Volume 2
HEARTACHE AND SUCCESS
|
|
Maurice Schwartz and I in Libin's "The Man
and his Shadow,"
the play with which we began the new epoch
in the Irving Place Theatre. |
The 1912-1913
season began with important news for the Yiddish
theatrical world. Adler, Kessler, and Thomashevsky had
decided that, instead of competing and tearing each
other to pieces, they would found a trust and help one
another. The rationale was that when they were all
together and wouldn't have to compete with one another,
it wouldn't be necessary to have a separate theatre for
each star.
The first thing to do was to limit
the number of large theatres to two, Kessler's Second
Avenue and Adler-Thomashevsky's National. The stars
moved into the two large theatres. The Thalia
Theatre remained empty and the People's Theatre was
leased for English performances. That was economy in one
respect, and in another, the new plan freed the star
from playing in New York, and made him able to travel in
the provinces and do better business for the trust than
if he had remained in a separate theatre in New York.
Besides, the
managers hoped that, together, they would be able to
raise their heads against the actors' union and dictate
their conditions to it.
And actually
before the trust was a few months old, a strike broke
out in their theatres. The trust existed for one season,
and the after-effect lasted almost another season.
The new
theatre, called "Adler-Thomashevsky’s National Theatre,"
opened September 14, 1912 during the season I am
describing. Adler and Thomashevsky were the directors
and Max R. Wilner and Joseph Edelstein, the general
managers. A holiday performance was given at the festive
opening. Individual acts were performed so that each
star could distinguish himself. Jacob Adler appeared in
his famous role of Shylock; David Kessler as "Schloimke
the Charlatan"; Thomashevsky selected for his appearance
one act from "Blind Love," with me in the female lead.
Bessie
Thomashevsky did not play that season, so that I played
all the leading roles in Thomashevsky's dramatic
repertory during the week. I didn't know that this
caused several actresses in the troupe to be
considerably displeased. It was indeed a great
opportunity for a young actress to play such outstanding
roles and to receive tremendous compliments from the
press. That would have been wonderful for me. But I
didn't understand that Bessie's not being in the theatre
and my substituting in her roles would cost me so many
tears and heartaches....It could be that if I hadn't
been "the absent-minded angel," I might perhaps not have
seized upon all those leading roles with so much gusto.
I had the
occasion to hear an actress, who had already played
secondary female roles for may years, complain
practically in these words: "All these years I've been
in the theatre and waited for the opportunity to play a
leading role, so now along comes such a shrimp not yet
dry behind the ears in the theatre, and they hand her
leading roles to play."
I could
understand that feeling of jealousy; even her envy was
not such as to irk and worry me. It was rather a
question of her own bitter fate, a kind of resentment
over not having achieved her ambition. That was
human.... I even sympathized with her.
There was
another actress in the troupe who was consumed with
jealousy over my getting Bessie Thomashevsky's roles.
But she didn't complain; It was beneath her dignity to
recognize me as a rival. She felt much more important
both in her position in Thomashevsky's theatre and in
the Yiddish theatrical world in general. All female
actresses smiled at and flattered her in every theatre
she played. Everyone was afraid she could harm someone
she took a dislike to because her husband was tied up
with the owners of the theatres. Bessie's not being in
the theatre excited her appetite, so she decided that it
was she who should have taken Bessie's place in Thomashevsky's theatre.
That's also
understandable. It is human nature to want to climb
higher, to attain the highest rung on the ladder of
success. But when should this be true? When one seeks to
attain this by honest means, with talent, with
expertise, with hard work. I don't want to judge whether
her talent entitled her to the height to which she
aspired. But I do know one thing: no means was too low
or hateful for her. Her unclean ambition took every drop
of human feeling out of her. She was ready to squash
everybody who stood in her way. She decided to get hers
at any price. She stopped at no weapon. She had a
poisonous tongue, a sick brain, and a frightful talent
for dirty gossip... l couldn't compete with such
devices.
I was
generally not a backstage fighter, although I was always
ready for an open fight on the stage where everybody
could see and judge—but she was not interested in that.
So I was helpless against her. Night after night,
whether or not she performed in the play, she came to
the theatre and sat down in our communal dressing room,
even though she had her own dressing room. But no one
would have heard what she had to tell in her separate
dressing room....
I feel it
necessary to draw your attention to the fact that I had
no special privileges in the theatre. I perhaps merited
my own dressing room as an actress in leading roles, but
I didn't have one. I don't mean to complain of my fate
over this, but those who know something of the theatre
will see at once that my position in the theatre is not
a privileged one.
So it seems
she would come into our dressing room and loosen her
poisonous tongue. Without mentioning my name, she told
all the actresses sitting there about a young actress
who was making a mockery of the entire theatrical
profession. She was spending night and day in the
newspaper editorial offices and became palsy-walsy with
everyone writing about the theatre. She was very
generous....so she got good reviews for herself that
way. No wonder they took up for her in the newspapers.
The star she was playing with also didn't give her top
roles for nothing....
You can't put
into a book everything she said; it wouldn't be
printable. I found out later that her poisonous
diatribes didn't stop in the dressing room only. She
smeared my name this way in the entire theatrical
profession, made it so low that I indeed didn't know how
disreputable I had become.
I discovered
it by accident. My three Adler sisters—Nyunia, Julia,
and Stella—came to a performance in which she played.
They sat down in the first loge and, when she came on
the stage, they began to laugh out loud; Nyunia, who was
the leader, was louder than the others. After a few such
laughing jags, the concerned actress sent for the stage
manager to tell them either to stop their mocking or
leave the theatre. He didn't know the Adler girls.
Julia excused
herself to him saying that Nyunia had told a joke and
they couldn't control themselves. He implored them:
"Don't do it any more; your laughter is upsetting her
terribly."
Nyunia
answered him: "You can tell her to swallow a little of
her own poison, so she won 't be so upset." He gave them
a curious look and disappeared.
It was on a
Sunday night—I wasn't playing in the operetta, so I
came to the theatre to get my salary. They told me in
the office that my sisters were carrying on considerably
in the loge. So I went over to them and found them
laughing out loud. I asked them, wondering: "What are
you doing?"
