A call for quiet comes. It’s beginning.
The first piece is “Mississippi.” Naturalistic music. We hear the burble of water while experiencing the fabulous Mardi Gras celebrations in the river city of New Orleans. A musical piece of great interest.
Then come five American melodies. Whiteman is now conducting without a baton. His body vibrates, his double chin shudders, his mustache leaps, his knees quiver. Rhythm personified (“Tiger”), a ragtime piece (“Dizzy Fingers”), a frenetic chase across the scales (“Caprice Viennoise”), Kreisler’s violin opus transformed into jazz. The thirty men are extraordinary musicians and extraordinary actors. Right in the middle of performing a musical number, they launch into a delightful comedy. The saxophone player flirts with a lady in a box seat while Whiteman looks daggers at him. The drummer falls asleep, the banjo player holds monologues. A musical joke is orchestrated.
The concert hall grows so dark that people can’t see their programs. Whiteman keeps his boys in line with a flashlight, one after another. They are—all for one and one for all—first-class acts in a first-class music hall. As the violinist plays, he twirls his fiddle in the air, scratches his neck with the bow, then clamps it between his knees and fiddles away on the violin in this position. One of them plays on a simple tire pump; three men sing “Castles in the Air.”
Suddenly the beam of light from Whiteman’s flashlight lands on a corner where the musicians who are idle at the moment are drinking alcohol. The bottle is hidden, a guilty-looking musician scrambles to put on his most innocent face as though it were not he doing the drinking, but the cello. Brilliant comedians, brilliant musicians. The piano virtuoso is a sensation in his own right. His name is Perella, and once he goes up onto the concert stage alone, his name will have a marvelous ring to it. Katscher’s “Madonna” and Josef Padilla’s “Valencia,” both arranged by Whiteman, are received enthusiastically. The audience goes crazy, and “Madonna,” which is superbly orchestrated, can barely be recognized. It starts like a barcarole and ends with a Charleston that sets your legs atwitter. The “Rhapsody in Blue,” a composition that created quite a stir over in the States, is an experiment in exploiting the rhythms of American folk music. When Whiteman plays it, it is a great piece of artistry. He has to do encores again and again. The normally standoffish people of Berlin are singing his praises. People stay on in the theater half an hour after the concert.
For jazz? Against jazz? The most modern of all music? Kitsch? Art?
Necessity! An essential regeneration of Europe’s calcified blood.
Die Stunde, June 29, 1926
I Interview Mr. Vanderbilt
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AMERICAN MULTIMILLIONAIRE—HE CARRIES ONLY 250 MARKS WITH HIM—HE ALSO HAS NO TIME TO GO TO THE DENTIST
Berlin, July 7 [1926]
“That’s him!”
The concierge raises his hand in excitement, the small bluish veins at his temples bulging. The director fiddles self-consciously with his tie. Twenty bellhops stand at attention.
The man causing this excitement is standing nonchalantly in the hall, gangling, about thirty, not especially elegant, his eyes mouse-gray and hard, his chin assertive. He exemplifies the young American businessman.
The whole hotel is fascinated by the name, dumbfounded and stunned.
Meanwhile, the bearer of this name shakes my hand cordially.
“An interview? All right!” And graciously invites me into the elevator, which the elevator boy—trembling, with beads of sweat on his forehead—directs to the third floor.
* * *
The man sitting across from me is a Vanderbilt, a member of the American billionaire family; he’s so rich that if the urge should strike, he could buy the entire Unter den Linden including the Brandenburger Tor, just for fun.
“I am Cornelius Vanderbilt Jr.,” he says, full of kindness and warmth. While speaking he displays a sturdy but flawed set of teeth. Why doesn’t he go to the dentist? the interviewer wonders. He finally gets the answer half an hour later: Mr. Vanderbilt has no time for dentists; he has to work, work hard and always.
“The father of my great-grandfather made our fortune, made our name. He was Dutch and settled in America when New York was still New Amsterdam. I am the only male descendant of the fifth generation of the Vanderbilts.”
