We were all ready to travel to
George Gershwin's uncle. There I played the music for the new
operetta, "The Broken Violin," and the young George Gershwin
re-mixed the music from my new operetta. A couple of days later,
when Thomashefsky, Mrs. Zuckerberg and his son Harry went away,
back to Hunter, I went for a walk in Fallsburg. I heard a piano
playing my music from the new operetta, "The Broken Violin." At
first I thought it was just me, but I listed to this more, and
more and more of it was being played, note for note, tone for tone
the music of my new operetta, which nobody had. I opened the
door of the house where the music was coming from, and how
stunned I became when I saw at the piano the young student,
George Gershwin. He apologized to me and said: "I play as much
as I could remember." I had already then seen that for me there
stood a genie with a rare musical memory. Once he hears
everything, he remembers.
"The Broken Violin" created a
revolution in the Yiddish theatre world. It was what to hear and
what to see.
"The Broken Violin" played for an
entire season to packed houses.
The second great operetta with
Boris Thomashefsky was "Di chazante (The Cantoress)."
It is interesting to note how a
German play became a genuine Yiddish operetta, "The Cantoress."
On a Wednesday evening,
Thomashefsky said to me: "Come, Let us go to the Irving Place
Theatre." There they were playing German theatre. They were playing
Carl Rossler's German play, "The Five Frankfurters," which was
about the lives of the Rothschild brothers, who were part
of the world of capitalism in Europe.
During the production we were both
upset, because the topic of the play was a little anti-Semitic.
Thomashefsky said to me: "This is the great libel against us
Jews," and he said further: "Gentiles are thicker than Jews." I
said: "But it is artistically written and very well acted."
"Returning from the theatre,
Thomashefsky spoke no words. I said to him: "Why are you so
nervous?" -- He grabbed me by the arm and said: "We will welcome
the Germans uptown in Turkish. We will make the anti-Semitic
play into a genuine, Yiddish operetta, 'Di chazante,' with
genuine Yiddish and cantorial music." I said, "How?" He said: "I
had a brilliant idea, which will bring a lot of glory to the
Yiddish theatre." And he explained further: "Just as 'The Four
Frankfurters' wants to convince [the audience] how Jews control the finances of
the entire world, In the same way, we will show how Jews master
the art of the world. And here you have it: "been." He goes on
to say, "A great, well-known cantor in a small town. He died and
left a widow. Their children, who were choirboys for their
father, were soon spread throughout the world. They studied in
various conservatories, and over time one of them became a
director of a great opera house; the second a great tenor in
Italy; the third, a great symphony conductor; the fourth, a
well-known composer. The fifth, the eldest, remained a cantor at
his father's place. The widow had joy from them. We will name
the play, 'Di chazante.' "
David Belasco, the American
playwright and producer, tells that he staged his play, "Madame
Butterfly" as a drama in London, England, with Leslie Carter in
the main role. After the first performance, an Italian with
thick black mustache ran up to him and hugged him with both
hands and pleaded: "Mister Belasco, let's create music for your
play, 'Madam Butterfly'!"
Belasco had no other choice but to
say 'yes,' so that he would remove his hands from his throat.
The Italian was indeed the
composer Puccini, who had indeed wrote the music to "Madame
Butterfly."
Belasco tells later that he
believed these lines, that Puccini had not seen the play as a
drama, because the first half-hour of the drama, "Madame
Butterfly," Puccini immediately became determined to write
music to the play, and Belasco believed that, sitting at the
production, he created certain passages and tenor for arias.
So just like the composer Puccini
felt when he saw "Madame Butterfly" as a drama, I felt
this way when
Boris Thomashefsky told me his plan for the "Five
Frankfurters," which became "Di chazante." When he spoke, I
already heard tenor in the air. And indeed as fast as lightning,
we both worked, and the play with the music for "Di chazante" was
done. In around two weeks, and with six rehearsals, we performed
it, but they played "Di chazante" for months. "Di chazante" was
not put into the repertoire for the entire year.
THE BIRTH OF "THE RABBI'S MELODY"
When I saw Ludwig Satz play in Osip Dymow's "Shklafn
fun folk (Slaves of the People)," I decided that he should
be my future star. Although his role in "Slaves of the People"
was as a character-comic, I saw that his rhythm would fit very
well in the operetta. I already then had written music for
Thomashefsky to his fifth operetta, but the "Di Toyre'le" pendulum,
Israelik-Emlikl, had already taken hold of me.
At that time the director, Yosl Edelstein, opened
the Second Avenue Theatre, under his management. I saw that Yosl
Edelstein as a manager was able to produce operettas, which we
will appeal more to the heart. Though my contract with Boris
Thomashefsky was for three years, I explained to him with heavy
effort and arguments, that I can no longer write music to his
type of plays, and I gave him (with Edelstein's money) a
thousand dollars for the relim, that is, he should free
me from the contract.