Nyunia looked
at me and told me quietly: "Do you know how she's been
carrying on, talking about you? We are a self-appointed
committee to get even with her for you—let her worry
some, too."
Presently, she
again came on the stage. Nyunia suddenly stood up,
gestured with her hand, and Julia and Stella did
likewise—we all left the loge. We went to Stark's cafe,
and Nyunia first opened up there:
"I know you
all right! You've been a schlemiel, (a sad sack) and will
remain a schlemiel. In your place, I would long ago have
closed her unclean mouth. But you—you can cry. Well,
we've at least cooled our hearts today a little."
She also told
me that she intended to have a little talk with our
brothers about this matter. "They should inform her that
you have someone who can take your part."
I recall how
moved I was by the feeling that they were ready to do
battle for me. But I was scared and I hoped that Nyunia
would forget the entire matter....
The scene with
my sisters in the loge of the theatre took place at a
later time. But meanwhile, the actress did not stop
torturing me in the dressing room and kept on telling
more and more nasty stories about that certain young
actress.
I couldn't
react in any way but suffocated in my tears. Only from
time to time, when I could no longer control myself, did
I run out to have a good cry.
Thus, I once
heard while on my way to the dressing room that our
wardrobe mistress—Mrs. Schwartz was her name—had said
to the ambitious actress:
"You are going
to drive that girl to 'Tchechotke.'" (consumption)
The other one
laughed poisonously: "Don't be foolish... Tchechotke is
not enough for her.... I'll drive her to a young
death...."
That season in
the dressing room caused my days and nights to bite
deep into all the members of my body. It was entirely
possible that that actress would bring about what she
wanted. Heaven forbid I should have thought of a young
death; but I did think about quitting the theatre. The
atmosphere practically suffocated me. I didn't hear one
friendly word from any of my colleagues. I had no one to
talk things over with, no one to complain to.
But once,
after a performance, it so happened that Mme. Weintraub
and I were the last ones left in the dressing room. When
we were ready to leave, she stopped me, took a good look
around to see if anyone was listening, and said to me warmheartedly:
"I know Celia,
that she's dirtying you for nothing. I know how you
suffer, poor dear. I sympathize with you. My heart hurts
for you. But I don't dare court enmity with her. She can
interfere with my livelihood, my career. So please forgive
me if I act like a stranger to you. And if I don't greet
you in the street, you shouldn't hold it against me."
I stood
staring at her, and my brain didn't conceive wherein lay
the vicious power of that cunning actress. It had a
terrible effect on me. But something in my subconscious
told me I mustn't leave the theatre. I had to remain on
the field of battle even though I was in a helpless
state.
But I did have
a victory, a victory that transformed the storm into a whirlwind. My victory consisted on this:
They were
going to play Libin's "Someone Else's Children." As you
will recall, in that play, Bessie Thomashevsky played
the leading role and I, her younger sister, the second
women's role in the play. Since Bessie was not in the
theatre that season, someone had to substitute in her
role. Thomashevsky had given the role to that actress; I
was left with my role. After the first rehearsal,
Thomashevsky took the role away from her and gave it to
me. At the same time he told me:
"I didn't want
to change both important roles in the play. But I can't
help myself. You'll have to play the leading role, and
if your role of the sister happens to come out weaker,
the play won't suffer so much."
I took the
role without a word. You couldn't argue with
Thomashevsky where stage discipline was concerned. He
was very strict in this respect and had his way and his
own approach. Thus, for example, everyone knew that you
had to be punctual in his theatre; you had to come to
rehearsal on time. He didn't yell or, heaven forbid,
tell someone off; but I witnessed more than one such a
scene as this:
We were all
onstage. The rehearsal was scheduled for eleven o'clock.
Only one man or woman is missing. At last the tardy one
arrived. It was only five or six minutes after eleven.
Thomashevsky sat holding the open script and waiting.
As soon as the
guilty one came onstage, Thomashevsky gave him a look,
closed the script, stood up, said: "Rehearsal will be
tomorrow morning at eleven." And left the stage without
a word.
That's why I
knew that when he gave me the role I was to take it
without comment.... So I paid for this victory with
quite a lot of tears and heartache. That week, her
tongue was a piece of poison in the dressing room. She
virtually fried in her own enjoyment juice telling the
nasty stories about "that young actress."
Certainly,
when I now think of those times, I keep wondering to
myself why her nasty remarks had such an effect on me. I
surely knew that in her poisonous gossip there wasn't a
word of truth, that she was doing it just to worry me.
Perhaps this
sounds like I'm taking special pains to appear before
you as a helpless little dupe. But I shall underscore
here as hard as I can that having been in a profession
for several out of a total of twenty years that had the
reputation of undisputed observance of unspotted family
moves, I was quite as naive and guiltless as every
decent young daughter in those years.... That's why her
remarks burnt my ears and cut into my heart.
I have
mentioned before that Thomashevsky, more than all the
other stars, had a certain sentimental approach to
children of the theatre who sought a career on the
stage. Thus he had a special warm attitude toward me.
When he once saw that my eyes were tearful as I was
playing on the stage—the role didn't call for it—he
called me into his dressing room after the performance,
asked me the cause of my tearful eyes. Instead of giving
an answer, I broke out into a hysterical fit of weeping.
Being scared, he tried to quiet me practically with
fatherly devotion, continuing to ask the same
question—what happened?
When I had at
last quieted myself, I told him:
"You know
nothing of what I endure in our dressing room at each
performance. The actress with the poisonous tongue is
cutting my life short. She comes into our dressing room,
squats down, and tells the nastiest things about 'a
certain young actress.' She doesn't mention my name—but
I and all the others know whom she's talking about, She
tells much vile and low stories about me that my face
burns.... In our dressing room a deadly silence
prevails. No one dares say a word. So her nasty remarks
become even worse. I have to put on makeup two or three
times over again for each of my roles because the tears
that flow without stopping wash away my makeup."
"I didn't
consider you such a fool, Celia. Her remarks should not
affect you so. You should laugh in her face!"
"I sure wish I
could...."
"If that's the
case," he said, "you have to endure the suffering." And
I did suffer. She didn't stop the entire season.
