Three Lives: A Biography of Stefan Zweig (43 page)

Now that Zweig had spent some years delving ever deeper into the psychology of historical figures, gradually moving further and further away from fictional writing, he had decided not to write any more biographies for a while once
Erasmus
was finished. It was a long time since he had published one of those novellas that had helped to establish his literary reputation. The decision may also have sprung partly from the fact that Zweig had been trying for years to write a novel, so far without success. He had already started to draft outlines and early chapters for such a project during his summer sojourns in Thumersbach by Zell am See, but he had never been able to bring the work to a successful conclusion. The “story of a postwoman” that he set out to write was conceived as a great Austrian novel, but current events in Austria were in large part the reason why he could not shape the material in the way he had originally envisaged.
⁴
It was not until 1936 that Zweig began to work in earnest on a second novel manuscript, which duly appeared in 1939 under the title
Ungeduld des Herzens
[
The Impatient Heart
], and remained his only contribution to this genre during his lifetime.

His literary estate was found to contain notes and drafts for other projects dating from the mid-1930s, including an extensive collection of material for a story about the architect Eduard van der Nüll and the building of the Vienna Opera House that he had helped to design, as well as two notebooks containing sketches for a ‘novella about manuscripts’, which was likewise never completed. The planned story was about a collector who had assembled a first-rate collection of extremely valuable music manuscripts,
only to be forced by inflation and other misfortunes to sell off his precious treasures. Had it been completed, this novella would have been Zweig’s only work of fiction to deal directly with his passion for collecting. Prior to this he had already incorporated isolated experiences from the world of book collecting and the antiquarian book trade into his stories
Buchmendel
and
Die unsichtbare Sammlung.

Despite other plans, it was his interest in manuscripts that introduced him to another historical figure whose fascinating life story soon made him forget his earlier resolutions:

I had had enough of biographies. But it so happened that on my third day back, when I was in the British Museum, my old passion for manuscripts led me to view the exhibits on display in the public gallery. One of them was the handwritten report on the execution of Mary Stuart. At once I found myself wondering what was the story with Mary Stuart? Was she really complicit in the murder of her second husband, or not? As I had nothing to read that evening, I bought myself a book about her. It was a hymn of praise, defending her as if she were a saint, a vapid and fatuous piece of work. In my insatiable curiosity I went out and bought another book on her the following day, which more or less argued the exact opposite of the first book. At this point the case began to interest me. I asked if there was a really reliable book on the subject. Nobody could suggest a title, and so, as I continued my search and made enquiries, I found myself involuntarily comparing and contrasting—and before I knew it I had started a book about Mary Stuart, which then kept me busy in the libraries for weeks.
⁵

To research this promising subject further, Zweig travelled to Scotland in the spring of 1934 to visit the places where Mary Stuart had lived. He was accompanied on his travels by his new secretary Lotte Altmann, whose services he had quickly learnt to value, and who seemed to acquit herself famously in her new position at the side of one of Europe’s most famous writers.

Circumstances were such that Zweig could not afford to focus too narrowly on the German-speaking market when planning his future publications. The fact that his books had been printed and published worldwide in recent decades, and that he enjoyed long-standing close contacts with several foreign publishers, now paid double dividends. Among those contacts were Ben Huebsch at Viking Press in America and his English colleague Newman Flower at Cassell & Co. in London, as well as the
translator Alfredo Cahn in Argentina and the publisher Abrahão Koogan in Brazil, where Zweig’s works sold in vast numbers.

