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wiall 8. JAY KAUFMAN.
The biggest figure to-day in Vienna
18
Schnitzler
and the biggest figure not only to tha
outside world, but he is a prophet.
with every honor, in his own homa.
And there is a curious sort of attitude
about his greatness. He is not locked
upon only as a great writer. That is
to say, instead of the Viennese con¬
sidering him only from the standpoint
of a man of letters, he is looked upon
from the standpoint of a man. And
this because his interests throughout
his literary career have remained with
the people and, perhaps, because he
was a noted doctor. He began writ¬
ing when he was ten.
His father, too, had written for the
theatre. The first work of his to be
acted came about by accident. He
was twenty-eight and was practising
#
medicine. The director of one of the
theatres somehow got hold of the play
and mistook it for the work of his
father. He found enough merit in it
to encourage the young doctor, and
then followed another and another.
As his reputation grew he gave less
and less time to the actual practice
of medicine, and to-day he does not
practise at all. Unless, as he told us,
77
some one comes to him“’with a pain,
and he will not treat that patient if
he can avoid it.
We found him in exactly the sort
of home we expected to find him. His
study is a highly polished room.
Everything in it is polished, not only
of polish, but literally polished.
Everything in it is exquisite. The
furniture, the china, the hangings are
all those of a collector, but there is
little that is old in the room. This
quality of polish strikes you at once,
and you feel it not only in the study,
but in the salon and even in his
garden. The telephone is so arranged
that when you enter he disconnects it
and sends it out of the room. We
thousht of Al. Woods.
And then he stands at a high desk,
much like the old English bookkeep¬
er’s desk. On this he writes. There is
no high stool. He is about five feet.
six inches tall, and the desk is about
as high. As he talks—in English, by
the bye—he rests his head on his
hand. Picture if you can a man about
sixty. Do you recall that well-known
painting of the doctor at the bedside
of a child? He might—a few years
ago—have posed for that figure. Few
faces have in them the tranquillity
that is in the face of Schnitzler, but
few tranquil faces seem as shrewd.
Shrewd but pleasant. As he talks you
begin to understand the mental qual¬
ity, the turning over of the mind, as
it were, of all his plays. You feel that
he is rather more incisive than broad,
more of a scientist than a human¬
itarian. He is very precise. More like
ateacherthan, say, Molnar. Romance,
again, rather öf mind than of heart.
There is little likelihood of his com¬
ing to America. He is eager to come,
but Lthe money is too much now, and
the journey is too long.“ He is much
interested in America, and he has
heard from time to time of the growth
lttle theatre movement
the
When we
throughouc the country.
told him that his plays were being
more and more produced in these
theatres he hesitated as if he didn't
like to ask the question. And then
asked.“ wonder why it is I am not
paid?“ Whercupon he showed us a
record of the productions of his plays
in America and of how little he re¬
celved. This record in its entirety he
is later to send us, when we shall ask
the Authors’ League to investigate it.
Some of the facts are startling.
Even more startling than what
has been done by Americans 10
the Hungarian authors. This record
dates back many years. He re¬
cejved tie agreed price for the film:
rights of Anatol.“ A price abont ene¬
fifth of what is paid for ang Broset¬
way success He seemed satisfen