[From Time Stood Still by Paul Cohen-Portheim]

XIV THE STAGE

I hd been very much mixed up with the theatre in the period immediately preceding my internment and so I was naturally very interested in theatricals and their development in the camp. When I first came to Wakefield both the South Camp and the North already possessed 'companies,' but things were very badly done and most amateurish. They were, however, destined to develop to a most extraordinary degree, and some of the shows T saw there towards the end of my stay were as good as any you could see outside the wire. Conditions were, of course, very different. In a normal theatrical venture the first thing to settle is the play, and having decided on a play you engage the actors fit for the parts, whereas in camp you had to take the talent available for a basis and then try to find a play with parts for which you could find protagonists. You could not find actors to suit the parts, you had to find parts to suit the actors, for very few of them were versatile enough to go beyond what was naturally akin to them. But within these limits they were, or rather became, extremely able, and what they lacked in technique and experience they made up for by enthusiasm. Even in normal life actors are far more ambitious and harder workers than members of any other profession-speaking generally. As a rule they really have very little life outside their art ; when they are not acting they are looking at acting (and be­moaning the fact that they are not on the stage themselves, :end that incidentally is why actors are as a rule extremely dull people to know for anyone who is not Ivirnself , a stage-enthusiast. [147]There is something very childlike about the typical actor's mentality : it is all a game of make-believe and dress-up, and I think that anyone sufficiently 'grown-up ' or serious to look at the stage rationally could never make a good actor, director, or producer. In camp that natural indifference of the actor to all outside the theatre was intensified for the simple reason that everyone there tried hard, in self­defence, to persuade himself of the real importance of the work he had undertaken in order to forget its inherent futility, and so the actors found no work too much for them. The more rehearsals, the better they liked it, and they were extremely ambitious, and if you take their natural limitations into consideration you will understand how a group of specialists developed, each of whom was really excellent in his particular and strictly limited manner.

Certainly the most astonishing among the actors were those that specialized in female parts, and they never ceased to surprise me. At first, what you saw on the stage were men rather clumsily disguised. as women and about as convincing as the disguised undergraduates of Charley's Aunt, but this changed very quickly and they developed into very plausible actresses. This was all the more remarkable as hardly any of them were of a type at all feminine originally, We had one Viennese boy who physically, at least, was not inappropriate, having very small hands, feet, wrists, and rather a high voice, though there was nothing feminine in his character, and his speciality was what would now be called 'vamp 'parts, only the term had not yet been invented. The only other man at all feminine in appearance I remember specialized in parts of old women and was extremely good in these, but our greatest actress, really remarkable in tragic parts, was originally very much of an athlete. [148] He came from one of the Hanseatic towns, looked bursting with health, and was very good at and enthusiastic about all games. I don't know how he ever came to be cast for a female part, but he was a success from the start and later on really powerful. He was tremendously hard-working, and his evolution was really curious and one of the most convincing proofs I have seen of the predominance of the intellectual or spiritual over the physical. 'Es ist der Geist, der sich den Körper baut ' (It is the spirit which builds itself its body) is a famous saying of Schiller's, the truth of which impressed me then ; for as that youth became more and more of what I do not hesitate to call a great actress on the stage, he also became more and more feminine off the stage, and after some years of this he no longer played hockey or football or whatever it used to be but walked about mincingly with a little dog, called Toutou, with a pink bow. I used to think that he and some of the others would end by developing truly feminine physical characteristics if the war lasted long enough. This was a case of quite exceptional futility of effort. For what could all this mean for them in later life ? But the thought never seemed to strike them, and even in their rivalry they became as catty and intriguing as if they had been real prima-donnas. I have often wondered how they fared when they returned to normal life, to their offices or studies. Meanwhile, they were admirable on the stage, or at least seemed so, for another thing to be considered is the .adaptation of the public to extraordinary conditions. There were no real women to compare them to ; one saw none, or so seldom that the impression did not last. When I look at some of the snapshots I possess, the 'leading ladies ' look rather absurd to me now, but they did not look so at the time, and I also remember that when a woman friend of mine visited me at Wakefield her voice seemed very curious to me and it was very difficult to hear what she said, for the voice seemed so unnaturally high ! [149]That is why I hesitate to say whether the acting in camp was really as good as it seemed to me - there was no possibility of comparison ; but I do know that when I saw some of the plays I had seen at Wakefield done on the regular German stage and by well-known actors, these seemed poor in comparison with the camp-artists. That was my impression of Alt-Heidelberg (known in England as The Student Prince), where one of our ex-officers was truly remarkable in the title-part, of Taifun, where our ' vamp' distinguished herself, and of some Sudermann plays where I remember our great tragédienne and our nnost distinguished père-noble or 'heavy father.'