He was still on friendly terms with Anton Kippenberg, whose work as a publisher and collector he continued to admire, and to which he had paid tribute more than once in various essays. Kippenberg was doing his level best to steer his publishing house through these troubled times. In the wake of recent experiences and the book bans that were threatened or already in place, this had become a risky business both financially and politically. In September 1934, for example, a letter from the Leipzig police landed on Kippenberg’s desk, wanting to know whether the Insel Verlag building and Kippenberg’s private residence at Richterstrasse 27 were decked out with flags in the approved manner. He replied by return, assuring the authorities that the Nationalist black, white and red flag was flown at all times. The conservative Kippenberg had pointedly had the flagpole in front of his house sawn down in 1919, replacing it as soon as people were allowed to fly the old flag again, which they were in 1933. He also took the opportunity to remind the police that he had given prompt permission for the National Socialist People’s Welfare organisation to stick their posters on his garden wall, and that in 1933 Insel had donated one thousand
Reichsmark
to the so-called Adolf Hitler Fund.
⁶
In ideological matters, clearly, it was as well not to attract negative attention unnecessarily.

In the summer of 1934 Zweig was interviewed by the journalist Egon M Salzer. Shortly afterwards Salzer’s account of the meeting was published in the
Neues Wiener Journal
under the title ‘A Conversation with Stephan Zweig’ (once again his first name had been misspelt, notwithstanding Zweig’s popularity and the fact that the copies of his books in circulation now ran into the hundreds of thousands). Before telling his readers what they had talked about, Salzer provided a brief description of the man who had been sitting opposite him: “The languid composure of his demeanour is no guide at all to his true nature. Stephan Zweig is one of the most prolific masters of the German language. He is an Austrian. There is something Slavic about his dark, languorous eyes. His delicate, sensitive hands are highly expressive, his thrusting gait bespeaks an urgent desire to reach out beyond his present surroundings, to explore the outer limits of the human soul, which he knew better than any other writer how to dissect.”
⁷
The main subject of conversation at the interview had been the visit to the USA that Zweig was planning to undertake in the near future, in order to give lectures over there and make new contacts. He told Salzer that
Europe and America were no longer so far apart culturally, in his view, as they had been at the time of his first transatlantic visit. At all events he was greatly looking forward to the many new impressions that his overseas stay would undoubtedly yield.

Before he set off for America, he had a further visit to make to Austria. The country had been in a state of unrest again since the murder of the Austrian Chancellor Dollfuss by Austrian National Socialists. He met up with Friderike in Switzerland first, then travelled on with her to Salzburg; from here he made a separate trip to Vienna. By the time he had embarked on the return journey a rumour was already circulating in the press that he planned to sell his house and leave Austria for good.

The trip to the USA was due to begin in January 1935, and he had booked a passage on a ship sailing from Villefranche-sur-Mer. Before that he needed to finalise the manuscript of
Maria Stuart
so that Reichner Verlag could get the book ready for the press during Zweig’s absence. At the beginning of December Stefan had travelled to Nice with Friderike. Here he planned to put the finishing touches to the text of the new biography. Lotte Altmann joined him shortly afterwards to provide secretarial support. She planned to travel to the mountains afterwards in the hope that the mountain air would cure her asthma. A few days before his departure for America, while Zweig and his secretary were making some final changes to the manuscript, he asked Friderike to call in at the consulate and get the US entry visa stamped in his passport. She set off, but discovered at the consulate that the paperwork was incomplete. There was still time, however, to collect the necessary documents. She takes up the story in her memoirs: “In order to pick up the additional declaration I hurried back to the hotel and entered Stefan’s study from my room—choosing the wrong moment, unfortunately. I have never seen a human being look so startled as this young girl roused from a state of deep drowsiness. Stefan too was completely taken aback. I tried to stay calm, but my voice shook as I announced that I needed to drop off some documents at the consulate before the office closed.”
⁸
What Stefan had not had the courage to tell his wife had now come to light through a chance set of circumstances (or had they perhaps been deliberately engineered?): Lotte Altmann was not only Stefan Zweig’s secretary, she was also his lover.

In the ensuing emotional turmoil all three now went their separate ways. Lotte left immediately for her planned rest cure in the mountains, Friderike headed back to Austria and Stefan went to America. As his ship
was already casting off, he asked Friderike—who had accompanied him to the pier—to hand over an unopened envelope addressed to him. It contained a love letter from Lotte.

