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THE LONELY WAY:

INTERMEZZO:

COUNTESS MIZZIE



THREE PLAYS BY

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER



TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
EDWIN BJOeRKMAN



NEW YORK
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
MCMXV

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY




CONTENTS


                                     PAGE

INTRODUCTION                          vii

THE LONELY WAY                          1

INTERMEZZO                            139

COUNTESS MIZZIE                       261




INTRODUCTION


Hermann Bahr, the noted playwright and critic, tried one day to explain
the spirit of certain Viennese architecture to a German friend, who
persisted in saying: "Yes, yes, but always there remains something that
I find curiously foreign." At that moment an old-fashioned Spanish
state carriage was coming along the street, probably on its way to or
from the imperial palace. The German could hardly believe his eyes and
expressed in strong terms his wonderment at finding such a relic
surviving in an ultra-modern town like Vienna.

"You forget that our history is partly Spanish," Bahr retorted. "And
nothing could serve better than that old carriage to explain what you
cannot grasp in our art and poetry."

A similar idea has been charmingly expressed by Hugo von Hofmannsthal
in the poem he wrote in 1892--when he was still using the pseudonym of
"Loris"--as introduction to "Anatol." I am now adding a translation of
that poem to my own introduction, because I think it will be of help in
reading the plays of this volume. The scene painted by Hofmannsthal
might, on the whole, be used as a setting for "Countess Mizzie." For a
more detailed version of that scene he refers us to "Canaletto's
Vienna"--that is, to the group of thirteen Viennese views which were
painted about 1760 by the Venetian Bernardo Belotto (who, like his more
famous uncle and model, Antonio Canale, was generally called
Canaletto), and which are now hanging in one of the galleries of the
_Kunsthistorische Hofmuseum_ at Vienna. The spirit of those pictures
may be described, I am told, as one of stately grace. They are full of
Latin joy in life and beauty. They speak of an existence constantly
softened by concern for the amenities of life. It is just what survives
of their atmosphere that frequently makes foreigners speak of Vienna
with a tender devotion not even surpassed by that bestowed on Paris or
Rome.

An attempt to understand the atmosphere and spirit of modern Vienna
will carry us far toward a correct appreciation of Schnitzler's art.
And it is not enough to say that Vienna is one of the oldest cities in
Europe. It is not even enough to say that it preserves more of the past
than Paris or London, for instance. What we must always bear in mind is
its position as the meeting place not only of South and North but also
of past and present. In some ways it is a melting-pot on a larger scale
than New York even. Racially and lingually, it belongs to the North.
Historically and psychologically, it belongs to the South. Economically
and politically, it lives very much in the present. Socially and
esthetically, it has always been strongly swayed by tradition. The
anti-Semitic movement, which formed such a characteristic feature of
Viennese life during the last few decades, must be regarded as the last
stand of vanishing social traditions against a growing pressure of
economical requirements.

Like all cities sharply divided within itself and living above a
volcano of half-suppressed passions, Vienna tends to seek in abandoned
gayety, in a frank surrender to the senses, that forgetfulness without
which suicide would seem the only remaining alternative. Emotions kept
constantly at the boiling-point must have an outlet, lest they burst
their container. Add to this sub-conscious or unconscious craving for a
neutral outlet, the traditional pressure of the Latin inheritance, and
we have the greater part of the causes that explain Schnitzler's
preoccupation with the themes of love and death. For Schnitzler is
first of all Viennese.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Arthur Schnitzler was born at Vienna on May 15, 1862. His father was
Professor Johann Schnitzler, a renowned Jewish throat specialist. I am
told that _Professor Bernhardi_ in the play of the same name must be
regarded as a pretty faithful portrait of the elder Schnitzler, who,
besides his large and important practice, had many other interests,
including an extensive medical author