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