He states this rather simply and without a trace of pathos, as though he were anyone but the heir to hundreds of millions of dollars.
“You will excuse me if I now tidy up a bit.”
Of course I will excuse him.
Mr. Vanderbilt takes off his coat and trousers and changes his shoes.
I find out:
Mr. Vanderbilt’s shoes have new soles;
Mr. Vanderbilt’s trousers are a bit frayed;
Mr. Vanderbilt’s overcoat is shiny at the elbows;
Mr. Vanderbilt’s tie has a grease stain.
* * *
“Wonderful thing to be a journalist. When I was twenty-two I started as a newspaper reporter at the New York Herald and the New York Times. Today I’m twenty-eight; I’m the owner of three newspapers: two in California, one in Miami, Florida. Additionally, I have two magazines and a publication company that extends across the entire U.S. and employs eight thousand workers. I always live in New York. Would you like to visit me sometime? Here is my address.”
His slender hand extends a card to me:
Mr. CORNELIUS VANDERBILT, JR.
New York, 640 Fifth Avenue
“You’d also like to know what I’m doing in Europe? A little educational trip. I write political portraits of European statesmen for my papers. Last week I spoke with Mussolini, yesterday with Piłsudski. I’m all wrapped up in my profession. As I said: Wonderful thing to be a journalist.”
Mr. Vanderbilt’s eyes light up when he talks about the term “newspaper.” An enthusiast.
* * *
Couriers come running, the telephone rings off the hook. Berlin is looking for Mr. Vanderbilt. “I need to keep it brief. Ten questions. No more.”
“Yes.”
“First: What would you do if you were a poor European?”
“I would become a newspaper man. Unquestionably and definitely.”
“Second: Do you consider it possible to save the French franc without American help?”
“I can’t say. I’m a politician, not a financier.”
“Third: Your favorite sport?”
“Sailing.”
“Fourth: How much money do you usually carry with you?”
“Not much.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. Two hundred fifty marks, all told, not one penny more. “But I also have a checkbook with me!” That is a thing of beauty, this oblong little checkbook, bound in patent leather. “How many zeroes can be put on it?” “You’re good for the money!” “I hope so,” he replies in English.
“Fifth: your impressions of Berlin as a big city?”
“I know Berlin, was already here in 1912. I like the city much better now. Gotten big. Its traffic comes up to our standards. I love the greenery in Berlin, its gardens and parks. Truly.”
“Sixth: Whom do you consider the more important comedian, Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton?”
“Charlie Chaplin.”
“Seventh: how many begging letters do you get in a day?”
“Six hundred.”
“Eighth: Do you find that wealth makes people arrogant?”
“Hmm. I have so much work to do that I don’t get around to thinking about whether being rich makes me happy or bored.”
“Ninth: what feeling do you get when you see an interviewer?”
“A wonderful, delightful feeling of happiness comes over me. From the standpoint of the businessman, of course. My friend Ford got rich on the strength of interviews and anecdotes. You have to be interviewed a hundred times, you have to take pride in the knowledge that your cars are being compared to canned food in so and so many jokes. Business, my dear man, business …”
/> “Tenth: do you identify as a billionaire or as a journalist?”
“Journalist!”
“Well, then, goodbye, Herr Kollege.”
Mister Vanderbilt laughs so heartily that his bad teeth can be seen once again. But now I know for sure: he truly has no time to visit a dentist.
Die Stunde, July 10, 1926
The Prince of Wales Goes on Holiday
What is the Prince of Wales? A funny boy, a snazzy guy.
And how is life at the court? He’s sick and tired of it.
How Buckingham Palace bores him! And Windsor Castle. And his Marlborough House. And the Osborne House summer residence on the Isle of Wight. And Balmoral in Scotland.
So how is the world’s most popular young man feeling? Bored stiff and deeply unhappy.