It was really rather admirable in its way, especially considering the fact that there could never be more than two representations of a play, and more often there was just one, after which all the work and all the anxiety would begin again ; for one never knew what might not happen before the next show. Anyone might commit some sort of crime and the show would be prohibited, or the people of the neighbouring camps not allowed to attend and the show become a financial failure. I think that the actors, and next to them the musicians, were the happiest people in camp, and certainly they contributed more to the haplpiness of the rest than anyone else. If anybody doubts whether art is of real importance in life, which the majority of ` common-sense 'people are very much nclined to do, a course of prison life might very quickly induce them to modify their opinions.

It was while the stage was as yet in a very primitive condition that I decided on my first theatrical venture, for the memory of my work at the opera was still fresh, and I was tempted to try to see what could be done in that line, costume and scenery, under camp conditions. [150]After due deliberation I decided on a cabaret show, for that would give scope for a certain display of costumes, and it would allow me to utilize such talent as I thought I could find amongst the people I knew or knew o£ This was my first contact with the administration and what one might call the public life of the place and it taught me a lot about it. I cannot say that it was a pleasant experience, but it was certainly instructive. The people I had approached with a view to their appearance in my programme were very pleased and eager, for it gave them something to do and to think about ; but I had imagined in my innocence of heart and ignorance of camp-psychology that everybody would be delighted with the idea and that was quite a mistaken notion. Here was I ready to do all the work and take the responsibility of success or failure without asking anything in return ; the receipts were to cover the cost of the enterprise, and if there was any money left over it was to go to the stage-fund. I was going to give the people entertainment of a new sort and which would be, I knew, better done and far less amateurish, within the limits imposed by conditions, than anything that had yet been attempted. It seemed to me everyone ought to be delighted and eager to help. But everyone was not. As the West Camp possessed no stage I wanted that of the North Camp, which incidentally provided most of the artists that were to appear, and here I met with the first resistance. They could not refuse the stage for the performance because that had been permitted by the commandant, but I could never get it for the necessary rehearsals. It just could never be put at my disposal when I could gather together the artists (which necessitated a series of 'permits' and 'passes' each time). [151]After a time I began to understand that I had come up against professional jealousy ! They thought this an attempt to found a new and rival stage and that by a 'foreigner' From the West Camp. Well, I had rehearsals where and when I could. Then some of the leading lights of the committee of members of the different camps I had formed resigned under various pretexts. I was told that the show was considered too luxurious, that it would call forth adverse criticism, that the commandant was against its taking place. This I ascertained to be quite untrue. Then I was warned that there was great hostility because the costumes had all been ordered from Poiret in Paris ! This rather staggered me, considering M. Poiret's prices and the twenty or thirty pounds we could raise for the show, but it also put my back up, for I had at last grasped that there was a deliberate campaign of calumny and ill-will on foot. When they found that did not work they came out with their last and strongest argument : everybody, they said, except, of course, they themselves who knew me personally, was convinced that I was getting up that show solely to put money in my pockets, they were preparing a hostile demonstration and the only thing for me to do was to countermand the show and drop it altogether. That vas actually on the day before the performance was to take place. To this I replied that I could not prevent hostile demonstrations, but that nothing would induce me to desist from holding my show except an order which would force me to, and that it did not worry me at all if I was suspected of putting money in my pocket, as my accounts were to be made public. All the bills had to pass through the camp bank, all the receipts were taken by the theatre officials of the North Camp, and [ would insist that the results of both sums spent and received as certified by the controlling agencies, should be made public immediately after the show and posted up in each camp. [152]There was a curious silence after my declaration, and at that moment it suddenly dawned on me that their last interference had not been pure bluff but that they had really believed I was getting up the show for my own benefit and were dumbfounded at the discovery of my simple-mindedness. In fact, they had thought the whole thing a Schiebung if a somewhat elaborate one, for could there be anything in 'public' life that was not a Schiebung? †

†I have related these experiences somewhat at length, not because they were of great importance, but because they furnish a most characteristic example of the curious twists and turns of barbed-wire psychology.

