I dragged myself around like that for two days. I cleaned my tuxedo shirt with an eraser. Holes were already poking through the thin soles of my patent-leather shoes. I couldn’t even think about what to do; my empty stomach utterly incapacitated me.
It was just awful. I was standing at the train station in Monte Carlo with my violin case, waiting for the express train from Marseille for no good reason. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to fling myself in front of the locomotive. I leafed through a German book that was on a sales display at the newspaper stand. The title was How They Got Rich and Powerful. Suddenly, I discovered in it the picture of an old man with a white goatee, in a high-necked gray overcoat and with a sort of pith helmet on his head. Under the picture it said: Sir Basil Zaharoff.
What made my knees tremble was the irrefutable fact that I knew this man by sight. So this man, whom I saw daily on my hunger marches, this man, whom I’d regarded as a fellow sufferer, was the richest man in Europe and the principal shareholder of the casino over there: so this man may be living off my twenty thousand francs at the moment, which I had placed on even instead of odd.
When the express train for Marseille arrived, I was already firmly resolved to pump him for money. I had to swindle him, preferably for a sum of four figures, in order not to starve, I swore to myself.
I knew for a fact that every morning between 8:30 and 9:30, Sir Basil Zaharoff took a stroll near the casino. He walked somewhat unsteadily, leaning on a cane, and after every ten steps he sat down on a bench to catch his breath.
My nerves were insanely tense as I sidled up to him the next morning. The sole of my right patent-leather shoe was no longer there, and I was already walking on my sock. My arm was so weak that the empty violin case felt like a truck. My breath grew fast and furious, my white lips trembled. Now I caught sight of him walking very slowly toward the bench I was standing at and quivering. His gray overcoat moved softly, his gray hat, which he wore like a pith helmet, sat so far down on his face that only the white goatee peeked out.
My God, the richest man in Europe. I had to hold on to the bench or I would have fallen onto the violin case with excitement.
Word of honor, we were sitting next to each other: Sir Basil Zaharoff, the billionaire, and me, the derelict without a centime to my name. I counted to twenty-five, mustered up my courage, and declared heroically, “Bonjour, Monsieur Zaharoff!” He peered over at me, looking quite unfriendly at first, but then he nodded. I spent a minute listening to my heart pounding, louder and louder. All of a sudden Zaharoff tapped my violin case with his walking stick and launched into a conversation about violin virtuosos: Fritz Kreisler, Bronisław Hubermann, and Jan Kubelik. My mind was racing, and I searched for a way of shifting the topic. I didn’t find one, especially once Zaharoff remarked with some degree of pleasure that he thought it splendid that I played the violin and not roulette. Then he got up again and swayed over to the next bench. Rooted to the spot, I looked at him, incapable of running after him, falling to my knees before him, and declaring to him: “Monsieur, I’m starving!”
That afternoon, with the help of my empty violin case, I was able to get a booking as a jazz violinist in Venice. When it became evident that I did not have a violin, and could not even read a single note, I truly had been helped out by a friend.
Der Querschnitt, issue 3, March 1933
* “Splendid. I am happy to be able to chat with you.”
* “Sir, you’re in luck, because today the panorama is marvelous: you’ll be able to see the whole of the Alps and the whole of the Adriatic.”
* “There is no house more worthy of consideration than this, in which Christopher Columbus spent his childhood and first youth inside his father’s walls.”
II
Portraits of Extraordinary and Ordinary People
Early on in his career as a journalist, Wilder demonstrated a remarkable talent for capturing the character of the cultural, artistic, and political figures in his midst. While still in Vienna, he wrote evocative profiles of Danish actress Asta Nielsen, whose performances on the Austrian stage and screen were among the most celebrated of the era, and of the fabulously popular Tiller Girls, the British dance troupe that showed up at Vienna’s Westbahnhof railway station in the spring of 1926. He also covered the Austrian jazz musician Toni Girardi and the momentous occasion when the American band leader Paul Whiteman graced Vienna with his presence; his profile of Whiteman, which noted the American jazzman’s famous moustache, then dove beneath it to lay bare the whole man, led to a follow-up concert review from Berlin, lavishing further attention on Whiteman’s outsize persona.
