Vivo; The Life of Gustav Meyrink E-Book

Mike Mitchell

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The first English-language biography of the novelist and magus. Stories collected round Gustav Meyrink, so that it is often difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. Vivo: The Life of Gustav Meyrink presents the reader with both the remarkable life and the fantastic legend that was Meyrink, allowing him and those who knew him to speak in their own words wherever possible.

Leseprobe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to thank the following for the supply of material:

Munich City Library for photographs: 5, 11, 12 and frontispiece.

Frankfurt University Library for photograph 1.

Despite the best efforts of the author, it has not proved possible to identify the sources of all the photographs used in this edition. We would be grateful, therefore, if any rights holders would contact Dedalus.

I would also like to thank the following for making archive material available:

the Kubin Archive in the Lenbachhaus Gallery, Munich;

the Goethe-Schiller Archive, Marbach;

the Monacensia Archive of Munich City Library;

the Bavarian State Library, Munich – unless otherwise indicated, letters, manuscripts and documents quoted from are in the Meyrinkiana in the Manuscript Department of the Bavarian State Library.

Dundee University Library for the supply of journal photocopies.

I am grateful to the authors of the German biographies of Meyrink: Eduard Frank: Gustav Meyrink: Werk und Wirkung, Manfred Lube: Gustav Meyrink: Beiträge zur Biographie und Studien zu seiner Kunsttheorie, Mohammad Qasim: GustavMeyrink: Eine monographische Untersuchung, Frans Smit: Gustav Meyrink: Auf der Suche nach dem Übersinnlichen (originally in Dutch). I have made uninhibited use of their researches to support my own.

Page numbers of quotations from the above will be given, after the first occurrence, in brackets after the text; the translations are my own. The same will apply to works by Meyrink: quotations will be from the published translations; where these do not exist, the first reference will give the German title, with an English translation in brackets; further references will use the translated title. For essays and stories reference will be given to the anthology in which they are collected.

The private Meyrinkiana collections of Robert Karle, Lambert Binder and Eduard Frank are now in the Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica, Amsterdam.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Prefatory Note

1Birth and Childhood

2Prague

3The Occult

4The End of Life in Prague

5Meyer becomes Meyrink

6Unsettled Years

7The Golem

8The First World War

9Meyrink in Starnberg

10Meyrink’s Beliefs

11His Death

Index

About the Author

Copyright

Prefatory note

Especially in his early years, Gustav Meyrink enjoyed a notoriety which, as Josef Strelka suggests1 matched that of any of the characters from his novels.

Unfortunately there is a dearth of documentary evidence. Meyrink did not keep a diary, nor did he keep the personal letters he received; most of those surviving relate to his dealings with occult societies and with publishers; relatively few personal letters from Meyrink exist, most is business correspondence such as that with his publisher, Kurt Wolff, in Yale University Library.

On the other hand, there is a wealth of anecdote about Meyrink, much of it published after his death, and much of it recounting fantastic events. How much of this is true is difficult to assess, but what it does attest is Meyrink’s notorious reputation in fin-de-siècle society in Prague and Munich.

The aim of this biography, then, is to provide the reader with the facts of Meyrink’s life, as far as they are ascertainable, but also to give the reader some idea of Meyrink as he appeared to his contemporaries, especially the younger contemporaries who gathered round him.

To this end I have tried, as far as possible, to let Meyrink and his acquaintances speak in their own voices and I hope this will make accessible to the English-speaking reader much material which has so far only been available in German.

Note

1 Gustav Meyrink: Der Engel vom westlichen Fenster, selected and with an introduction by Josef Strelka, Graz, 1966, p.7.

1

Birth and childhood

Meyrink was illegitimate.

He was born on 19 January 1868 in the Blauer Bock hotel in the Mariahilferstrasse in Vienna. Seven weeks later he was christened ‘Gustav Meyer’ in the Protestant church in the same street in Vienna.

His mother, Marie Meyer (she was christened Maria Wilhelmine Adelheide but used the name ‘Marie’ professionally), was an actress. At the time of Meyrink’s birth she was 27 and engaged at the court theatre in Stuttgart.1 She was described as ‘temporarily resident’ in Vienna; presumably she had gone there for the birth in order to avoid scandal. Her elder sister, Dustmann-Meyer, had been a singer at the Vienna Court Opera since 1857. Perhaps her sister’s presence in the city was the reason Marie Meyer chose Vienna.