The actors'
strike broke out around that time. The trust I've
mentioned began to permit itself to do things and carry
on activities that the leaders of the union could not
abide. The union activists tried to explain to the three
stars about the falseness of their actions. But they
didn't succeed, and a strike was declared at both
theatres.
The stars were
adamant. They were sure they could break the strike. So
they closed the National Theatre, and the stars with
their wives and children all played together at
Kessler's Second Avenue Theatre. My father then reminded
himself that he still had another daughter who could
come in handy now. He convinced me that I should play
with them: "They want to tear us to pieces, these
scoundrels, such rascals.... "
Although I
already had a union card, I must admit I understood very
little of the meaning of a union. I neither had any
concept of the great achievement of the organized
workers, nor did I understand the duties that an individual
union member has to his union. Just as I stood aside
from and never had any inkling of theatre politics, so I
also didn't value my belonging to the Jewish Actors'
Union. And when my father asked me to play with him, I
felt that it was almost my duty to do so. It didn't even
occur to me that I was committing a wrong against my
union member colleagues.
Both public
opinion and the Jewish public, as well as the holding
out on the part of the actors' union, forced the stars
to capitulate. After a few weeks of torture and the loss
of a considerable sum of money, they agreed to all the
demands of the union put to them. It was then that
I first found out that my playing with them was not proper
behavior by a union member. The name for it was "scab."
I was severely
reprimanded at a union meeting—understandably, I wasn't
present at it—and it verged on my being stricken from
the rolls. The actors Sigmund Weintraub and Samuel
Schneier had a talk with me. They both understood that
my foolish behavior was not because of malevolence
toward the actors' union, and they also felt that a
large part of the guilt lay in my mixed-up family life.
They both had a hearty talk with me, made me understand
how uncooperatively I had acted. I immediately began to
see how right they were and was quite ashamed to look
them in the face.
They advised
me to attend the special meeting when the matter would
be taken up and where I should make a declaration,
excuse myself, and they would help me. I took their
advice.
Before they
gave me the chance to talk, an actor got up and made a
proposal that Celia Adler be punished with three hundred
dollars for her scabbing, that she be stricken from the
Jewish Actors' Union, and that she never again be
allowed to play Yiddish theatre in America.
Samuel
Schneier took the floor, saying that such a proposal
practically meant sentencing someone "to being shot for
three years and hanged for four years."
They called on
me. I declared very straightforwardly: "Believe me, I
didn't have the slightest inkling that I was harming the
union by my behavior. For the first time in my life my
father turned to me in a fatherly fashion, talked to me
like a father to his daughter, and asked me to help him.
I couldn't refuse him. I felt it was my duty as a
daughter to obey him. I have no other statement. I can
only beg you to forgive me. I assure you I've learned a
great deal from this."
I concluded to
a storm of applause. I also noticed that many of them
wiped tears from their eyes.
Understandably, they forgave me. Bina Abramowitz was
the first to come over to me and say: "Celia, dear,
you're not only a good actress, but you're also very
bright."
Something
happened after that strike to spoil the lives of the
stars, and Adler left the trust in mid-season and began
to play in the Dewey Theatre on Fourteenth Street.
After these
sad stories of mine, I shall tell you of a joyful and
comical episode, even though it contains a tragic
chapter from our Jewish history in Russia and at the
same time does not throw a lovely light on the leaders
of our theatre in America.
It was in the
period of the Mendel Beilis trial, when that trial was
still going on in Kiev, Russia. So one of our admitted
writers of sensational melodramas got the idea of making
a play out of the tragic blood canard. The play was
grabbed up by one of our stars, and it became a
fantastically great box office hit. So the rest of the
stars became jealous and quickly concocted pot-boilers
on this theme; and the tragically guiltless Mendel
Beilis looked down from the posters of all three main
theatres—Kessler's Second Avenue Theatre,
Thomashevsky's National Theatre, and Adler's Dewey
Theatre.
Since the
trial was still in progress, all the theatres did not
know how to end the play. But they all freed him at
last. The naive public ran with curiosity to the theatres to see the
freed Mendel Beilis; so that instead of being punished
for making a cheap sensation of a tragic chapter in
Jewish history, our cunning theatre managers were
rewarded with full box office takes.
But this isn't
what concerns me. In his production of Mendel Beilis,
Thomashevsky, of course, played Mendel, and I, his
daughter. The last act ended in all the theatres with the
scene in court when he's freed. I, his daughter, had
nothing to do in that long act until the end when he's
declared free; I fall on his neck, my father's that is,
and the curtain descends.
After the play
had been on for several weeks, I began to get weary
sitting out the whole last act and listening to the
bombastic sermons in order to be one of the many who
embraced Mendel Beilis when he was freed. So I got
Thomashevsky to agree that I could leave before the last
act from time to time.
Once, while
passing Kessler's Second Avenue Theatre on my way
home, I got the urge to see Kessler as Mendel Beilis in
the last act. When I got backstage, the court scene was
in progress. It occurred to me to perpetrate this joke:
I stole onto the open stage, sat down among the extras
who filled up the benches in the court. At the end of
the act when Kessler-Beilis was freed, I ran ahead of
Fannie Lubritsky, who played his daughter, and fell on
Kessler's neck, not letting Fannie get to him. He pried
open his big eyes, kissed me heartily, and the curtain
fell. When bowing, he held me with one hand and Fannie
with the other; and we laughed heartily and enjoyed my
jest....
That season
was long-drawn-out for me but the end came at last. I
was quite in seventh heaven when Thomashevsky proposed
that I go with him on a tour over Europe.
My mother and
Lillie played in the Pavilion Theatre in London that
season with Joseph Kessler. Since the tour with
Thomashevsky was to begin in London, I arranged with him
that I play only those few weeks in London, but that I
would not go on his continuing tour to Galicia, Poland,
and Russia. I simply wanted to take a rest and spend the
time with my family in London. Thomashevsky acquiesced.
