As far as Linz was concerned, Adolf only thought to transform it into a fine, attractive town whose distinguished buildings should raise it from its low, provincial standing, but Vienna he wanted to transform into a modern residential city in which distinction and prestige did not matter – this he left to imperial Vienna. What mattered was that the uprooted masses, who had become estranged from their own soil and their own people, should again settle down on firm ground.
The old imperial city changed, on the drawing board of a nineteen-year-old youth who lived in a dark back room of the Mariahilfe suburb, into a spacious, sunlit and exuberant city consisting of four-, eight- and sixteen-family houses.
* * *
Chapter 17
Solitary Reading and Study
There can be no doubt that Adolf was, at that time, convinced that he was destined to become an architect. How he would ever find his way into practice, even with this thorough private study, unable as he was to produce any testimonials and diplomas, this never caused him any worry. We hardly ever spoke about it, for my friend was absolutely sure that by the time he had concluded his studies, circumstances would have changed (either peacefully or with violence, as a consequence of his ‘storm of the revolution’) to such an extent that formal qualifications would no longer matter, but only actual ability.
That at that time I should serve my love for architecture with some fanaticism was natural. Along with music it seemed to me to be queen of the arts. Under such circumstances to busy myself with it was not ‘work’ but the greatest contentment. I could read or sketch late into the night and I never got tired. This strengthened my belief that my beautiful dream of the future, even though it might take years, would eventually become reality. I was almost convinced that one day I would make my name as an architect.
This is what he wrote in Mein Kampf.
Thus did Adolf see his future clearly before him. Back in Linz he had already defeated what he called his school’s biased, unjust and idiotic treatment of him by throwing himself heart and soul into the study of a subject of his own choosing, so he had no difficulty in doing the same here in Vienna, where a similar situation confronted him. He cursed the old-fashioned, fossilised bureaucracy of the Academy where there was no understanding for true artistry. He spoke of the trip-wires which had been cunningly laid – I remember his very words – for the sole purpose of ruining his career. But he would show these incompetent, senile fools that he could go ahead without them. From his salvoes of abuse of the Academy, I gained the impression that these teachers, by rejecting the young man, had involuntarily engendered in him more eagerness and energy than their teaching would ever have done.
But my friend had to face another problem: what was he to live on during his years of study? Many years would pass before he could make himself a position as an architect. Personally, I doubted if, indeed, anything would ever come of my friend’s private studies. Admittedly he studied with incredible industry and a determination which one would have thought beyond the strength of his undernourished and weakened body. But his pursuits were not directed towards any practical goal. On the contrary, every now and again he got lost in vast plans and speculations. Drawing a comparison with my musical studies, which were progressing absolutely according to plan, I could only conclude that Adolf was casting his net far too wide and dragging in everything that had only the remotest connection with architecture, and he did it, moreover, with the greatest thoroughness and precision. How could all that ever lead to any conclusion – not to mention the fact that more and more new ideas assailed him and distracted him from his professional training.
The contrast between his boundless, unsystematic labours and my precisely regulated studies at the Conservatoire did nothing to help our friendship, if only because our respective work at home necessarily led to friction. When, on top of this, Professor Boschetti sent me some private pupils, our disagreements became sharper. Now one could see, he said, that bad luck was pursuing him, there was a great conspiracy against him – he had no possibility of earning any money.
One evening – I suppose it was after a pupil of mine had been in for a lesson – I seized the opportunity to try and persuade him to look around for some remunerative work. Of course, if one is lucky, one can give lessons to young ladies, he began. I told him that, without my taking the initiative, Professor Boschetti had sent me these pupils – it was a pity that they had to be taught harmonics rather than architecture. Incidentally, I went on more firmly, if I were as gifted as he was, I would have long since looked around for some part-time job.
He listened with interest, almost as though the whole thing did not refer to him at all, and then I let him have it. Drawing, for instance, that was something he really could do, as even his teachers had admitted. What about looking for a job with a newspaper or in a publishing firm? Perhaps he could illustrate books, or do sketches for newspapers. He answered evasively that he was glad I credited him with such skill, but anyhow this kind of newspaper illustration was best left to the photographers, for not even the best artist could be as quick as a photographer.
Then what about a job as a drama critic, I continued? This was a job which he was actually doing, because after every visit to the theatre he came home to me with a very severe and radical, yet interesting and comprehensive view. Why should I remain the only inhabitant of Vienna ever to hear his opinions? He should try to get in touch with an influential paper, but he would have to take care not to show too much bias. What did I mean by that, he wanted to know. The Italian, Russian and French operas, too, had their right to exist I replied. One had to accept foreign composers as well, for art has no national frontiers. We started a heated argument, as whenever music was the topic under discussion I stood my ground, for I did not speak for myself alone, but felt that I was the representative of the institute whose pupil I was.
Although I fully shared Adolf’s enthusiasm for Richard Wagner, I could, nevertheless, not bring myself to reject all the rest. But he struck uncompromisingly to his point. I still remember well that, in my excitement, I flung at Adolf the words from the final chorus of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, ‘Seid umschlungen, Millionen, diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt’ (‘Become entwined you millions in this the whole world’s embrace’). The work of the artist must belong to the whole world. So there was trouble even before he took the job of an opera critic, remarked Adolf, and so this plan was also buried.