Meyrink’s father was a wealthy aristocrat, Baron Friedrich Karl Gottlieb Varnbüler von und zu Hemmingen. Aged 59, he was also much older that his mistress. In the course of his career he occupied various important positions in the Württemberg administration (Stuttgart was the capital of Württemberg); at the time of Meyrink’s birth he was foreign minister and president of the privy council, and in 1866 he had played a significant role in the Austro-Prussian conflict. He died in 1889. Although official acknowledgment was doubtless out of the question – as well as being an aristocrat, Varnbüler was also married – he appears to have deposited a large sum for his son, the interest from which his mother used to help finance his education. According to Alfred Schmid Noerr, a younger friend of Meyrink, in 1919, at the height of his fame as a writer, the Varnbülers offered to acknowledge him as a member of the family, but he refused.

An unpublished chronicle written by one of Marie Meyer’s uncles,2 claims the family had noble origins, came from Bavaria and was originally called Meyerink, but had changed their name to Meyer by the end of the seventeenth century. By the end of the eighteenth century the Meyers were settled in Hamburg, where Meyrink’s grandfather was born. Both of Meyrink’s grandparents, who were married in Aachen in 1831, worked in the theatre. Meyrink’s grandfather was an unsuccessful actor; when his daughter Marie was born in 1841, he was described on the birth certificate as an ‘out-of-work theatre cashier’. His wife, who came from Hengsberg, a village to the south of Graz in Austria, was a singer and much more successful; she became the family breadwinner, along with her eldest daughter, Marie Luise, who was to become one of Wagner’s favourite singers. When the second daughter took up an engagement in Braunschweig, the family split up. Friedrich Meyer went to live with his brother and their youngest daughter Marie stayed with her mother, foreshadowing Meyrink’s own childhood as the offspring of an actress single mother.

After the birth of her son, Marie Meyer left Stuttgart and was engaged at the court theatre in Munich, her contract starting on 1 April 1869. She was said to have been one of Ludwig II’s favourite actresses, taking part in the ‘private theatre performances attended only by the king and perhaps one of two special friends or the minion of the moment, who would sit in the box immediately below the king’s’3 leaving him with the sense of being alone in the theatre, of being able to enjoy the spectacle without feeling he was himself a spectacle for the audience.

Marie Meyer remained in Munich until 1880, when she went to Hamburg. From 1883–1885 she was at the Deutsches Landestheater in Prague, then in St Petersburg until 1891, when she joined the Lessingtheater in Berlin, her last engagement. She retired from the stage in 1902 and died in 1906.

There is almost no documentary evidence for Meyrink’s childhood years, no surviving letters from his mother or father, no memories of friends or classmates. He was apparently initially looked after by his grandmother in Hamburg but by 1874 he had joined his mother in Munich and attended primary school there, then secondary school, the Wilhelmsgymnasium. From 1881–1883 he attended secondary school, the Johanneum, in Hamburg and then completed his schooling in Prague. When his mother moved on to St Petersburg, he remained in Prague, where he took a course in banking at the commercial college there. His school reports from Hamburg indicate that he was an outstanding scholar and top of the class in both of the years he was there: ‘Gustav has again completed the year to our complete satisfaction through his excellent achievements and good behaviour.’

This contradicts his own later statement to his children, reported by Schmid Noerr, that his marks were always unsatisfactory and yet he had still made something of himself.4 However, Schmid Noerr, a long-standing friend of Meyrink, suggests he took his school-leaving examination in Munich (he went on to Hamburg and finished in Prague) and describes the school there as a Realgymnasium (specialising in science and modern languages), whereas the Wilhelmsgymnasium was the oldest school in Munich and a well-known humanistisches Gymnasium, ie based on classical studies.

All of this demonstrates the care one must take in assessing the evidence for Meyrink’s life. Both Meyrink himself and his friends and acquaintances are unreliable, though not necessarily always wrong. The same care must be taken in assessing descriptions of his childhood:

‘His childhood was bleak, as was to be expected for an illegitimate child in those days’;5 ‘an emotionally deprived childhood, lacking any parental love, had left a deep mark on his character’;6 ‘his to all appearances unhappy childhood’;7 ‘little is known of Meyrink’s childhood, but it was presumably unhappy’.8 Meyrink’s own comment on Bavaria, where he spent most of his childhood, suggests it was more normal than is generally supposed: ‘When, forty-five years ago, I was brought by the Pilot to this city [Prague] from foggy Hamburg, I was dazzled by a bright sun … a sun which seemed quite different from the cheerfully shining skies of bright, carefree Bavaria.’9 Commentators, then, are unanimous in their conjecture that Meyrink’s childhood was unhappy. But it remains a conjecture based on the few known facts: his illegitimate birth; being an only child; having no father, and a working mother; changes of school because of his mother’s engagements at different theatres (three after the birth of her son: Munich – Hamburg – Prague, though for some commentators that tends to become ‘numerous’). That is the sum total of what is known. It doubtless influenced Meyrink’s development, but there will have been other factors that are unknown.