I, of course, immediately informed my mother that I was
going to visit her while on a performance tour with
Thomashevsky. I was surprised by her answer that this
was no longer news to her; Joseph Kessler, then the
director of the London Pavilion Theatre and who was
carrying on negotiations with Thomashevsky, had told her
the good news a day or two before. I looked forward to
meeting my mother and Lillie with great joy and delight.
With me,
however, things don't go smoothly. Thomashevsky was used
to traveling in luxury, no less than first class; so
several days later he brought me the news that he had
reserved a luxurious room for me, too, first-class, I
almost began to shiver:
"Please, Mr.
Thomashevsky, I can't take that. After all, I've been so
much maligned this season that the thought of traveling
with you in first-class will spoil the enjoyment of the
whole trip for me. Do me a favor and reserve a place for
me, second-class. "
He looked at
me curiously and said:
"You're
foolish, Celia. But if that's what you want, I'll do
it."
When I now
think of that trip, I must admit he was right. My
wanting to protect myself from gossip didn't help me a
bit. Nobody knew I was not traveling first-class aboard
ship with Thomashevsky. But they talked anyway. When
Thomashevsky once introduced me to the captain and took
me around showing me the luxury of first-class, I was
sorry I had refused it.
The several
summer months in London were a great holiday for me. My
appearances with Thomashevsky in "Blind Love" and
"Someone Else's Children," as well as in "Justice," were a
colossal success. I was filled to the brim with esteem.
The few weeks
passed. Thomashevsky left. First then I had a chance to
concern myself with my family, and here also I was
destined to have much joy. First of all I noticed that
my sister Lillie, whom I hardly ever saw play as an
adult, had truly become a splendid soubrette and a very
fine actress.
Something new
was added to this. That season, a young actor, whom
Morris Moskowitz had brought a season earlier from
Lemberg, Galicia, was playing at the Pavilion theatre
I did not
have the chance to see him play. But I did indeed see
that he was madly in love with my sister. I was very
pleased when I heard him call her "my little treasure."
As the big sister, I was delighted in the little pair of
young lovers. The whole Yiddish theatrical world in
London already knew that they were an engaged couple.
I'm sorry I
can't tell you about the great talent that was hidden in
the rather small, rather thin little Galician fellow
with the blue eyes and charming smile. You're no doubt
surmising yourself that this was Ludwig Satz, my
brother-in-law, who later was to become so famous as a
character comedian.
Before I left
London that summer, I left England a gift, my tonsils
and adenoids. There's a curious story attached to that.
I'm going to leave it to you to decide if it comes under
the heading of foolishness.
For several
days I had suffered terribly in my throat and nose,
until the doctors decided that I'd have to be operated
on. Well, it's superfluous to tell you that my mother
and her London friends saw to it that I was in good
hands. But I am by nature a crybaby; above all, I can't
stand pain. May you never be subjected to it; such an
operation gives you several very unpleasant days.
I recall that
I was lying in a comfortable private room on the
hospital. It was late at night, my pains were torturing
me, and I was certain there was no more unfortunate
person on the face of the earth. The pains didn't let me
fall asleep. Every fifteen minutes I heard a very
pleasant sound from a clock coming through my window. I
felt I couldn't stand it any longer. I called the nurse
and told her I couldn't endure my pains. "Give me
something to help me along." Just then the clock struck
the quarter-hour.
I pointed with
my finger in the direction of the window and told her in
a very confidential and mystic tone of voice, "If I
still have the pains when the clock strikes again, I'm
going to throw myself out the window."
She got a
little scared and sat down on the bed at my feet and
began to message the soles of my feet with her smooth,
tender hands. I never heard that clock strike any more
that night; it seems I fell asleep. When I woke the next
morning, I had no more pain. I hadn't thrown myself out
the window.
I wish to
point out here that before I left London, I got a letter
from Thomashevsky in which he wrote that a certain young
lady would get in touch with me—her name, Fanny
Zusmer. She was a very fine prima donna and had an
extraordinarily wonderful voice. She would come with me
to New York.
Thomashevsky
also wrote that he was bringing to America with him the
composer of "Hear, O Israel," the famous Russian
dramatist Ossip Dymow—also a young actor-singer from
the defunct Hirshbein troupe—Lazar Freed.
It was no easy
matter for me to take leave of my family in London. It
was very difficult for me to leave them for New York by
myself. I would be playing there in the same theatre
where I had lived through so much during the previous
season and had so much worry and heartache. I knew that
that so-called actress was no longer in the theatre, but
who knew what awaited me?
Envy and
jealousy, as I see it, were always important elements in the theatrical life of all the
nations. We Jews are not lagging in this respect, heaven
forbid. That actress was not the only one in our Yiddish
theatre who was so mastered by envy and begrudging. So
who knew what the new season held ready for me?
Already on the
third day aboard ship, I missed my family very much
because, just as it happened with me in the London
hospital, so it also appeared to be happening to me
here. I couldn't go on living. You already know from my
previous descriptions what kind of an efficient traveler
I am. That time it seemed to me the ocean was worse than
ever before, so that at the end of the third day, I
could scarcely stand on my feet.
But
seasickness does not let go; it demands its due. But I
had nothing more to give.... So I barely got up from my
deck chair and torturously dragged myself to the ship's
railing hoping someone would push me over. I leaned over
and practically remained hanging without any strength.
Just then a priest passed by. Seeing me hanging over the
railing, he asked me in a very friendly tone of
voice: "Can I help you, Miss?''
He grasped me,
virtually carried me over to a deck chair, sat down with
me, calmed me a little, and left. He returned in a few
minutes with a dish of soup and fed me like a little
child. It wasn't too easy for him—I didn't let him—but
little by little, I began to feel that the flowing
warmth was easing things for me a little.
After that he
kept an eye on me, watched me, fed me several times a
day on the deck. So, as you can see, I didn't throw
myself over the railing. Thus I'm eternally grateful to
the good priest. He at least eased that trip of mine.
Thank heaven I
came safely to New York. Our theatre was getting ready
for a new season. They had announced the great guests
from Europe—two prima donnas: the already mentioned
Fanny Zusmer, and also "the pride of Russia's Jewish
prima donnas, the charming, wonderful singer, Esther
Nereslavskaya. Three actors—the one and only
character-artist, Mr. Berman; the greatest Russian
realistic actor Mr. Liebert; and the young, handsome,
romantic singer and player of romantic roles—Lazar
Freed. And last. but not least—giving credit where credit
is due—the pride of the Russian—Yiddish modern drama,
Mr. Ossip Dymow."