Wilder’s portraits also include two separate pieces devoted to the Prince of Wales, a figure whose impressive sartorial habits and playboy demeanor held a certain fascination for young Billie (much later, he worked a passing reference to him into the dialogue for The Front Page [1974], one of his final movies), as well as his interview with American millionaire Cornelius Vanderbilt IV. Additional profiles include an account of the visit to Berlin by French writer Claude Anet (né Jean Schopfer), whose 1920 novel Ariane, jeune fille russe would serve as the source material for a script Wilder co-wrote with I. A. L. Diamond for Love in the Afternoon (1957); a sixtieth-birthday tribute to Felix Holländer, the German writer, critic, and frequent collaborator of theater impresario Max Reinhardt; and a tribute to his former mentor Klabund (Alfred Henschke) a year after Klabund’s passing. Wilder’s early love of film, and of the characters that inhabit that world, comes across vividly in his portraits of Erich von Stroheim (“The Man We Love to Hate”) and of American actor Adolphe Menjou on tour in Berlin. Interspersed among the more famous profiles are chronicles of everyday lives, like an account of the oldest woman in Berlin, of a Swiss-born circus clown, of a B. Z. newspaper saleswoman, and of an uncommonly talented poker artist named Fritz Herrmann. Wilder’s work on the script for Menschen am Sonntag took much the same direct, candid approach in representing everyday people with all their beauty, dignity, and truth.
Asta Nielsen’s Theatrical Mission
AN INTERVIEW
The Raimund Theater is ablaze with light. The arc lamps are reflected in the wet asphalt, a long row of cars in front of the main entrance; the show must be ending soon. I have to hurry up if my plan is to succeed. I go in through the narrow stage door. The porter at the front desk is flipping through a newspaper. I try to sneak past him, but he’s already caught sight of me. “What does the gentleman wish to do? This is not an entrance for outsiders!” I introduce myself and hold out my credentials for him to inspect. We negotiate for a full quarter of an hour. Then he leads me down a dim hallway and up to a door. “So, this is Frau Nielsen’s dressing room. You have to wait. The show will be over in ten minutes.” The porter slinks back to his desk; I wait and wait.
All of a sudden it occurs to me: how about I strike up a friendship with the coat-check girl in the meantime? As long as I get inside, even seven devils won’t cast me out. I knock on the door. A booming man’s voice answers, “Enterrr!”
A man? Did the porter show me to the wrong door? I turn the knob timidly, open the door halfway; a gentleman of medium height with an intelligent face, deep-set eyes, and a part in his hair comes toward me; at one point I must have seen him somewhere. “Yes?” “Pardon me, Sir, if I’m disturbing you. The porter showed me to this door.… I’m a journalist.… And people are interested in Asta Nielsen’s path from the movies to the stage. So I wanted to do a little interview, with the artist herself …” “Is that so? Well, then, that’s fine. Perhaps you can take a seat here. My wife will be coming soon. And please allow me to introduce myself: Gregori Chmara is my name.”
Now I know where I know him from: he is the same Chmara who acted under Konstantin Stanislavski in Vienna, has been making films in Germany for several years, and just recently became Asta Nielsen’s husband. He is adept at chatting, still struggling with the language, searching for words.
“Yes, it was my idea for Asta to
take to the stage. I grew up in the theater; acted with Stanislavski for years. In 1922 I was in Berlin; it was there that I saw Nielsen for the first time. Now we’re married. As long as film gave us projects in which we flourished, we didn’t think about the theater. But today, when American kitsch has killed off the German art film? Is Asta Nielsen supposed to stand still on the same dead spot? And so it came that Nielsen turned her back on the camera and headed to the stage, as I always wanted.”—“And you, Herr Chmara? Will you also act in the theater in Germany?” “I hope so! But it can take years for me to gain a good command of the language. In the meantime, I’m going over my wife’s roles with her, helping her, working as her director and—if you will—her impresario.”
