498
PARTISAN REVIEW
health gave way to an altogether narrower frame. His shoulders were
slightly bent forward. His strong, handsome features, suggesting his peas–
ant origins, had gradually mellowed as his face got thinner. Now it was
framed by white sideburns and soft gray, thinning hair which he had let
grow longer. His eyes, sunk a bit deeper, still had that enigmatic court
jester's smile waiting in ambush to catch his visitor off guard. He was
dressed as usual with the casual but nevertheless carefully considered ele–
gance of someone who skillfully camouflages his vanity by the noncha–
lance associated with old money and inherited taste. (Earlier, he had
prided himself on having spent the first year of his life on a fishing boat
in Rotterdam, the descendant of Austrian peasants, farmers, horse-dealers,
innkeepers, and butchers. He never knew his father, and his mother went
from Austria to Holland to give birth to him - the customary way poor
women hid the "shame" of an illegitimate child. She worked as a
housekeeper to support them both.) Altogether he appeared almost
ethereal, the aging poet laureate of Habsburg breeding in striking
contrast to his robust public stance.
Bernhard fretted about the length of the rehearsal period for
Heldenplatz;
the actors were already over-rehearsed and had lost their
spontaneity. During the ten years I had visited him, usually on the occa–
sion of an opening of one of his plays (which he never attended), this
was the first time he betrayed any sign of interest or emotional stake in a
production; he was irritated that Peymann was ready to apologize for his
interview. "What he said was good. It was the truth. I stand behind
what I say, and I don't turn around and say I didn't mean it. That's ex–
actly what they've been waiting for. He's becoming their
Hampe/mann,
and that's where they want him. That's how they get you. If they'd an–
nounce that Peymann will be hanged on the Heldenplatz, they would all
come running. Just as they came running when Hitler came , screaming
for blood. That's how they are."
That night Peymann and his staff of codirectors unexpectedly can–
celled their television appearance. Other more or less well-known substi–
tutes discussed the affair and answered phoned-in comments - most
prominently the Viennese-born Maximilian Schell, whose presence led
to
speculations among more malicious insiders that this was his public audi–
tion for Peymann's job. The program turned into a silly shouting match
between old members of the Burgtheater company who hadn't played a
decent part in years and some local theater critics and journalists. Among
them was Andre Muller, an internationally respected German journalist
who had conducted the
Zeit
interview. As the evening's outsider, he
didn't get much chance to talk, while the participants outyelled each
other and the show's celebrated host, Ernst Marboe, looked on passively
with a nondescript smile that invited different readings from content to