Adolf wrote a great deal during this period. I had discovered that it was mainly plays, dramas actually. He took the plots from Germanic mythology or German history, but hardly any of these plays were really finished. Nevertheless, it might have been possible to make some money out of them. Adolf showed me some of his drafts, and I was struck by the fact that he attributed much importance to magnificent staging. Except for the drama about the coming of Christianity, I cannot remember any one of these plays, only that they all required an enormous production. Wagner had accustomed us to the idea of pretentious productions, but Adolf’s ideas dwarfed anything devised by the master. I knew a thing or two about operatic production and was not slow to utter my doubts. With his settings ranging through heaven and hell, I explained to him, no producer would accept any one of his plays. He should be much more modest in all that concerned his scenery. Altogether it would be best for him not to write operas at all, but rather simple plays, comedies perhaps, which were popular with the public. The most profitable thing would be to write some unpretentious comedy. Unpretentious? This was all that was needed to make him furious. So this attempt, too, ended in failure.
Gradually I came to realise that all my efforts were wasted. Even if I had managed to persuade Adolf to submit his drawings or his literary work to a newspaper editor or publisher, he would soon have quarrelled with his employer, for he could never tolerate any interference with his work, and it would presumably make no difference that he was getting paid for it. He simply could not bear taking orders from people, for he received enough orders from h
imself.
Later, when we had already parted, Adolf found in Vienna a very characteristic solution for this problem which enabled him to make a modest living and still remain his own master. As his talent was best suited to drawing works of architecture rather than the human figure, he made most accurate and neat sketches of famous Vienna buildings, such as the Karlskirche, the parliament, the Maria am Gestade church and similar subjects, coloured them and sold them whenever he could.
In Mein Kampf he expressed it thus: ‘I worked at that time (he means 1909 and 1910) on my own account as a sketch artist and water-colour painter. It was hardly enough to live on but was good for my chosen profession.’ In other words, he preferred to starve rather than give up his independence.
Having no expert knowledge, I cannot give any opinion on the special studies Adolf was then pursuing. Moreover, I was too busy myself to get any real idea of his work. What I noticed, however, was that he surrounded himself increasingly with technical books. I recall especially a big history of architecture because he loved to choose one of its pictures at random, cover the caption and tell me what it was, Chartres Cathedral, for instance, or the Palazzo Pitti in Florence. His memory was prodigious: it never failed him and was, of course, a great advantage in his work.
He worked tirelessly on his drawings. I had the impression that he had already learnt, in Linz, the basic principles of draughtsmanship, though only from books. I do not remember Adolf ever having tried to apply in practice what he had learnt, or ever attending classes in architectural drawing. He never showed any desire to mix with people who shared his own professional interests, or to discuss with them common problems. Rather than meet people with specialised knowledge, he would sit alone on his bench in the Schönbrunn Park, in the vicinity of the Gloriette, holding imaginary conversations with himself about the subject matter of his books. This extraordinary habit of studying a certain subject and penetrating very deeply into its very essence, whilst anxiously avoiding any contact with its practical application, this peculiar self-sufficiency, reminded me of Adolf’s relationship with Stefanie. His boundless love of architecture, his passionate interest in building, remained fundamentally a mere intellectual pastime. Just as he used to rush to the Landstrasse to see Stefanie when he needed some tangible confirmation of his feelings, so he would escape from the overpowering effects of his theoretical studies into the Ringstrasse, and recover his inner equilibrium among its splendours.
As time went on, I came to understand my friend’s one-sided preference for the Ringstrasse, although to my mind the impact of such buildings as the Stefansdom, or the Belvedere – older and more original in their style – was stronger and more convincing. But Adolf altogether disliked the Baroque, as it was too ornate for his taste. The Ringstrasse buildings had been constructed after the demolition of the city’s fortifications, that is to say, in the second half of the past century, and were anything but uniform in style. Instead, almost every style was represented. The parliament was in the Classical, or rather pseudo-Hellenic style, the City Hall neo-Gothic and the Burg Theatre, an object of Adolf’s special admiration, late Renaissance. Yet they had one thing in common which was specially attractive for my friend – their ostentation. The real motive for his increasing preoccupation with these buildings, his use of the Ringstrasse as his professional training ground, was the fact that these buildings of the preceding generation enabled him to study without difficulty the history of their construction, to re-draw their plans, so to speak, by his own effort, and to recall the life and achievements of the great architects of that epoch – Theophil Hansen, Semper, Hasenauer, Siccardsburg and van der Nüll.