Now there’s noise from the cloakroom. Steps. Voices. The show seems to be over. A few more minutes and the door opens: Asta Nielsen steps quickly into the room. Tall, slender, black-haired. Three things stand out to me: her big brown eyes, always tear-filled; her jet-black tresses, smoothed back; her snow-white, long, unnerving hands. Just three weeks ago I saw her in a movie—it was called Frau im Feuer (The Woman in Flames, 1924) or something like that—and now she is standing in front of me, quite close, so close that I feel her warm breath. Chmara introduces us. Asta is tired, it’s easy to see. But Asta is nice; she sits down at the table like a schoolgirl as Chmara’s hand strokes her hair. (The two of them love each other like seventeen-year-olds.) I keep it brief. Asta Nielsen gives her responses quickly and concisely. She speaks with a foreign accent, somewhat like a Brit, but fluently and easy to understand. “So you’ve left movies for good?”
“No, I’ve left them because they didn’t have any new real projects for me. But I will belong to them once again when they become art. For me, film and theater are one and the same. I’ve stayed true to myself.” “You already acted in the theater?” “Yes, indeed: for nine years in my hometown of Copenhagen. Then I went into motion pictures. Waldemar Psilander was my first partner. I spent fifteen years in front of the camera.”
“How do you feel as a newborn theater actress?” “I’m happy. I owe a great deal to my husband, who has made me into a Stanislavski actress.” “The play?” “Sheldon’s Romance. A cleverly constructed drama that ran for three years in America. My role? An Italian singer who has to speak with a foreign accent.” “Your next plans, your next roles?” “I’m traveling to Berlin. Negotiations with a particular theater are being concluded. I’ll be acting in August Strindberg’s Rausch (Intoxication). Maybe Hamlet, too.” “Why don’t you go to America?” “Oh—I would never have been happy in America! There’s no sense of culture there, no art.” “Whom do you regard as the best film actor?” “Everyone has his roles. These actors have made the greatest impression on me: Werner Krauss in Caligari (1920); Emil Jannings in Varieté (Variety, 1925); Gregori Chmara in Raskolnikow (Crime and Punishment, 1925); a highly creative genius is Charlie Chaplin; I think Lon Chaney is overrated.” “Your best film?” “Fräulein Julie (Miss Julie, 1922)!” “What do you do, Madam, when you aren’t doing anything?” “I talk to my husband about the theater. It’s lucky that I can talk things out with him. Or else I sleep.”—“How long have you been wearing your hair in a bob?” “For five years. I had my hair cut for the Hamlet film.” “What does a man need to look like for you to find him attractive?” “Like Chmara.” “Are you for or against the British mustache?” “I must confess: an idea that deep has never weighed on my mind.” “One more stupid question …” “Cross that out!”
Asta Nielsen, the world’s greatest film actress, will not be on the screen for a long time. The many thousands of people who were able to admire her brilliant art will shrink down to hundreds. And that, I think, is a misfortune.
Die Bühne, February 4, 1926
My “Prince of Wales”
I actually wanted to interview the Prince of Wales. A few nice lines about British fashion are always of interest. Yes, but where, how, when? A couple of days ago a New York newspaper ran a picture of the prince, perched on a little ledge in the middle of a diabolical waterfall, a fishing rod with the gold handle between his legs, puffing on his pipe and grinning: “His Majesty the British son of the king, fishing in Dalmellington, Scotland.”
In Scotland! One thousand fifty miles from the Opernring in Vienna, as the crow flies. So what do I do? Go there? Interview him by telegraph? Wait till he comes to Vienna. Or how about this—
There must be an Englishman in Vienna who knows about fashion. If not the king of fashion himself, at least someone from his kingdom. And where do I find him? Child’s play! In the hotels, of course. In front of the Imperial, I find confirmation for my shrewd deductions. Someone is standing there: lean, manly, in seriously casual clothing, inherently elegant, distinguished, Oxford trousers, short, double-breasted overcoat, his hat pushed down deep onto his face, in his right hand a walking stick as thick as a tree trunk. A Brit, by God, a typical Brit! So off I go! (There must be impertinent journalists in England as well.) “Excuse me …”
The Englishman is a nice, amiable gentleman (just as we learned in school). Five minutes later, when we are sitting in a corner at a coffeehouse, I already know everything: he is originally from Cardiff, studied at Cambridge, is now here from Italy, enjoying central Europe on the way back, charmed by Vienna, speaks good German, spits expertly, makes his pipe saunter from one corner of his mouth to the other, elegantly and in a flash, and knows a great deal about fashion, which is the main thing as far as I’m concerned.