His stay in the USA brought him a packed schedule and a chance to see New York again, which had changed a good deal since his last visit. He gazed in wonder at the new skyscrapers that had been built, and reflected on the American character: “Then through Central Park, where the tall buildings are starting to look like a huge castle wall enclosing an inner courtyard [,] to the Metropolitan Museum. They were just performing an orchestral concert in the foyer—like in Russia, with the idea of enticing people inside, the Church does it with music and sermons, here they do it with lectures and music. I could imagine them handing out free candy to attract the youth audience.”
⁹

By February he was back in London again, leaving shortly afterwards to travel via Salzburg to Vienna, in order to prepare the text of
Maria Stuart
for printing. The book threatened to turn into “a late Easter egg, in all probability”.
¹⁰
Zweig lodged for nearly three months in the Hotel Regina, next to the Votive Church. His former school and the Rathausstrasse, where he had lived with his parents around the turn of the century, were only a short walk away. The city centre and the Garnisongasse, where his mother was living, were likewise within easy walking distance. To his relief the preparations for the printing of the new book proceeded without any problems. In mid-April, however, after considerable resistance on his part, he had to have extensive dental treatment, which forced him to rest up for a few days. By the beginning of the next month his study of the Scottish queen was finally on sale in the bookshops. On 5th May 1935, the day when Ida Zweig celebrated her eighty-first birthday in the bosom of her family and Lotte Altmann, who had stayed behind in London, reached the age of twenty-seven, a review of the book by the theatre critic Joseph Gregor appeared in the
Neue Freie Presse
. That he praised the book, as a friend of Zweig’s, need hardly be said; what is remarkable, however, is that the book became another best-seller, despite all the restrictions and the circumstances of the time.

Not all Zweig’s friends and acquaintances were as well-disposed towards him these days as Joseph Gregor. In literary circles especially, fears for the future, poverty and other threats to life and livelihood increasingly prompted feelings of jealousy towards their famous colleague, who seemed to all intents and purposes untouched even by the catastrophic turn of political events. His friend of many years Benno Geiger, who was known for his
bluntness, wrote a poem entitled
Stefan der Wohltäter
[
Stefan the Benefactor
]. In the first verse he paints a sardonic picture of a man who tirelessly invokes “the worldwide brotherhood of man” and is forever talking of “love and humanity”. This is followed by the tale of another man who finds himself in dire financial straits when he reads Zweig’s
Erasmus
, and has the idea of asking the author of the book for financial assistance. So he writes “to the kindliest of writers” to ask for help, bemoaning the fact that his “wallet is growing ever lighter” while he is haunted by the spectres of his creditors. But his hopes are misplaced. “Stefan the humanitarian, the grand European” declines to help the supplicant, politely sending him on his way with his blessing and entrusting him to the grace of God.
¹¹

It is not known whether Geiger was referring to a particular case in his poem—although presumably it was not he himself who had asked for money—or whether he had picked up on the incident when talking to colleagues and had then worked it up into a poem. It certainly was the case that Zweig was constantly being asked for all manner of help, both in Austria and in England, which he found something of a strain—though not so much financially as emotionally. And of course there were times when he was not willing or able to help. But Geiger was an inveterate troublemaker, who always knew exactly how to turn the knife in the wound—as he did on this occasion. These and other observations about Zweig are worthy of attention in so far as Geiger knew him for longer than most of his companions, and the connection had remained unbroken over many years. Geiger again writes in curious terms about the companion of his youth in the memoirs that he published long after Zweig’s death. The text makes more sense if we know that in his more mature years Zweig had sometimes given the impression of being inhibited and unsure of himself in the company of women, despite the fact that many of his stories dealt very frankly with sexual matters. With male friends, on the other hand, he would quite often steer the conversation towards sex. In his
Horen der Freundschaft
Carl Zuckmayer muses on Zweig’s social demeanour: