The World of Yesterday by Stefan Zweig
This muted and at the same time concentrated quality of his had a compelling effect on everyone who knew him well. It was unimaginable for Rilke himself to do anything violent, and nor could anyone else in his company; the powerful resonance of his silence dispelled any inclination to make a loud, assertive noise. His restraint was expressed as an educational and moral force, mysteriously exerting continuous influence. After a conversation of any length with him you were incapable of any kind of vulgarity for hours, even days. On the other hand, it is true that this constant moderation of his nature, his unwillingness ever to give himself fully, set limits at an early stage to any particular warmth of expression. I think that few could boast of having been ‘friends’ with Rilke. Almost no one is ever addressed as a friend in the six published volumes of his correspondence, and he seems to have used the familiar du pronoun to hardly anyone after his schooldays. With his extraordinary sensitivity, he could not bear to let anyone or anything come too close to him, and in particular anything strongly masculine made him physically uncomfortable. He found it easier to converse with women. He wrote to them a great deal, and liked writing to them, and was much less constrained in their presence. Perhaps it was the absence of grating, guttural sounds from a woman’s voice that he liked; harsh voices positively made him suffer. I still see Rilke before me in conversation with an aristocratic grandee, his back hunched and his shoulders tense, even keeping his eyes cast down so that they would not show how unwell the man’s unpleasant falsetto made him feel. But it was good to be with him when he was well-disposed to someone; then you felt his inner kindness—although he rarely expressed it in words and gestures—like a warming, healing charisma that reached your heart.
One reason why the shy, reserved Rilke appeared far more expansive in the warm-hearted city of Paris may have been that his work and his name were still unknown there, and anonymity always made him feel happier and more liberated. I visited him in two different rented rooms in Paris. They were both plain and tasteless in themselves, yet the sense of beauty that ruled him immediately lent them its quiet stylishness. He could never take a room in a large boarding house with neighbours making a lot of noise; he preferred an old if less comfortable building where he could make himself at home, and wherever he was his sense of order immediately imposed harmony on his surroundings, in line with his own nature. He never had many things around him, but there were always flowers in a vase or a bowl, perhaps a woman’s gift, perhaps lovingly brought home by himself. And there were always books in shelves on the wall, beautifully bound or carefully covered in paper, for he loved books like pet animals. His pencils and pens lay perfectly aligned on his desk, new sheets of paper were stacked in a rectangular pile, and a Russian icon and a Catholic crucifix which, I think, went with him on all his travels gave a slightly religious touch to the place where he worked, not that his sense of religion was linked to any particular dogma. You felt that every detail had been carefully chosen and was tenderly cared for. If you lent him a book that he had not yet read, it would be returned to you wrapped in smooth tissue paper and tied with a coloured ribbon, like a present; I still remember how he brought the manuscript of his Die Weise von Liebe und Tod—The Song of Love and Death—to my room, a precious gift, and to this day I have the ribbon that was tied around it. But best of all was to go walking in Paris with Rilke, for that meant seeing the importance of the most insignificant things, as if with new eyes; he noticed every little thing, and if the names on the brass plates of businesses seemed to him rhythmical he would recite them out loud. Knowing every nook and cranny of the city of Paris was his passion. Once, when we were visiting mutual friends, I told him that the previous day I had happened to come upon the old barrière where the last victims of the guillotine had been buried in the Cimetière de Picpus, among them André Chénier. I described the touching little expanse of grass with its scattered graves, a place that strangers seldom visited, and how on the way back I saw, through the open gate of a convent, some béguines5 telling their rosaries without a word, and walking in a circle as if in a devout reverie. It was one of the few times I saw that quiet, self-controlled man almost impatient; he had to see it all for himself, he said, both André Chénier’s grave and the convent. Would I take him there? We went the very next day. He stood looking at that lonely cemetery in a kind of enchanted silence, and called it “the most poetic burial place in Paris”. But on the way back the convent gate turned out to be closed. I was able to observe the silent patience that he had mastered both in life and in his works. “Let’s wait for our chance,” he said, and placed himself, head slightly bent, where he could see through the gate if it opened. We waited like that for perhaps twenty minutes. Then a nun came along the street and rang the bell. “Now,” he breathed in quiet excitement. But the nun had noticed him standing there in silence, listening—as I said earlier, you noticed everything about him in the air, from a distance—and went up to him asking if he was waiting for something. He gave her that soft smile of his that immediately made anyone trust him, and said frankly that he would so much have liked to see the cloisters. She was very sorry, said the nun, returning his smile, but she couldn’t let him in. However, she said, if he went to the gardener’s cottage next door, he could get a good view from the window on the upper floor. And so his wish was granted in this as in so much else.
Our paths crossed several times later, but whenever I think of Rilke, I see him in Paris. He was spared the sight of the city’s saddest hour.
Meeting people of his rare kind was a great advantage to a novice, but I had yet to receive the crucial lesson, one that was to influence my entire life. It came to me by chance. At Verhaeren’s, we had entered into a discussion with an art historian who lamented the fact that, as he said, the days of the great sculptors and painters were over. I strongly disagreed. Wasn’t Rodin still alive, no less of a creative artist than the great names of the past? I began enumerating his works, and as always when you are opposing a contrary opinion, I soon got quite heated on the subject. Verhaeren smiled to himself. “A man who loves Rodin so much ought to meet him in person,” he said when I had finished. “I’m visiting his studio tomorrow. If you don’t mind, I’ll take you with me.”
If I didn’t mind? I couldn’t sleep for my delight. But when I met Rodin my voice dried up. I couldn’t say a word to him, and stood among the statues like one of them myself. Strangely enough, he seemed pleased with this awkwardness of mine, for when we left the old man asked if I would like to see his real studio in Meudon, and even asked me to lunch there. That was the first lesson—great men are always the kindliest.
The second lesson was that they nearly always lead the simplest lives. At the home of this man whose fame filled the world, whose works lineament by lineament, were as vividly present to our generation as our closest friends, you ate as simply as at the table of a moderately prosperous farmer—good nourishing meat, a few olives, plenty of fruit, all washed down by strong country wine. That gave me more courage, and in the end I was speaking freely again, as if I had known this old man and his wife well for years.
After lunch we went over to the studio. It was a huge room full of replicas of the most important of his works, but among them stood or lay hundreds of delightful little individual studies—of a hand, an arm, a horse’s mane, a woman’s ear, usually just in plaster. To this day I still remember in detail many of these sketches, which he did just to keep his hand in, and I could talk for hours on end about that one hour I spent in Rodin’s studio. Finally the master led me over to a plinth on which his latest work, the portrait of a woman, was still hidden under damp cloths. He removed them with his heavy, furrowed peasant hands, and stepped back. Instinctively, I cried with bated breath, “Admirable!” and was then ashamed of saying something so banal. But with calm objectivity in which there was not a grain of vanity, he only murmured in agreement, as he viewed his own work, “N’est-ce pas?” Then he hesitated. “Ah, except there, by the shoulder … just a moment!” He
This went on for quarter-of-an-hour, half-an-hour, I don’t now remember just how long. Great moments are always outside time. Rodin was so deeply absorbed in his work that a clap of thunder wouldn’t have aroused him. His movements became more and more decisive, almost irate; a kind of wildness or intoxication had come over him, he was working faster and faster. Then his hands slowed down. They seemed to have understood that there was no more for them to do. Once, twice, three times he stepped back to look, without making any more changes. Then he murmured something quietly into his beard, and replaced the cloths around the figure as affectionately as you might place a shawl around the shoulders of the woman you love. He took a deep breath, released from tension. His figure seemed to grow heavier again. The fire had gone out. Then came the great lesson for me, something I could hardly grasp. He took off his white coat, put his jacket on again, and turned to go. He had entirely forgotten me during that hour of extreme concentration. He no longer knew that a young man whom he had taken to the studio himself, to show him the place where he worked, had been standing behind him holding his breath, fascinated, as motionless as his own statues.