Now at last my eyes were open, and I felt very sick and disgusted. But I was determined to go through with this, and the curtain rose punctually the next evening before a crowded hall and with the commandant and some officers in the first row. After the first scene, when the curtain fell, the applause was deafening, and by the time the end came the hall fairly shook. The show had to be repeated on three evenings and could have gone on longer if one could have got permission for that. It was, in fact, a triumph, the first stage triumph the camp had known. I was immensely relieved, of course, but I had had enough of public life. Certainly, no one was more charming and complimentary than my ex-enemies ; of course, I was urged to continue my activities (which had brought quite a nice little sum to the fund), but I only smiled politely and refused. I was sorry to in a way, because I loved the work, but I felt thoroughly disgusted with humanity and a nervous wreck into the bargain.

I do not remember all the different scenes or numbers I produced, and the designs for the costumes are lost like nearly everything referring to that period, but a gctod deal of the show has remained in my memory. I adhered throughout the show to the principle of extremely simple and neutral scenery to set off costumes as colourful and apparently rich as possible. [153]The stage was transformed into a semicircle formed by curtains which were grey in some scenes and black in others, and made of extremely cheap cotton which had an attractive sheen. There were two very large garden-vases on pedestals made of white plaster and filled with stiff paper roses on either side of the stage, and where a scene demanded any furniture that consisted of couches, covered with the stuff the curtains were made of, and a few small round tabourets of wood and cardboard painted white. The costumes were, of course, no more than a compromise. I had sent my designs to the firm which had made my costumes for the opera, but in this case it would have been far too expensive to have costumes made to order, so they were simply hired, and they sent me the nearest approaches they had in stock to what I wanted to have. Some were really quite good, some others very far indeed removed from my dreams, but for the eyes of Wakefield it was a vision of unheard-of, almost dreamlike beauty, and even to my own more critical eyes the pictures really looked rather lovely after having been starved of colour, light, and brilliance for so very long.

The first scene was a Mozart-scene. Three musicians in the costumes of the period, several ladies and gentlemen were assembled on the stage when the curtain rose. A Mozart Trio was played, and. very well played by our professional virtuosos, a minuet (the Don Giovanni music) was danced by two couples, and after that a tenor appeared and sang two or three Mozart songs rather charmingly, and the curtain fell slowly with the last notes. This was the longest and most complete scene, and I had placed it first because I believed that it must decide the success of the evening, as it eventually did. Its standard was really high, for I knew that as far as music went we really had something to show one need not be ashamed of, and also that I should get good costumes of that period. [154]They were very charming, the wigs too and the make-up were good. The weakest part of that scene was certainly the dancing, for there was not much eighteenth-century grace or talon rouge to be found in camp, but even that was not as bad as it might have been, and it certainly got a good deal of applause.

It was very much better in some of the other scenes. I remember a Viennese waltz with costumes and music of the time of the Vienna Congress, one of the dancers being Viennese, which was a great performance. The colour­scheme was sky-blue, white, and gold, the man wearing a uniform of the period, and it had to be repeated twice. There were modern dances, modern at the time : a tango, a foxtrot, a Boston, and a one-step by two couples in black and white before a black background, and there were two mute scenes, between a mimodrama and a dance-scene, one being Persian and the other of the Pierrot and Columbine variety. There was also a ' funny man,' whom I needed when a change of scenery was necessary and whom I thought anything but funny. His humour appealed to the audience though and so did another man who read or recited poetry.

I was very glad when it was all over, but I felt very 'out-of-work' for some time, thaugh not sufficiently so to embark on other ventures of the kind. I refused a number of propositions, and then people forgot about me and the two stages proceeded on their way. The North became the more serious and far the better of the two, but the South also had some very good productions, for which they borrowed the 'stars' from their rival ; their special line, however, remained farce of a somewhat heavy kind. Only our unfortunate West never got any further because we had no stage and the others would not lend theirs. [155]That was no doubt why the West objected to my resting on my laurels and why I decided on a new venture after more than two years' resistance and a good deal of thinking the matter over.

