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Vienna IX, Berggasse 19
March 26, 1931
Dear Dr. Schiller
It is a very interesting experience for me to be called upon to defend my theories to Madame Yvette and Uncle Max. Despite my impeded speech and hardness of hearing I wish I didn't have to do it in writing.
Actually, I don't intend to yield much beyond the confession that we know so little. Just recently, for instance, Charlie Chaplin was in Vienna; I almost caught sight of him, but it was too cold for him, and he left in a hurry. He is undoubtedly a great artist— although he always plays one and the same part, the weak, poor, helpless, clumsy boy for whom life turns out all right in the end. Now do you think he has to forget his own self in order to play this part? On the contrary, he invariably plays only himself as he was in his grim youth. He cannot get away from these impressions and even today he tries to compensate himself for the humiliation and deprivation of that time. He is of course an especially simple, transparent case.
The theory that the achievements of artists are conditioned internally by their childhood impressions, vicissitudes, repressions, and disappointments has already clarified many things for us, and we therefore think highly of it. I once dared to tackle one of the very greatest of all, Leonardo da Vinci,1 of whom unfortunately too little is known. I was able at least to point out that “The Virgin and Saint Anne,” which you can see any day in the Louvre, couldn't be understood without some knowledge of Leonardo's peculiar childhood. The same may also apply to other things.
Now you will point out that Madame Yvette doesn't play just one part, that she plays with equal mastery all kinds of characters: saints, sinners, coquettes, the righteous, criminals, and ingénues. This is true and testifies to an unusually rich and adaptable psychic life. But I wouldn't hesitate to trace back this whole repertoire to experiences and conflicts of her early youth. It is tempting to continue