All those
screaming advertisements, so to speak, were sent by
Thomashevsky, who was still in Europe. According to the
newspapers, the theatre was not primarily concerned with
the new guests. This is how the theatrical writer of the
Forward put it:
"Who will push
them out? Edelstein and Adler vs. Wilner, or Wilner vs.
Edelstein and Adler. A new season is beginning. New
actors are coming from Europe. But the theatre is not
preoccupied with that. The concern centers around the
question of Adler, Wilner, Edelstein. Wilner wants to
be top boss, and so does Edelstein. If Wilner succeeds,
he will boss both theatres, the Second Avenue and the
National. Kessler will play in one of them;
Adler-Thomashevsky in the other. If Edelstein succeeds,
he will separate from Wilner and will have the National
Theatre.
"Kessler is of
a mind with Wilner; Adler with Edelstein. It all depends
on Thomashevsky. Whatever he says, goes. Everything
waits for Thomashevsky's arrival from Europe. Meanwhile
all are quarreling. Adler has gone to court to demand
that the trust dissolve, that he be released from it. It
has become apparent that a Jewish theatrical trust
cannot succeed.
''Edelstein
has received a letter from Thomashevsky that worries him
greatly. He wrote that he's returning with ten persons.
Four are actors. And he wants him to send him a thousand
dollars. So Edelstein was irked— There he was in
Europe where he created a furor, and now he doesn't have
enough money to come back with. It didn't help him any;
he had to send the dough."
Evidently,
my premonition about the new season when I left London
didn't deceive me. When the theatre opened at the
beginning of September, only repertory was played for
three weeks in a row. Thomashevsky arrived just a few
days prior to the opening of the theatre. He ascertained
from Europe with which plays from his repertory the
theatre was to open. Several plays were performed during
the first week in which I knew my way around.
But I was not
advertised in those plays.... I wasn't called on to appear.
Mary Epstein, Thomashevsky's sister, played my roles
that week. There's no doubt that Mary Epstein was a
splendid actress. But she surely did not fit the roles
of the repertory on account of her figure. With
Thomashevsky, all this was up to his brother-in-law,
Mary Epstein's husband. So I was more astonished than
worried about not playing my roles.
Suddenly my
name was very prominently announced the second
week—equally with Boris Thomashevsky—even though the
same plays were being put on as during the first week.
So I was still puzzled and didn't understand.
All of a
sudden Mr. Epstein came to me backstage and told me that
I was to be present the following morning at the Second
Avenue Theatre at a reading-rehearsal of a new play for
which Kessler wanted me. I looked at him in amazement:
"What do you
mean, I'm to play at the Second Avenue Theatre?"
"Well, you're
not playing in the new operetta here, anyway."
"But to play
there on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and run back here
dragging my makeup and all kinds of packages for the
mid-week performances—that's a hard job, Mr. Epstein."
"I don't mean
at all for you to come here to play in the middle of
the week. I've already arranged for someone to play your
roles, and you won't even have to come for your salary!
I'm going to send it to you every Sunday to the Second
Avenue Theatre."
The story
still didn't make sense to me. But I had to believe that
Epstein was doing this with Thomashevsky's
knowledge—how could it be otherwise? So I reasoned—perhaps this was an aftermath of the theatrical
trust—since Kessler needed a leading lady for his play,
Thomashevsky was lending me to him.
Libin read his
new play, ''Day and Night," at the reading-rehearsal. I
got the leading women's role. So I attributed this also
to the curious situation that I was suddenly going to
play in Kessler's Second Avenue Theatre. I thought that Libin was perhaps remembering my successes in his "Blind
Love," "Someone Else's Children" and "Justice." So he
probably persuaded Kessler to get me for the new role.
Thus, I was
indeed content to play a leading role with David
Kessler. I was even more content that I was completely
free in the middle of the week, even though this
awakened in my foolish little head the suspicion that
things were not all they were cracked up to be. How come
the National Theatre was letting me walk around doing
nothing all week?
In addition to
that something else was torturing me. A great many of my
roles in Thomashevsky's repertory consisted of very
young girls and even little girls—now all these roles
were being played by Mary Epstein, the imposing
grande dame of the Yiddish theatre—how could
Thomashevsky allow that? Also the fact that Epstein
asked me not to come to the theatre for my salary—he
sent it to me to the Second Avenue Theatre....All this
ran around confusedly in my head and awakened an
unexplainable suspicion that there was something going
on here not according to Hoyle.
We're all
going to get wiser later on. Meanwhile, I enjoyed and
was proud of my playing with David Kessler.
Incidentally,
it is fitting that I here point out to you an episode
that wonderfully characterized Kessler's behavior to the
theatre and to actors.
It actually took place at the rehearsals of Libin's "Day
and Night." The actor Samuel Schneier, who regretfully
has torn away from us right in the middle of his
developing career, played an important role in that
play.
Schneier was a
very talented actor, with a serious attitude to the
theatre. In the few short years he played in New York,
he made himself a considerable name with the press and
with the theatrical profession in general. He played
for many years with Kessler, who valued him very highly.
At those rehearsals, Kessler very often showed
dissatisfaction with the way Schneier tried out his
role. He stopped him at certain scenes and had words
with him almost at every rehearsal. Schneier listened to
him very patiently every time and made the greatest
effort to bring out what he thought Kessler wanted...
because, as you already know, it was very difficult for
Kessler to explain right off to an actor what he wanted.
I noticed at
the rehearsals that every day Schneier gave a different
interpretation of the scenes with which Kessler was not
satisfied. But Kessler still continued to berate him
angrily. Schneier couldn't control himself any more. He
became very excited and yelled out:
"Why do you
pick on me? You are remonstrating only with me. Nothing
I do pleases you. All my efforts to satisfy you haven't
helped me one bit. How much longer am I to be tortured?
All the others please you? He, for instance, satisfies
you? You haven't had a thing to say to him—haven't said
a word to him."