His relationship with his mother

Much more space is taken up with discussions of Meyrink’s relationship with his mother. Again, almost nothing is known of this. The one letter from his mother that has survived is a card with a few words in rather spidery writing and difficult to read in detail, but the tone seems warm and appropriate for a mother to her married 29-year-old son, ending as it does ‘with most affectionate kisses … for you and Hedwig from your mother.’ The fact that it is the only letter from his mother that was not thrown away or destroyed is not of significance. As mentioned above, the only letters Meyrink appears to have kept are either those dealing with matters of business or those connected with his interest in the occult. Qasim, talking of the occult and magic in Meyrink’s writings says:

It is therefore quite natural that the mysterious quality of Meyrink’s works should draw the reader’s attention to the person of the author. Meyrink, however, seems to have been all too well aware of the reader’s interest or, rather, curiosity about biographical details. He left behind very little to satisfy such curiosity or to allow one to construct a biography.

(Quasim, 33)

and goes on to quote from Meyrink’s ‘Description of myself’, in which he talks about himself in the third person: ‘Personal characteristics: he does not reply to personal letters, receives no visitors and does not visit people himself.’10

‘Other people love their mothers, he hated her.’11 Herbert Fritsche’s lapidary assertion reflects the general assessment of Meyrink’s relationship with his mother. Its basis is not so much documentary evidence as his portrayal of mothers in his novels. The only good mother seems to be a dead mother – Miriam’s mother in The Golem, for example, perhaps Christopher’s in The White Dominican, though she is a traditional Catholic and didn’t understand her husband’s ‘spiritual path’.12 In Walpurgisnacht Countess Zahradka shoots her illegitimate son Ottokar, who is being carried along as a figurehead by the revolutionary Czechs, with the words ‘There you have your crown, bastard!’13 Ophelia in The White Dominican confesses to Christopher, ‘It is not for my mother’s sake that I am asking you not to do it … I don’t love her. I can’t help it, I’m ashamed of her.’ More significantly, perhaps, Ophelia’s mother is an actress and wants to put her daughter on the stage, an idea which Ophelia finds repugnant:

It seems to me repulsive and ugly to stand up in front of people and act out delight or mental torment before them … And to do that evening after evening, and always at the same time! I feel that I am being asked to prostitute my soul.

(Dominican, 76)

It is a strong condemnation of his own mother’s profession, even if put into the mouth of a fictional character. However, we must also bear in mind that this was written fifteen years after his mother’s death and in between he had made several not very successful attempts to establish himself, together with a writer called Roda Roda, as a dramatist. It seems flimsy evidence for his feelings towards his mother as a child. Counter evidence could be seen in the comment by the hero of The White Dominican on his mother: ‘… my first name of Christopher … It is the only thing I have from her and that is why I have always regarded the name of Christopher as something sacred.’ (Dominican, 19)

The key text in discussions of Meyrink’s feelings about his mother is a long short story called ‘The Master’, first published in the collection Fledermäuse (Bats) in 1916.14 The Swiss writer Max Pulver wrote about Meyrink in his memoirs:

In all the years of our acquaintance he never spoke of his mother … Naturally I never asked about his parents, but once, he might have been asking about my background, he suddenly gave a clue to the woman. She is portrayed in his story “The Master”. He did not go on, did not add anything to that.15

How much credence we can give to this it is difficult to say. Pulver was over 20 years younger than Meyrink; his father died when he was seven and, according to his biography, ‘his relations with his mother remained difficult throughout his life.’16 Was he projecting his own problems onto Meyrink?

Some of the ‘facts’ he quotes are incorrect, for example he makes the, admittedly often repeated, mistake of confusing Meyrink’s mother Marie Meyer with ‘a famous Jewish actress’ Clara Meyer and spells the name ‘Meier’, which looks more ‘Jewish’.