It doesn’t even pay to run incognito to the London bars, to the Kit-Kat Club, where they’ve been playing the same songs for seven weeks, “Baby Face” and “Charlie My Boy,” “Charlie My Boy” and “Baby Face.”
Yes, and those fellows on Sandringham in Norfolk play golf so badly that the chickens get a good laugh.
There’s still the greyhound races in White City; it is a fine thing, once, twice, then even the electric hare makes you yawn.
There’s still a little outing with the royal yacht, oh, very pleasant if you weren’t disturbed every moment by cross-Channel swimmers and the whirring of flights over the ocean.
There might still be a cute little tumble from a horse, in the presence of members of the press and their photographers. But that is an old repertoire; his majesty the prince has indulged in a bit of a slip off the horse—one little tumble per season—back in 1926, 1925, 1924, 1923, 1922 …
A world that—God have mercy. So dull, sooo dull.
Another trip around the world?
Hmm, hmm.
He knows the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia as well as his pants pocket and holster.
As for Egypt, the crocodiles already whistle his name in front of the pyramids.
Australia? Australia gets on his nerves.
New Zealand, Guyana, Jamaica, Ceylon, the Fiji Islands, Hong Kong, and Malta: ditto.
Fun, thy name is colonies.
Turbulent days followed in Marlborough House, until it occurred to the prince: Canada wouldn’t be half bad.
Canada!
An icy gust blows in from the Rocky Mountains, and mustangs and buffalo graze on the prairies. And there are farms everywhere, trappers ahoy.
An order was placed by telegraph for the Prince of Wales: a ranch, a real Canadian ranch, the kind the wild guys over there live in, pieced together out of gnarled wooden tree trunks, rough and weatherproof, thousands of miles from Quebec and Montreal, in the midst of immense forests and endless prairies. A simple ranch with six bathrooms, two billiards rooms, a bridge room, a dance hall, three bars, and so on.
Everything according to the prince’s own wish list. A steamship full of suitcases departed from England, and there was a big flurry of activity to put together the ranch.
Good summer retreat for a prince.
Daily schedule:
Get up at five-thirty. A little ride on an empty stomach and in a red tailcoat can’t hurt.
Seven to eleven: first round of breakfast, English-style. Clothing: pajamas or a green silk bathrobe.
Eleven to two: conversation with the courier. (“Where’s my pay?” Forty thousand pounds salary and sixty thousand pounds from the Duchy of Cornwall’s income.)
Two to four: light meal outdoors, then press reception. Clothing: cowboy pants, purple shirt, purple tie, purple handkerchief, purple hatband. The prince is clad in purple.
Four to six: reception with the public. Clothing: two-piece outfit, striped trousers, black sports jacket.
Six to eight: Souper dansant.* For this purpose, two locals wind up the gramophone. The prince gives Black Bottom lessons. A game of billiards. Clothing: tuxedo.
Eight to twelve: game of bridge. In nice weather at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Clothing: tailcoat.
Then dancing.
Newspaper clippings from British newspapers: “Our prince is living among the farmers in Canada.”
“Our prince shoots seven buffaloes.”
“Our prince wins at breaking in wild horses.”
“Our prince gets lost in the mountains.”
“Our prince learns how to throw a lasso.”
—Recently they woke up the prince, at about three in the morning, to find out whether he might enjoy taking part in a hunt. What kind of question is that? He rode off in his nightshirt. Yes, indeed!
Hello, prince, you are a funny boy.
Now, more than ever, as a genuine trapper.
Berliner Börsen Courier, August 31, 1927
Chaplin II and the Others at the Scala
An excellent program! Colorful, sparkling, and what is more: it’s new!
Clowns: there’s Will Cummin, a magnificent young fellow, who uses an umbrella as a lighter and takes his hat for a stroll balanced on a cigar; who amazes a juggler by working with twelve top hats and thus parodying Rastelli; who pours hundreds of gallons of water out of a paltry little vase, all the while making the sweetest of all silly faces.—And then there is the Andren family, musical geniuses, vaudeville virtuosos of the first order. With a little boy whose eyes flicker unending melancholy and fiddles “Träumerei” while slinking along on tiptoe.