Kessler looked
very mildly at Schneier and immediately answered him:
"And suppose I
tell him, suppose I call him to account, will it help me
any? From you I can get what I want—don't you
understand that?...."
Libin's play,
"Day and Night," was considerably successful. I got my
share of songs of praise from the press and not a few
compliments from Kessler himself. But I recall clearly
that I somehow felt like being at a strange wedding. I
wasn't engaged there—I didn't consider it my theatre.
Somehow I frequently had the feeling as it is expressed
in the well-known little song , "I came alone and
uninvited." It's true that I didn't come alone.... But
perhaps it was even worse to have been borrowed....
So I'll very
happy to show you the cartoon which the famous painter
and cartoonist Saul Raskin made of my role in that play.
This caricature perhaps best characterizes my feelings
about the whole matter. Really now, what and who was I,
that they could send me around wherever they pleased?
The entire occurrence seemed to me to be a big
caricature of me in both theatres.
Belonging to
the two theatres, so to speak, I suddenly began to feel
that I didn't belong to either. The run of Libin's play
would soon be over, and my service at the Second Avenue
Theatre would end. And the National Theatre in which I
was engaged, became a stranger to me altogether.
That theatre
very strongly advertised, in a very sensational manner,
the coming production of Ossip Dymow's "The Eternal
Wanderer." When Thomashevsky spoke to me at the
beginning of the season about Dymow's play, he excited
me very much over the wonderful role I'd have in it—Sonitschka—a
fourteen-year-old little girl; it was as if made to
order for me: "I'm sure, Celia, that you'll be a
sensation in the role.... And then I heard that
rehearsals had been scheduled and I had been forgotten.
It's hard to
describe the feeling. I was ashamed somehow. I avoided
as much as possible passing by the theatre, as if I were the guilty one, not the theatre. But I still somehow
couldn't imagine that Thomashevsky, who on various
occasions complimented me on my playing, should
completely have forgotten about me. So it constantly
nagged at me like a worm. I didn't have a quiet minute.
It dug into my thoughts. I couldn't free myself of it
even for a minute.
I recall how
the thought often crossed my mind that, as a member of
the actors' union, I no doubt had certain rights, or the
union no doubt had certain obligations to me. It had to
take up my cudgels, so to speak. But I chased the
thought away as fast as I began to think about it. I
knew that I would never and under no circumstances want
to be forced on a theatre that didn't want me. I
instinctively felt that I could play and accomplish
something only in a theatre that wanted me very much.
Even though I had a better concept of the activities of
a union and what it meant to the individual actor, I
still couldn't convince myself that I ought to have my
union win an embattled place for me in the theatre, in
one way or another.
The moment
came: Libin's play "Day and Night" concluded its
performances. I became a free person. But my freedom
tortured me. I couldn't find a place for myself. I never
felt so lonely; my being so alone. Of course I had girl
friends; I had my Feige. But they were not the type for
whom I could open my heart, for whom I could unravel
that very theatrical mix-up into which I, as and
actress, was drawn so helplessly.
I didn't lack
devotion. My girl friends and certainly Feige were
extremely devoted to me. But to talk to them about my
deep insult, about the humiliation I felt as an
actress—I couldn't do it; and I doubt if they would
have understood me. I don't wish my worst enemy to have
those cramps that ate into my insides.
I heard that
the rehearsals of the "Eternal Wanderer" were going on,
and as if just for spite Thomashevsky's words about
Sonitschka constantly rang in my ears. And, as if this
wasn't enough, I accidentally met warm-hearted Bina
Abramowitz walking on Second Avenue. She embraced me:
"Celia,
where've you been? You're in our theatre, after all.
There is a role in "The Wanderer" which is written as if
for you. How that other one, poor thing, agonizes over
that role. She doesn't have the artistic power for it."
They are torturing her for nothing. She wants to, poor
thing, but she can't come through...."
I left that
meeting with Mrs. Abramowitz, and I was all broken up.
She didn't know at all how her good opinion of me as an
actress touched my heart. The role of Sonitschka began
to pursue me. Not knowing what the role was, what went
on in it, I experienced a terrible resentment at losing
the role. La Abramowitz's remarks underscored even
more strongly Thomashevsky's remarks about that role and
excited my appetite even more to play that self-same Sonitschka. And a bitter resentment, practically an
anger, enveloped me against Epstein that he had
practically pushed me out of the theatre in such a
smooth way and had robbed me of' the chance to play that
role which so many thought was practically made to
measure for me.
Since I had
stopped playing at the Kessler Second Avenue Theatre, I
would send a chum of mine every Sunday to the National
Theatre for my pay. Thus I recall how disillusioned I
was when she gave me the envelope without a word about
the theatre. The ten-dollar bills in my envelope didn't
satisfy me—because I didn't find any slip from the
theatre in it. But I had firmly decided that I wouldn't
set foot in the theatre unless they called me. But how
does the saying go? It seemed that God himself wouldn't
allow it.
That early
Monday evening will never leave my memory. It happened
between Eighth and Ninth Streets on Second Avenue. I was
on my way home, when presently Boris Thomashevsky came
out of the famous, prestigious Cafe Monopole. We
practically bumped into each other:
"Celia, how
are you? Celia, where are you playing?"
"You're asking
me that? You engaged me. You're paying me wages."
"Well, why
aren't you in the theatre?"
"You're asking
me that too?"
Thomashevsky
began to feel in my tone of voice that this was no
conversation to hold in the street. My eyes burned and
were filled with tears at the same time.
"Come with me
into the cafe, so we can talk."
We sat down.
"What's going
on here? Tell me, Celia, what's happened here? Why did
you suddenly disappear into Kessler's theatre?"
"I didn't
disappear. Epstein sent me. I thought you knew about
it."
"Epstein told
me that you left the theatre."
"You mean to
tell me that Epstein farmed me out to Kessler without
your knowledge?
"What do you
mean farmed out? Why would I do that?"
"Epstein told
me that Kessler needed me for a role and, since I wasn't
playing in the weekend operetta anyway, I should go and
play there. They'd get along without me in the mid-week
repertory, and he would send my wages there to the
theatre. Is this all news to you?"
