faust
for four thousand Austrian
kronen
. He recounted his triumph in his New Year’s letter to Kippenberg, addressing himself not so much to the editor as to the collector of Goetheana, who of course would have loved to see this precious item in his own collection. Of this there was not the slightest hope, at least for now: “Dear Professor, You will understand that as long as I have shoe leather on my feet I shall be in no hurry to part with such a document.
But I solemnly promise to reserve it for you, in the event that hardship or death forces me to sell it
”, wrote Zweig, and he concluded with the words: “So a happy New Year to you! My promise
stands:
you will have first refusal, if ever I have to part with it.
But I hope you will not on that account wish hardship and death upon your true friend, Stefan Zweig.”

In the same letter he spoke about the impending peace negotiations. It is worth remembering that Austria-Hungary had broken up into several different countries, and that the newly founded Republic of German Austria had to adjust to a completely new regional order, following the secession of its industrial manufacturing heartlands in Bohemia and elsewhere. From announcements made by the victorious powers it was clear that the country’s planned accession to the German Reich would not be permitted. Contemplating this uncertain future, Zweig wrote:

What is happening in Germany causes me great pain. Germany is stronger than it realises, its enemies are in a tearing hurry to sign the peace treaty, [ … ] and Germany would hold a strong hand if it did not sign the peace treaty (the terms are too harsh)—only it must be united in itself. But it is Germany’s curse that it is only ever united when under arms and under command—never in peacetime! [ … ] I account it an honour to stand apart now, even though I am someone who never wrote a line in support of the war. I am ashamed, as an intellectual, of these intellectuals; ashamed, as a Jew, of these pushy Jews; ashamed, as a democrat, of these revolutionaries. Tell everyone you see, from one who has always been a pessimist: the prospects for Germany are better than it thinks, as long as it remains strong and resolute. [ … ] I have always cherished the hope of a great demonstration by intellectuals in support of a party truce until we have a national assembly: but where now is the unity and the strength? And I tell you this: if Austria is now lost, it will be Germany’s fault. Not ours—by heavens not ours! If Germany can stand fast and hold together, it will be a match for the Coalition.
²⁰

Yet a short time before this Zweig had written in his diary that the accession of the new German Austrian Republic to the German Reich would isolate his native land from all other states and leave Vienna out on a limb, cut off from the world and stripped of its importance. He would reiterate these thoughts a good twenty years later in the preface to
Die Welt von Gestern
. By that time, following the
Anschluss
of 1938, Austria really was part of the German Reich, prompting Zweig to remark acidly: “I grew up in Vienna, a world-class city with two thousand years of history behind
it, [ … ] in the days before it was downgraded to the status of a German provincial town.”
²¹
Comparing the letter with the diary entry reveals once again Zweig’s undecided stance on a political issue—or was he talking to Kippenberg only about Austria’s possible exclusion from an intellectual and cultural unity, rather than a national and political one? Given his own political sympathies, Kippenberg is likely to have understood the remarks in the latter sense; but Zweig’s comments are sufficiently ambiguous to permit of both interpretations.

While the big decisions about Europe’s future and the peace conferences still lay ahead, Zweig had some complicated negotiations of his own to conduct at the private and personal level. He would soon be returning to Austria, but to Salzburg rather than Vienna—and with Friderike and her two daughters. They had been together now for six and a half years, and it was high time that his parents learnt officially of the relationship. Furthermore, one could venture to hope that the end of the monarchy might bring about a change in the marriage laws, paving the way for an early wedding. In short, the matter could not really be kept secret any longer. That being said, Stefan was not at all sure about any of it—and he was a ditherer by nature anyway.

In mid-January he returned to Austria for the first time since the war had ended. His destination was Vienna, where he had arranged to visit his friend Victor Fleischer, and of course his parents, with whom he now needed to have a serious talk. He planned to stop off in Salzburg on the way to look round the house on the Kapuzinerberg, which had still been occupied on his last visit by the woman who worked as a gardener for the previous owners. But things worked out differently—and in ways that probably suited Zweig quite well. He had crossed the frontier at 11.00 am on 17th January 1919, after a cursory customs inspection, and in the border town of Feldkirch he took great pleasure in sampling the delights of Austrian cuisine again for the first time in years. He wrote to Friderike and told her that the whole journey would be child’s play, especially as he had already reserved a seat all the way through to Vienna. He left the train as planned in Salzburg, and discovered that his suitcase had been left behind in Innsbruck. The search for the precious piece of luggage was a perfect excuse to avoid direct confrontation with his family. So next morning, after inspecting his house, he travelled back to Innsbruck in search of his suitcase, decided with some relief not to travel on to Vienna after all, and bought a ticket for the next train back to Switzerland. But before he set off
he took up pen and paper and wrote to his mother about Friderike, their relationship, the two children from the first marriage and their intention to marry. The letter has been lost, but it must have been placed in a large envelope because Zweig had not forgotten to enclose some chocolate that he had brought with him from Switzerland for his mother. But he was not entirely forthcoming with his news. A prospective daughter-in-law popping up out of the blue would be enough to be going on with. “The bitter Salzburg pill”
²²
—the news that they would not be living in Vienna from now on—he chose to save for his next letter. To make matters worse, he had learnt from his brother in the meantime that his parents had reserved a large apartment for him in their newly acquired house.