Three bears and Okito: One gray bear enters on roller skates to start things off, then a second one tap-dances, and the third (Fräulein Ottilie from Schöneberg, as Joseph Breker, the trainer, calls this one) rides a bike. With the grace and ease of young girls. Yes, it is only when the band jazzes things up with a wild Charleston that the three forget their outstanding training. Like lunatics they pull at their chains, to the beat and with syncopation, of course, but in such a spirited manner that they tear Mr. Breker’s sidekick’s pants to pieces. And Okito: an illusionist without a moderator, which is quite an advantage. At the same time, this “Asian” man is a great artist; how does he do the thing with the gold ball and the thing with the geese? The full dozen wonderful kimonos that Okito presents with the refinement of Paris models is already enough to give you your money’s worth.
Dance attractions: To be honest, these are a bit weak. We’ve seen much better modern dance than what Laczi and Änni do.
Chaplin II: Two acrobats, pretty fellows, and Charlie Rivel; that is the troupe. This Rivel is quite consciously doing a copy. But it comes from within, and it’s so strong that it’s justified. (Justified from a legal standpoint, at any rate, for the very reason that Chaplin, the great one, is no more an original than he is; people say it’s Billy Hurrydale, a second-rate British dope.) Rivel is a brilliant observer, he knows genius like the pocket of his threadbare trousers. In his discreet way, he manages to transport Chaplin into the three-dimensional sphere—and pulls it off surprisingly well. It goes without saying that his partners, who perform countless flips, deserve ample praise.
Incredible feats: Someone who calculates the square root of 33,000,262,176! This phenomenon is Emanuel Steiner, who plays around effortlessly with twenty-digit numbers; as he says himself, the only person in the world who isn’t thrown even by numbers in the billions. He also has an unnerving knowledge of all possible and impossible dates in history; he knows that Archimedes was born on a Thursday; and the result of 766 to the fourth power divided by 77. (A rosy-cheeked skeptic next to me keeps grunting: tour de force; I ought to have him work out my liabilities!)
Someone with gasometer lungs! Omikron is a slender blond man in a violet outfit, looking like an ad for a vacuum cleaner. He gulps in enough gas to send off a couple of people into the hereafter with some to spare. He uses this gas to light lamps, heat an iron, cook a fried egg. You wind up with a bitter taste in your mouth, but you’re amazed by this fellow, and how!
And someone who goes through the eye of a needle! Martin Sczeny, Mexican, with a slight Hungarian intonation;
he’s barrel chested, and brawny from head to toe. An escape artist, a matador of breaking free. Twenty people from the audience put a straitjacket over his head, then swaddle him like a child in diapers. In one minute he is free. Lifts himself up onto the palms of his hands and does somersaults that make his joints crack with a spine-chilling snap. At the end he crawls through a steel ring no bigger than a soup plate. Gets off to a running start again and again, the ladies storm up from their front-row seats, then: yank, his spinal column bends, again and again, done! Lots of effort, lots of sweat. Bravo!
Berliner Börsen Courier, May 10, 1927
The Lookalike Man
TALE OF A CHAMELEON NAMED ERWIN
The dictionary may define individuals as unique and inimitable, but that doesn’t do Erwin one bit of good. The world around him doesn’t think in those terms. In flagrant disregard of the scientific definition, it confers on him the dubious ability to multiply. As lazily as the bureau that attaches descriptions to passport applicants, it denies the existence of any “distinguishing marks” he might have, ignores all the specific features of his appearance, and reduces him to a template. Because he is of medium height and has black hair—like Herr Klappke—it takes him for Herr Klappke. Because he wears dark horn-rimmed glasses and has brown eyes—like Herr Rednitz—it takes him for Herr Rednitz. Erwin cannot be Erwin. Fate has destined him to be the victim of the undeveloped physiognomic memory of his fellow men.
Billy Wilder on Assignment Page 11