However, the portrait of the mother in ‘The Master’ is certainly striking. The hard-hearted mothers in Walpurgisnacht and The White Dominican can be explained by their function in the novels, but that is not the case with Leonhard’s mother in ‘The Master’. The first twenty pages of this 46-page story contain a vitriolic portrait of a mother seen through her son’s memories for which there is no real narrative necessity, certainly not for the extreme vehemence of Leonhard’s feeling. The story does appear to be, at least in part, a vehicle for the outpouring of hatred. For example:

Once again he feels the bitter hatred of his mother rising in his gorge … A wish that his mother might be found dead in her bed one morning quietly surfaces inside him … Leonhard … is already as tall as his mother. When he stands facing her, his eyes are on the same level as hers, but he always feels compelled to look away, not daring to give way to the constant prick of the urge to fix her vacant stare and pour into it all the searing hatred he feels for her … A spurt of dread paralyses Leonhard. He stares at her, horrified, as if she were a creature he were looking at for the first time. There is nothing human about her any longer, she appears to him as an alien being from some hell, half goblin, half vicious animal.

(Austrian Fantasy, 39, 41, 44)

Marie Meyer, his mother, in costume

Leonhard murders his mother by letting a trapdoor fall on her head when she observes him making love to Sabina (his sister, though at the time they do not know it) in the chapel of the family castle. The crowding together into this one incident of incest, desecration and matricide, together with the physical intensity of the setting and event – nakedness, physical violence, the Gothic architecture, the figure of the mother rising from the vault to observe her son and daughter in the act of coition, the splintering crash as the trapdoor falls on her head – could suggest it had its origin in some deep psychological need.

It is, however, still extremely uncertain how far these figures can be interpreted biographically. Some female characters in Meyrink’s novels do have a part in the spiritual life, but their role tends to be passive rather than active (Lizzie the Czech in Walpurgisnacht may be considered an exception); their spirituality is part of what they are, rather than coming from what they do, from following what Christopher’s father calls his ‘spiritual path’. They are adjuncts, if in some ways superior, to the male heroes and they frequently die (Miriam, Ophelia, Eva in The Green Face) before any physical union is achieved – to be brought together in a perfect, almost hermaphroditic union after death. It fits in with this structure for female figures who remain in the world and active in the hero’s life to be negatively charged, to be part of the force dragging him down, hampering his spiritual growth. Leonhard’s final thoughts on his mother fit in just as well with this than as reflections of Meyrink’s hatred of his own mother:

He is tormented by concern for Sabina. He knows this is the earthenward pull of his mother’s curse-laden blood in his veins trying to curb his soaring flight, trying to smother the youthful fire of his enthusiasms with the grey ashes of mundane reality …

(Austrian Fantasy, 57)

Notes

1 Staatsarchiv Ludwigsburg, E18 II Bü 660.

2 A copy is held in the Meyrinkiana in the Bavarian State Library.

3 See Wilfrid Blunt: The Dream King, Harmondsworth, 1973, p. 173.

4 Alfred Schmid Noerr: ‘Erinnerungen an Gustav Meyrink’, Münchner Neueste Nachrichten, 5.3.1933.

5 Hans Arnold Plöhn: ‘Zur achtzigsten Wiederkehr des Geburtstages Gustav Meyrinks am 19. Januar 1948’, Der Zwiebelfisch, 1948/9, no. 8, pp. 7–9.

6 Eduard Frank: Gustav Meyrink. Werk und Wirkung, Büdingen-Gettenbach, 1957, p. 10.

7 Mohammad Qasim: Gustav Meyrink. Eine monographische Untersuchung, Stuttgart, 1981, p. 41.

8 Karin Pircher: ‘Ein Bürger zweier Welten’. Wiederkehrende Motive in den Romanen Gustav Meyrinks, MA thesis, University of Innsbruck, 2005, p. 5.

9 Gustav Meyrink: ‘Die Stadt mit dem heimlichen Herzschlag’ in: Das Haus zur letzten Latern, Frankfurt/M, Berlin, 1993, p. 157.

10Meyrinkiana; also printed in Der Zwiebelfisch, 1925, p. 26.

11 Quoted in Frank, p. 19.

12 Gustav Meyrink: The White Dominican, tr. Mike Mitchell, Sawtry/ Riverside, 1994, p. 100.

13 Gustav Meyrink: Walpurgisnacht, tr. Mike Mitchell, Sawtry/ Riverside, 1993, p. 167.

14 ‘The Master’ in: The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy 1890–2000, ed. & tr. Mike Mitchell, Sawtry 2003.

15 Max Pulver: Erinnerungen an eine europäische Zeit, Zurich, 1953, pp 72–3.

16 ‘Pulver’ in: Internet ‘project gutenberg’.

2

Prague

Meyrink went to Prague in 1883 and lived there until 1904, that is, from the age of 15 to 36. The middle to later teens are very important for a person’s intellectual development and Prague certainly left its stamp on Meyrink. After Prague he lived for a short while in Vienna, briefly in Montreux then spent his last twenty-six years in Bavaria. As far as his writing and his interest in the occult was concerned, however, it was his years in Prague that were the decisive influence on his outlook.