Ida Zweig responded swiftly. Stefan received her letter a few days later when he was already back in Rüschlikon. His mother had of course known about her son’s relationship for a long time. At the latest by the time
Jeremias
appeared in 1917, with its printed dedication to Friderike, she must have asked herself—and possibly others too—who this Frau von Winternitz could be, to whom her youngest son felt a debt of gratitude. She now wrote to him as follows:

My dearest Steferl,

The contents of your dear letter came as a great surprise to me, even though I had heard earlier from a reliable source about an existing intimate friendship. And now I find myself confronted with the actual facts of the matter. I hope that you, as a mature and serious man, have carefully considered this important step and have made a worthy choice. Judging by what we have heard, the lady in question is a woman of some intellectual distinction, [and has] a gentle disposition, which can only be good for your character. You know, my dear child, how much you, my dear children, mean to me, and how your future has always been my constant care. So you will understand how deeply your decision affects me, and how it raises more questions than there is room for in this letter. These will have to wait until we can talk face to face. My dearest wish for a daughter has now been granted, and so we welcome your betrothed in advance as a daughter, and I look forward to the time when I can clasp her to my maternal bosom. May the future bring you the happiness that we so earnestly wish for you, my beloved son. Please give my best wishes to your dear intended, whom I look forward with great pleasure to meeting. And thank you very much for the wonderful chocolate you sent us. Your ever loving Mama.
²³

During Stefan’s abortive expedition to Austria, Friderike had travelled to Nyon with her two daughters so that they could learn a little French. Here she received the letter from Stefan’s mother, which Stefan had sent on to her with some added comments of his own. Now she could see, he wrote, that everything was moving forward without difficulty, so that nothing now stood in the way of her long-cherished wish to write a letter to his mother herself. But it would be as well, he suggested, not to mention the fact that they were not currently living together in the same place, or to bring up the subject of the children and their future care. It was best not to invite unnecessary questions, and Friderike’s explicit wish to carry on providing for her daughters by herself would only have caused irritation in Vienna.

In a recent letter to Friderike Stefan had referred to his brother Alfred, whom she had met prior to their departure for Switzerland, as her “enemy”
²⁴
, but now he was able to secure Alfred’s support for their shared plans. It was also Alfred who had unofficially prepared their mother for the expected news prior to Stefan’s first letter. So now Friderike sent her letter to Vienna and received a prompt reply, which Ida Zweig had addressed to “Dearest Friederike” [
sic
]. Once again she expressed her great joy at having a daughter in the family at last, Alfred still being a bachelor himself. “Stefan also needs to be handled with an extraordinarily gentle touch”, she warned, adding that she was sure Friderike was a “clever enough woman” to have “recognised the need for this”, and that dealing with Stefan would present no problems for her. She ended her letter with the assurance that neither she nor her husband Moriz could wait to meet Friderike soon in person.
²⁵

Now that the matter seemed settled for the moment, Stefan was very happy to spend some time in Rüschlikon without Friderike and the children. He wrote to her saying they should feel free to stay on in Nyon a while, while he enjoyed the anticipation of their reunion and used the quiet time to work on his latest project—a book about Romain Rolland. He also sorted out his papers and began making arrangements for his return to Austria. Their new home in Salzburg had to be made habitable as quickly as possible and his things had to be moved out of the apartment in the Kochgasse in Vienna. Friderike, the two girls and the nanny who was to accompany them to Salzburg only returned to Zurich shortly before the date set for their departure. Before they left they had to go through various official channels, not least in order to deal with the departure formalities. They finally left Zurich on 24th March 1919: Stefan and Friderike, Alix
and Suse, their governess Loni Schinz and Erwin Rieger (now called “Erwinli” by the two girls) boarded the train for Salzburg.

The evening before a special train had set out from Vienna-Hütteldorf, travelling in the opposite direction on the main Westbahn route through Austria. On board were the former Emperor Charles and members of the Imperial family heading into exile. First stop was neutral Switzerland. After travelling through the night the coaches reached the frontier on the late afternoon of the following day. At the same time, on the Swiss side of the same border crossing, the train carrying Stefan Zweig and his party pulled into Buchs. Zweig describes with amazement what he saw as he glanced at the other train while changing trains in Feldkirch: “Behind the reflective glass window of the coach I recognised the Emperor Charles sitting bolt upright, the last Emperor of Austria, with his black-clad consort, the Empress Zita. I started at the realisation: the last Emperor of Austria, the heir to the Habsburg dynasty that had ruled the country for seven hundred years, was leaving his empire behind.”
²⁶

The fact that Zweig only recounted this dramatic episode decades later in
Die Welt von Gestern
, never once mentioning it before then in letters or other writings, must give us pause, especially as Friderike, who was also present, never refers to this sensational incident in any of her memoirs. The most likely explanation is that Zweig’s account is not to be taken literally, as a description of events that he actually witnessed, but rather as a narrative allegory. When he crossed the frontier from Belgium into Germany by train at the start of the war, he had seen the first rail wagons loaded with weapons and military equipment passing him in the opposite direction. Now, in uncertain but peaceful times, he was travelling back to Austria—and it was the Emperor who was leaving the country.

It would be hard to imagine a situation more loaded with symbolic significance. Zweig’s gift for recreating the “great historical moment” is beyond question—and his famous collection of historical vignettes,
Sternstunden der Menschheit
, would later become the classic example of this; but it is also worth recalling at this point his piece on Gustav Mahler’s return home from America. Factual reportage and narrative flourishes were for Zweig the essential ingredients that enabled him to shape his material, and in many cases it was only by combining the two that he was able to achieve the desired effect. Details such as whether the train really did arrive at the station at exactly the same time, or whether the Emperor really was recognisable “behind the reflective glass window of
the coach”, are probably impossible to verify at this stage. We shall never know. Whether and at what point truth becomes fiction remains uncertain. It would be quite wrong to accuse Zweig of telling untruths, but one should never forget to read his symbolic narratives with a critical eye. He was always a storyteller first and foremost, not a historian, even though he felt duty-bound to study the historical record.