He made for the door. As he was about to open it, he saw me and looked at me almost angrily. Who was this young stranger who had stolen into his studio? But next moment he remembered, and came towards me, as if ashamed of himself. “Pardon, monsieur,” he began. However, I would let him say no more, I just gratefully took his hand. I could happily have kissed him. In that hour I had seen opened up to me the eternal secret of all great art, indeed of every earthly achievement, every artist’s concentration, the unification of all a man’s powers and senses, a state of being outside himself, outside the world. I had learnt a lesson to last me all my life.
I had meant to leave Paris for London at the end of May. However, I had to bring my departure forward by two weeks because unforeseen circumstances made my delightful lodgings uncomfortable for me. This was a curious episode that amused me greatly, and at the same time gave me useful insight into the thinking of different parts of French society.
I had been out of Paris for the two days of the Whitsun holiday, going away with friends to look round beautiful Chartres Cathedral, which I had not seen before. When I came back to my room on the Tuesday morning, intending to change my clothes, I could not find my trunk, which had been standing in the corner all these months. I went downstairs to see the proprietor of the little hotel, who spent the day taking turns with his wife in the tiny porter’s lodge. He was a small, sturdy, red-cheeked man, a native of Marseilles. I had often joked with him, and sometimes we had gone to the café just opposite to play his favourite game of backgammon. He instantly became very upset and, as he thumped the table with his fist, bitterly uttered the mysterious words, “So that’s it!” Quickly putting on his coat—he had been sitting in his shirtsleeves, as usual—and changing his comfortable slippers for a pair of shoes, he explained what had happened, and if my readers are to understand it perhaps I should point to a peculiarity of Parisian buildings. In Paris, the smaller hotels and most of the private houses do not have front-door keys, and instead the concierge, that is to say the caretaker, operates the automatic door-opener from the porter’s lodge as soon as someone out in the street rings the bell. In the smaller hotels and houses the owner or concierge does not spend all night in the porter’s lodge, but can open the door from his conjugal bed by pressing a button—usually while he is still half-asleep. Anyone wanting to leave the building has to call, “Le cordon, s’il vous plaît,” and anyone wishing to enter from outside must call his name so that, in theory, no stranger can steal into the house by night. So at two in the morning in my hotel the bell was rung outside; on coming in the new arrival gave a name which sounded like that of one of the hotel guests, and he took a key that was still hanging in the porter’s lodge. It should really have been the duty of this Cerberus to check the late-night visitor’s identity through the glass pane of the lodge, but obviously he had felt too sleepy. However, when the call of, “Le cordon, s’il vous plaît,” came again an hour later, this time from inside, it struck the proprietor, who had opened the front door once already, that now someone wanted to go out after two in the morning. He had got up, looked down the street, and seeing that someone had just left the hotel with a trunk set off at once in his dressing-gown and slippers to follow the suspicious figure. However, as soon as he saw the man disappear into a small hotel in the rue des Petits Champs, he naturally enough concluded that he was not a thief or burglar, and went peacefully back to bed.
Upset as he was now by his mistake, he hurried off with me to the nearest police station. The police immediately made inquiries at the hotel in the rue des Petits Champs, and found that my trunk was indeed still there, but not the thief, who had obviously gone out to drink his morning coffee in some nearby bar. Two detectives waited for the villain in the porter’s lodge of the hotel in the rue des Petits Champs, and half-an-hour later, when the thief returned, suspecting nothing, he was arrested at once.
Now the two of us, my landlord and I, had to go back to the police station to be present at the official proceedings. We were taken into the office of the sous-préfet, an extremely stout, moustached gentleman of comfortable appearance, who was sitting with his coat unbuttoned at a very untidy desk covered with documents. The entire office smelt of tobacco, and a large bottle of wine on the table showed that the man was by no means one of the more cruelly austere members of the holy brotherhood of peacekeepers. First the trunk was brought in, at his request, and I was asked to look and see if anything important was missing. The only apparent object of value was a letter of credit for two thousand francs, much of which had already been spent after the months of my stay in Paris, but of course it was of no use at all to anyone else, and sure enough lay untouched at the bottom of the trunk. After a report had been drawn up, to the effect that I recognised the case as my property, and nothing had been removed from it, the official ordered the thief to be brought in. I looked at him with no little curiosity.