He sat
dumbfounded. I can't say I noticed that he looked
guilty. Rather, his look showed surprise, irritation and resentment. He practically stammered more to himself
than to me:
"If he weren't
my brother-in-law...."
After a long,
hard period of silence:
"Come tomorrow
morning at eleven o'clock for rehearsal. No, don't come
tomorrow. Come Wednesday at eleven o'clock. The other
one is still coming tomorrow. I don't want her to see
you. It'll hurt her very much.... I'll have to prepare
her for it...."
He hurried
away to the theatre.
This is the
second of the spiritually elevated moments I have
experienced in my career of many years in the Yiddish
theatre. I have told you about my first meeting with
Schildkraut, about the contrast in feelings when he
didn't even want to see me in his house, and then when
he begged me to play with him as we were coming on the
ferry from Newark.
That's about
how I felt as I was leaving the Cafe Monopole. Everyone
of steps was a dance. I felt I was flying without wings.
I virtually hovered in the heavens.... From time to
time, these words ripped out unbidden from my throat:
"Sonitschka, I'm going to play Sonitschka!!"
A double
thought gathered in my brain. The first: What is this
Sonitschka thing all about? Will I also be as
enthusiastic about the role as others think? The second
thought: Won't there be any change until Wednesday? I do
indeed understand that theatrical politics can turn day
into night in a split second....
The two days
were long-drawn-out for me. When I came to the theatre
Wednesday at eleven o'clock, I instinctively avoided the
special entrance to the stage and got in through the
lobby. When I opened the door to the theatre, and took a
look at the stage, I saw the entire troupe and
Thomashevsky on the side with the young actress who was
rehearsing Sonitschka. I quickly closed the door and
remained standing in the lobby, not knowing what to do.
In a few minutes she came out weeping. When she saw me,
she fell all over me in a hysterical fit of weeping.
I felt with
her in my heart; I cried with her. She sobbed:
"Celia, dear,
I love the role so much, but I know I lack a great deal
to be able to properly create the role. I'm sure you're
going to be wonderful. I wish you a lot of success."
We kissed
heartily. I told her:
"Believe me,
my dear, I haven't wanted to hurt you. I'm not guilty.
You know that, dear...."
The door of
the theatre opened, and the stage manager called out:
"Celia, Mr.
Thomashevsky is waiting for you....."
Let him wait!
I've waited too. They can wait for me also.
I said a warm
farewell to the young actress, and I slowly ascended the
stage with a feeling of great triumph.
Thomashevsky
brought the role over for me. Heaven forbid that he hold
it against me for keeping them waiting.... The rehearsal
began....
When I held
the role of Sonitschka for the first time in my hands, a
role that drew me and excited me so much, I completely
forgot the foolish mix-up, the behind-the-stage politics
that tortured me for so many long days and weeks and
nearly drove me to despair. My theatrical instinct drove
away from my thoughts all the justified arguments and
grievances that had gathered in my heart and brain about
that occurrence.
I began to
feel that I was going through a difficult examination
all over again. I would have to show everything that
everyone, including Thomashevsky and perhaps Ossip Dymow
himself, had expected of me. I felt I had to exceed their
expectations, because now they would look upon me with
more critical eyes.
My experience
as an actress apprised me of the fact that this was not
a very salutary state of affairs for me. All the actors
had already been rehearsing their roles for
approximately three weeks; I didn't even know the play's
plot.
So that you'll
understand wherein the unfavorable aspect of my
situation existed, I must introduce you to the routine
of rehearsing a play. At the first few rehearsals, after
the reading-rehearsal, when all the actors have become
acquainted with the plot, everyone sits with their roles
in their hands and they read the roles from their books.
Such sitting rehearsals go on for three-four days in
succession. It is understood that during these few days
the actors have to learn their roles at home. And
rehearsals with position-taking begin—entrances and
exits—what is called the "business" or "mise-en-
scenes" in the theatre.
At the first
sitting rehearsals, it is the director's job to look for
the accentuated stresses and expressions in each actor's
role. Now the director is concerned with the progress of
the play, with the positions of each actor's movements,
the sitting down and standing up, the crossing of the
stage, and the overall concept the director has created
for himself as to how the play must be enacted. After
the first few sitting rehearsals, the strict director
requires the actors to hold the roles less and less in
their hands, so that he can control the movements of
each actor.
When I came to
that rehearsal, nobody held any role in his hand anymore.
Nearly everyone already knew his role sufficiently well
so that with the help of the prompter, he no longer
needed the booklet. Everyone's position, everyone's
place on the stage had already been decided upon. The
scenes were already blocked out. The rehearsals were
practically performances already; of course, without
costumes or makeup. I had missed all that. So I asked
Thomashevsky at the very beginning to let me hold my
role in my hand, read my cues from my booklet, until I
became somewhat knowledgeable of the play's plot. Understandably, Thomashevsky acquiesced.
I need not
tell you with what diligence I seized upon the study of
my role that night. Next morning, when I came to
rehearsal, I was no longer so tied to the booklet. But I
only spoke and did not enact my words, even though
certain scenes already drew me to enactment.
I was
particularly intrigued by the scenes in which I had to
say goodbye to the table and the oven. I wanted to enact
them. But I felt I had not yet sufficiently digested
them. I didn't want critical eyes to see my playing
before I felt completely ready to show them.
I valued very
highly the consideration that both Thomashevsky and
Dymow showed me as I was preparing my role. They didn't
hurry me; they didn't make demands upon me. During the
first few rehearsals, when the words of my role began to
emerge for real from the fourteen-year-old Sonitschka, I
began to feel that both of them had complete confidence
in me—a certain feeling that they could rely on me.
So I wish to
indicate to you here an impression I received
immediately while attending my very first rehearsal of
"The Wanderer." I had never felt such an atmosphere in
my previous seasons with Thomashevsky and certainly not
at the two side-street theatres in Chicago and
Philadelphia as I did at that rehearsal. I was used to
having actors at rehearsals carry on conversations and
tell one another stories that generally did not favor
either the theatrical stage or the actors themselves. I
didn't hear that at these rehearsals. It seemed to me that the presence of the three Europeans—Dymow, Ben
Ami and Freed—somehow quietly breathed as serious an
atmosphere of intelligence and artistic depth into the
rehearsals.
