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