“The latest fashion? The very same as we’ve had for ten, twenty, and thirty years, the same as we’ll have in a hundred years.” That is indeed the major difference between British and French, American, and Italian fashion. An Englishman orders ten suits and five pairs of shoes at a time. At a time! He changes his clothes daily, always looks elegant, and is not bothered by shoemakers and tailors for five years. An American buys himself a new suit every summer, every winter, wears it day after day, then tosses it into the trash can after six months. He does the same with his hats and everything else! He follows fashion, to the extent that this can be called fashion. Today his jacket needs to have four buttons, his overcoat needs a velvet collar, his shoes need to be wing-tipped; tomorrow he will put a green band on his straw hat, and his waist needs to “fall” exactly three inches above his appendix. Business, nothing but business! The same applies to French, Italian, or any fashion. Practical, unobtrusive, elegant: that is the inclination of the well-dressed Englishman.
His clothes have to be of the best fabric, his shoes of the finest leather, his shirts of pure silk. Anything that is expensive is good, anything that is good lasts a long time, and anything that lasts a long time is not expensive enough! “The suit you see here”—he points to his dark gray sports jacket, to his flannel trousers, all perfectly new, as if straight from the shop window, a fabulous fit, “this suit is three and a half years old! I had it made in London at the top tailor’s for twenty-two pounds. I’m the picture of foolishness, you’re thinking? Add it up! Three and a half years and counting. An American needs seven suits for this period of time. And I hope to be able to wear mine for another good three years. You’re amazed? Just a moment! How old do your ties normally get?” The Englishman glances sympathetically at my tie, the little knot of which sits impeccably on the stiff collar. “Half a year at most.”
“Half a year? Do you know how long I’ve been wearing my ties? Three and four years! Yes, indeed! But have a look at the quality, and take a look at the way it’s tied: the knot is big, tied casually. Being creased on a daily basis ruins even the best tie. And what good is a stiff collar? Washing it is expensive, and your neck gets chafed and painful. We wear it only with a tuxedo and tails. Otherwise just soft collars. You see, the structure leaves a bit of space free for the knot here, which means that the collar will always fit even it’s too small or too large.” “And doesn’t fashion ever offer anything new?”
“New? Nothing but minor details. Ultimately it makes no diffe
rence whether the trousers are an inch and a half longer, the lapels three-fourths of an inch wider. The suit always has a casual cut, with long, wide Oxford trousers and unwaisted short jacket. The overcoat, also unwaisted, is long. Here it’s rare to see the all-weather coat that is so popular there. It serves as a raincoat, a winter coat, and a coat for between seasons. Hats are light, made of the best felt. Shoes are always rounded, rough leather, and thick-soled. Patent-leather shoes without toe caps. Wearing undershirts goes a long way toward minimizing wear and tear on shirts. Why undershirts? Practical, my dearest, practical, nothing but practical. There’s nothing else to say about us. You must already be aware that we always puff on pipes, spit with passion, play soccer devotedly, and are blessed with hearing like a congested walrus!”
A clever fellow, this Englishman! By the way, he’s brought me around to this taste in clothing: I’m going to dress in the English way, starting today! Because going English is cheap, and what is cheap enough these days?
Die Bühne, February 11, 1926
Lubitsch Discovers
A CASTING BY AMERICA’S GREAT DIRECTOR
Daisy is determined to enter the world of film. She signs up for an appointment with Lubitsch and waits out the three days until she can finally go into the room of the Almighty One.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to be in films!”
“Show me your feet!”
Daisy awkwardly lifts up her skirt until just above the knee.
Billy Wilder on Assignment Page 9