Edelstein engaged a fine company. Men: Samuel
Goldinburg, Ludwig Satz, Samuel Rosenstein, Charles Nathanson,
Boris Rosenthal, and Hymie Jacobson. Women: Regina Prager, Rose
Karp, Fannie Lubritsky, Annie Thomashefsky, Sabina Lakser and
other important actors and actresses.
I looked for content for an operetta. In that
time there was published in the "Morning Journal" a series of
Hasidic stories by Itzhak Abn. I used to read them with great
interest. They evoked in me a feeling of Hasidic melodies. I
began to think of a modern, Hasidic operetta.
On a summer night I met Gershom Bader, the
journalist and playwright. I decided that he's the only one who can
write a Hasidic operetta. I asked him if he had a play that I
could read,
and he answered me with a broad, Lithuanian "yeah," (He imitated
me like this because I am a Litwack). We made an agreement with me
at home on Saturday at 11 in the morning, and exactly at 11 in
the morning Gershom Bader entered with two small books in his
hands and said to me that he had two dramas. I answered that I
don't need any of them, and I said that I know what I want from
him, that he should tell me Hasidic stories, and it does not
matter if they are true or imagined.
He told me four or five stories, and he had
already wanted to leave, saying: Mr. Rumshinsky, I do not want
to urge you anymore, even though I urge ... Meanwhile, a mistake
was made and something more was said, and I said: "Mr. Bader,
you are nevertheless a source of Hasidic stories, and I implore
you to tell them to me. Gershom Bader thought and began: "It was
an old, Hasidic dynasty, a rabbinic family of many generations,
which had lead an entire Jewish kingdom. The old rabbi passed
away, and he left a son of thirteen or fourteen years, who
wanted to play with boys in marbles, and in buttons, but
according to custom -- he needed to take over the rabbi's
throne, the rabbi's chair."
I am certain that Gershom Bader did not mean
that, but I immediately remembered Tsar Feodor, Ivan Grozny's
son, praying for his father's death "Nye chotshu bit tsariom"
("I don't want there to be any czar"), and I immediately placed
Ludwig Satz as the youth, the little rabbi who says: "I don't
want there to be any czar!"
Satz then was very skinny, and
although already a great artist, still young enough for such a
role, and Regina Prager as the rabbi's wife, who .....
I said to Gershom Bader: "I don't
want to look for any other play, I want to write music to your
play. Here we shook hands, I went home and wrote without the
play."
We made up to meet on the second Saturday,
at the same time. Gershom Bader arrived, as usual, on time with
a pack of written papers under his arms. He began to read:
-- This first scene is in a cemetery, and
Hasids are making a L'chaim and dancing aground a rabbi's grave
...
I protested against such a start,
although it is a fact that at this time of the year the Hasids
come together and rejoice at the rabbi's grave. "The stage,
however, does not want to know from such a thing," I said to
him, "It is a cheerful operetta, and it can't begin with a
cemetery. But this is a trifle, it is just a scene." But the
more Gershom Bader read, I saw all the more possibilities for
Hasidic holiday music: Gershom Bader was told how the new rabbi
would be introduced. When he heard the melody, he said, let us
call the play, "The Rabbi's Melody." There lay something of a
strange magic in the operetta, "The Rabbi's Melody."
It has already been some thirty years since they first played
"The Rabbi's Melody," and when we play it nowadays, we still
feel the same warmth, enthusiasm, the same Hasidic fire.
They began the season [probably 1919-20] with Z. Libin's play, "Dem
shnayder's tekhter (The Tailor's Daughters)." When they
first read the play, Libin only had one act, a very realistic,
fine act. However, he wrote the remaining acts with the
regisseur (stage director) and star and advice-giver Samuel
Goldinburg, and it
became a mish-mosh, a piece of nonsense, that from Libin's play,
nothing good was made of Libin's types. It was already destined to be a great failure the first night.
I worked with Gershom Bader on "Rabbi's Melody," on the side,
like it was contraband. Only Edelstein knew.
After the first night of
the production of "Tailor's Daughters," we said to Edelstein:
Today is Rosh Hashanah. On Sukkos "The Rabbi's Melody" will be
given, if I don't make it to the "bude" (theatre).
They held rehearsals, day and night. On the first day of Sukkos,
they staged "The Rabbi's Melody," immediately before a packed
house. It lasted some thirty weeks, and for ten weeks across the
province.
The "Rabbi's Melody" remains a classic in the Yiddish theatre
repertoire with its songs and romances, just like Abraham
Goldfaden's "Shulamis" and "Bar Kokhba." |