By the 1880s this ‘Bohemianism’ was fast disappearing under the onslaught of increasingly virulent nationalism – and anti-Semitism, around 45% of the German-speaking population was Jewish. This loss of a ‘Bohemian’ community was something Rilke, who was born in Prague, deeply regretted. His early volume of poems, Larenopfer (Offering to the Household Gods, 1895) is a celebration of Prague and Bohemia, ‘a Bohemia which seems to belong half to the past, half to a utopian future … and is no less fictitious than Shakespeare’s Bohemia by the sea.’2 The uncertainty about identity this created, especially among the Jewish community, has been well documented in the life of Kafka.

For the Czechs on the other hand, who had fully taken over the city council by 1888, Prague was to become the symbol of the resurgent nation. That meant industrialisation, slum clearance and redevelopment, including the razing of the Josefstadt, the old Jewish quarter, apart from the cemetery, town hall and some of the older synagogues. As James Baker wrote just before the First World War:

This famous old city, with a tremendous history, Zlata Praha, Golden Prague, as the Slavs so love to call it, is being, or rather has been, transformed during the last twenty years. The crooked, nauseous, dirty streets through which one twisted and wandered thirty years ago have nearly all disappeared.

(Baker, 21)

For the declining German population, to which Meyrink belonged, and especially for the writers and artists, Prague became associated with the past, with decay, an image both gloomy and romantic. A prime example is the art of Hugo Steiner, who added ‘Prag’ to his name and was later to illustrate Meyrink’s Golem. Despite its wealth of ancient monuments, what raises Prague above other cities of similar age is not so much the quality of the architecture as such as the atmosphere it creates as a whole, from the heights of Hradcany, looming over the alleys of the Malá Strana, the lesser town on the left bank, to the Jewish ghetto, the old town square and the spiky towers of the Tyn Church across the river. It was an atmosphere that left its mark on Meyrink who called it ‘The City with the Secret Heartbeat’:

The city I am talking about is old Prague … Even then, forty-five years ago, as I walked over the ancient Stone Bridge which crosses the calm waters of the Moldau to Hradcany, the hill with its dark castle exuding the arrogance of ancient generations of Habsburgs, I was overcome with a profound sense of horror, for which I could find no explanation. Since that day this feeling of apprehension has never left me for a moment during all the time – the length of a whole generation – I lived in Prague, the city with the secret heartbeat. It has never entirely left me, even today it comes over me when I think back to Prague or dream of it at night. Everything I ever experienced I can call up in my mind’s eye as if it were there before me, bursting with life. If, however, I summon up Prague, it appears more clearly than anything else, so clearly, in fact, that it no longer seems real, but ghostly. Every person I knew there turns into a ghost, an inhabitant of a realm that does not know death.

Puppets do not die when they leave the stage; and all the beings the city with the secret heartbeat holds together are puppets. Other cities, however old they may be, seem to me to be under the power of their people; as if disinfected by germicidal acids, Prague shapes and manipulates its inhabitants like a puppeteer from their first to their last breath. Just as volcanoes spew forth fire out of the earth, so this eerie city spews war and revolution out into the world …

(Latern, 157–8)

Prague and his experiences there were the most significant formative influence on Meyrink both as a writer and for his interest in the occult. He left the city after a very public scandal and a period of imprisonment awaiting trial had contributed to the ruin of both his business and his health. For some time afterwards his feelings for the city turned to hatred, which he expressed for example in the story ‘G.M.’, first published in 1904, shortly after he had left Prague. The hero, George Mackintosh, leaves a ‘grand visiting card’ behind him in a town that is unnamed but clearly Prague.3 What this is becomes apparent when a photographer takes a picture of the town from the balloon Mackintosh has left: the rumour of buried gold he spread has caused the citizens to demolish houses so that they form the initials G M when seen from the air.4

Despite this, Prague remained with Meyrink for the rest of his life. It was to become the setting for his novels The Golem, Walpurgisnacht, and, in part, The Angel of the West Window. He also came to see it more positively, as in the essay ‘The City with the Secret Heartbeat’ quoted from above. It was not merely the setting for his interest in the occult, it partook of the occult itself.

If Prague influenced Meyrink, Meyrink influenced the image of Prague in the wider world. He was one of the key figures in the creation of the myth of ‘magic Prague’, which in the 1960s ‘was seized upon by the dissident left, both in Prague and elsewhere, in protest against the decaying prescriptions of socialist realism’5 and today has somewhat degenerated into a romantic image used to attract the tourist trade.