I discovered with apprehension that new ideas, experiences and projects disorganised my friend’s professional studies. As long as these new interests had some connection with architecture, they just became part of his general education, but there was much that was diametrically opposed to his professional plans and, moreover, politics gained an increasingly firm hold on him. I asked Adolf occasionally what connection there was between the remote problems which we encountered during our visits to parliament and his professional preparation. He would answer, ‘You can build only when you have first created the political conditions for it.’ Sometimes his answers were rather rude. Thus I remember him once answering my question how he proposed to solve a certain problem, ‘Even if I found the solution to this problem I wouldn’t tell it to you because you wouldn’t understand it’ But although he was often brusque, moody, unreliable and far from conciliatory, I could never be angry with him because these unpleasant sides of his character were overshadowed by the pure fire of an exalted soul.
I stopped asking him questions about his profession. It was much better for me to go quietly my own way and show him my own ideas of how to reach one’s goal. After all, I had not even reached the lower classes of the Realschule and had only been to a council school, but just the same I was now a student at the Conservatoire, as good as any boy who had matriculated. My friend’s studies took just the opposite course to mine. Whilst training for a profession normally grows more and more specialised in the course of time, Adolf’s studies became more general, more diffuse, more abstract and remote from anything practical. The more tenaciously he repeated his own slogan ‘I want to become an architect’, the more nebulous did this goal become in reality. It was the typical attitude of a young man, who would actually be hindered by a profession, in reaching what he feels is his true vocation.
In Mein Kampf he wrote:
Since my early youth I tried to read in the right way and was supported in the best way possible by memory and understanding. And looked at like that, my time in Vienna was especially fruitful and valuable … I read endlessly and as a basis. Whatever time I had left over after working was devoted to study. I am convinced today that in general, creative ideas appear initially in youth, in so much as they make themselves available at all. I distinguish between the wisdom of age, which is only valid as the result of experiences on a broad basis, and the inexhaustible fruitfulness of youth, where ideas have not been thought through because of the fullness of their number. They are the building material for future plans from which the wiser, older man takes the stones, hews the blocks and then sets about constructing the building, providing that the so-called wisdom of the old man and the fruitfulness of the youth have not been suffocated.
So, for my friend it was books, always books. I could not imagine Adolf without books. He stacked them in piles around him. He had to have with him at his side the book he was currently working through. Even if he did not happen to be reading it just them, it had to be around. Whenever he went out, there would usually be a book under his arm. This was often a problem, for he would rather abandon nature and the open sky than the book.
Books were his whole world. In Linz, in order to procure the books he wanted, he had subscribed to three libraries. In Vienna he used the Hof Library so industriously that I asked him once in all seriousness whether he intended to read the whole library, which of course earned me some rude remarks. One day he took me to the library and showed me the big reading room. I was almost overwhelmed by these enormous masses of books, and I asked him how he managed to get what he wanted. He began to explain to me the use of the catalogue, which confused me even more.
Hardly anything would disturb him when he was reading, but sometimes he disturbed himself, for as soon as he opened a book he started talking about it, and I had to listen patiently whether I was interested in the subject or not. Every now and then, in Linz even more frequently than in Vienna, he would thrust a book into my hands and demand that I, as his friend, should read it. It did not matter so much to him that I should widen my own horizons as that he should have somebody with whom he could discuss the book, even though that somebody was only a listener.
As to the way one should a read a book he devoted three pages to the subject in Mein Kampf:
I know people who ‘read’ endlessly, book after book, but whom I
would not grace with the adjective ‘well-read’. It is true that they have an enormous amount of ‘knowledge’, but their brain does not know how to distribute and classify it into the various materials.
In this respect my friend was undoubtedly far superior to the average reader. Reading began for him when he selected the book. Adolf had an especial feel for poets and authors who had something of value to say to him. He never read books simply to pass the time; it was a deadly earnest occupation. I got that impression more than once. What an upset if I did not take his reading seriously enough and played the piano while he was studying.
It was interesting the way Adolf selected a book. The most important thing was the contents page. Then he went through the book, not from first page to last but just extracting the essence. Once he had done that he had carefully ordered and categorised it in his memory. I often wondered if there could be any more room left in his head but it almost seemed that the more material he absorbed the better his memory became. It seemed a marvel – there really was room in his brain for an entire library.
As I have mentioned before, outstanding among his books were the German heroic legends. Whatever his mood or external circumstances, he would always come back to them and read them again although he already knew them by heart. The volume which he had in Vienna was, I believe, Gotter- und Heldensagen, Germanisch-Deutscher Sagenschatz – ‘Legends of Gods and Heroes: The Treasures of Germanic-German Mythology’.
In Linz, Adolf had started to read the classics. Of Goethe’s Faust he once remarked that it contained more than the human mind could grasp. Once we saw the rarely performed second part at the Burg Theatre, with Josef Kainz in the title role. Adolf was very moved and spoke of it for a long time. It is natural that, of Schiller’s works, Wilhelm Tell affected him most deeply. On the other hand, strange to relate, he did not like Die Räuber very much. He was profoundly impressed by Dante’s Divine Comedy although, to my mind, he was much too young when he read it. I know that he was interested in Herder, and we saw together Lessing’s Minna von Barhelm. He liked Stifter partly I suppose because he encountered in his writing the familiar picture of his native landscape, whilst Rosegger struck him, as he once put it, as ‘too popular’.
The Young Hitler I Knew Page 21