This, I decided, should be carried out in the West Camp, for I would never again make myself dependent on outside good-will, so I could only dispose of a small platform and could have no scenery. Nor did I intend to make my fate dependent on what all manner of people unknown to me thought right or wrong, so in the end I formed a club. All we had to ask of the camp was to let us use the tent one night a month and that was easy as it was hardly ever used at night. Even that favour created a certain amount of animosity, but as I now took that for granted, I did not care much, especially as anyone in our camp was free to become a member, while only men I knew and asked to join would come from the other camps. They had to pay a monthly contribution to cover the costs, and any money left over would go on to the next month's accounts to be rendered to the club. As the tent was not large, there could be only a very limited number of members, about eighty if I remember right. My plans were modest enough in externals : a small hall, a most primitive stage, a small audience, and small cost, but they were all the more ambitious artistic­ally, fox this was to be a small stage of the kind which the Germans label Kammerspiele and the French studio. I would have one-act or very short plays, chamber-music of the best, possibly dancing. I had quite a list of plays I wanted to act, but as I could only get them in English, I had first of all to translate them. They included plays by Tagore, Strindberg, Chekov, Andreief, Shaw, and Japanese No-plays. The whole thing was to be a friendly sort of affair with the members (who included all my personal friends) to have their say in the matter.

[156]I had the number of members required and their subscriptions in a very few days, for I had some very energetic and enthusiastic supporters, the programme was settled and the rehearsals began. The first programme of the new enterprise had two numbers, chamber­music first, a trio, a 'cello solo, a piano solo, all modern music, and after that a one-act play by Evreinof called The Happy Death which I considered and still consider a little masterpiece. It is a modern and highly ironical Harlequinade with a good deal of depth to it, the characters of which are the classical Pierrot, Harlequin, and Columbine with the addition of a Doctor and of Death, dressed as a veiled figure in hooped skirts. My curtains still existed ; I had grey curtains, a couch, a plain table and two plain chairs and a piece of cardboard painted to represent a clock on the stage. All the figures had the traditional cheap costumes and Death wore what had once been one of my black curtains. The little serio­comic play was very charmingly acted, and when it had ended with the Dance of Death executed by the veiled figure and Pierrot to the tune of a majestic old Pavane, played by the 'cello behind the curtains, the enthusiasm was so great that I was dragged on to the platform and had to make a short speech. It is the only speech I have ever made, nor do I ever wish to make another. The audience was satisfied with it, though, and so this evening ended very harmoniously, and it was only later that I heard that some people had grumbled because I held a cigarette in my fingers when addressing them, which they considered a mark of disrespect to the audience.

After the success of the first show I could have had thrice as many members if there had been room or if one had decided on a repetition of the shows, but I did not want them, for nearly all the people who cared for what I wanted to produce belonged to the club, and. they made the best audience one could hope to find there. [157]So we started on the second programme. The second evening was to be one of surprises, and called itself 'An Evening in n Cafe.' The hut had tables and chairs as in a cafe and coffee was served ; there was a band on the stage which played Strauss and Offenbach, and the centre of the hall was left empty. I had found a play, the scene of which is laid in a cafe and another one by Strindberg which could be made to take place in a cafe. So the actors suddenly appeared out of nowhere and played in the centre of the room. There was but one difficulty, that there could be no prompter. I can remember nothing whatsoever about the first play, except that it was a cheerful sort of affair and that people laughed a lot ; the second cane was The Other Woman, a Strindberg play which is, in effect, a dialogue between two women, reduced to a monologue by the fact that one remains mute. It is a brilliant tour de force and it was very well rendered by our local 'vamp.' Altogether it was a very amusing and successful evening. The third show was to be the most ambitious attempted yet. There was to be a Tagore play called The Yoghi and a Japanee No-play. I had translated them both, :and their production would be interesting. For the Tagore play I was to have the help of a man who had lived in India for many years and been a professor at one of the universities there ; for the second I should have to rely on my own notions and on the little I had seen of Japanese acting. It would certainly not be a correct rendering, but it should be a curious and fascinating performance. We were all very deeply engrossed in that work, and I was looking forward to the first night much as I had looked forward to the first night of Carmen nearly three years earlier, for we were then in February,1918. [158]But once again fate intervened. The first time it had suddenly kicked me into a prisoners' camp ; the second time it just as suddenly kicked me out of it. That third show of the theatre club never took place, and the club itself became no more than a dim memory.

Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor HTML© F Coakley , 2021