I was very
impressed by Lazar Freed's suavity... by his quiet,
velvet tones that, it seemed to me, emerged as if from
an organ....
I only had
seven days of rehearsal to make ready my difficult,
complicated role of the tender, poetically inclined
dreamy Sonitschka, so that, even at the last rehearsal,
I held back and didn't fully enact my scenes.
The serious
actor generally is never sure that he is completely
finished with his role. In all my years I never had
confidence in actors who spoke with deliberateness, with
conviction, about their finality of interpretation of
this or that role. The upright, truly talented actor
will never speak that conviction. He isn't even sure in
his thoughts that he has brought out everything the role
calls for. It seems to me that it's almost impossible
for an actor to know everything he wants from a role,
even at the very final rehearsal. Only at the premiere,
with the nervousness attendant upon the actor as he
appears before the audience, his anxiety adds what he
needs to create and effectuate the person he is playing.
Thus I've been
surprised more than once that friends praised me after a
premiere for what I did in certain scenes. I myself
hadn't the slightest idea that I did that. Thus I
recall, for instance, the following scene after the
premiere of Peretz Hirshbein's "The Idle Inn" in the
new Yiddish theatre some six years later.
In the third
act, Itzik, the horse-thief, had stolen me, "Meite,"
from under the marriage canopy, and had carried me off
to the forest. We enacted a strong, passionate, exciting
scene in which I tore off my marriage gown and threw
myself in his arms—and Itzik buried his face in my open
breast. I witnessed the fact that, when someone
expressed his admiration for Itzik's natural full-bloodedness in that scene, Ben Ami opened his eyes wide:
"Did I really do that?"
Such actions
are committed by actors, driven by their artistic
intuition to give life to the role they are creating. I
have noticed this very often on the part of the great
Rudolph Schildkraut and other actors of that rank.
It is almost
impossible for an actor night after night, weeks and
months in succession, to experience all the tragic and
dramatic moments he has to evince in his role. An actor
can achieve this during the first five, six, eight
performances. Then, if he possesses the artistic
"emotional memory," the feelings of those experiences
engrave themselves in him and, being talented, he copies
himself in his enactment of them at those first
performances. The attendance, the warm response from the
audience help him to achieve the very heights of his
role at those first performances. Here and there, an
actor will, in the course of the play's performances,
add and complete certain strokes. But his role is
created through his intuition at these first
performances.
It is fitting
to mention here how remarkable it is that the audience
attending the above-mentioned performances of "The Idle
Inn" felt the genuineness of the passionate youth so
strongly that you couldn't hear in the theatre any
indication of cynical insinuation such scenes bring on
in the theatre. I contend that that was greatly to the
credit of both the actor and the audience.
Before I come
to the premiere of Ossip Dymow's "The Eternal
Wanderer," I must also mention one other thing.
I've already paused before over Thomashevsky's dual
personality as an actor. At the rehearsals of "The
Eternal Wanderer," Thomashevsky achieved in both the
prologue, where he is the eternal wanderer, and later as
Mordecai Berman, the highest naturalism brought out the
most human tones in the play. We all admired him.
But I remember
that after that, at the performances, I couldn't
believe my own ears that it was him I heard speaking.
Perhaps many of you recall the prologue from "The
Wanderer." Thomashevsky was the old man; I was "the
young life." Both of us stood on a kind of high
mountain, and I said with a very tender, thin voice:
"Grandfather, dear, hot tears are falling from your
eyes. You are crying, brave and far-sighted old man."
And he was to answer me quietly and warm-heartedly as he
did at the rehearsals: "People lived here, there was a
big cemetery, and a little hill of stones was left from
that life....These are their great tears turned into
stone...."
Now imagine that at my quiet, tender words:
"Grandfather, dear, hot tears are falling from your
eyes." Thomashevsky, instead of giving his natural
answer that virtually got into your heart, suddenly
spoke the following answer in German in the loudest tone
of voice and in his famous "tra-ta-ta-ta" style of
delivery: "Ya, von meinen Augen Fliessen trerne..." in
German dialect.
I practically
trembled. Neither he himself, nor any of his closest
friends, could ever explain why Thomashevsky committed
those follies against his own, natural, great talent.
The play, and
the production of "The Eternal Wanderer," created an
unusually strong sensation. Our press spoke up with
enthusiasm. It's worth seeing how the two top newspapers
in New York received it.
Abe Cahan
wrote in "The Forward" on Tuesday, December 13, 1913: "A
watchmaker sits at his workbench, with his spyglass in
his eye, tools in hand, and looks at and takes apart the
various watches people bring to him to mend. Mostly they
are only plain "onions"—big ones. Crude, awkward
characters. Once in a while someone brings in a good,
delicate little watch with expensive, delicate little
wheels. Then, when they give the watchmaker his usual
tools, he shakes his head and says: -No, this is an
entirely different thing. You need entirely different
tools for it.' And he pulls out a drawer where he keeps
smaller, more delicate, more precious little pliers,
little chisels, little hammers.
"That's the
situation the writer of this article feels himself in
trying to discuss Ossip Dymow's play, "The Eternal
Wanderer." It's been a long, long time that we've
experienced in the Yiddish theatre what we experienced
at the performance of this play....With all its
faults—and it has very important results—this drama is
one of the two or three test things we've ever had on
the Yiddish stage at any time."
Louis Miller,
the editor of "The Truth," gave the following headline
to his critique of the play: "A wandering ray in a dark
cloud—Ossip Dymow's 'The Eternal Wanderer' on the
Yiddish stage.
"It's better
to lose to an intelligent person than to win from a
fool; better to be able to berate a good boy than praise
a bad one."
"But Ossip
Dymow's 'The Eternal Wanderer' is no fool and no play.
Just as it has everything that's good, so it also has
its faults; all that's wise, it has its foolishness....
Dymow's drama, that was played last night in
Thomashevsky's theatre, is a new page if not a new
chapter in the history of our troubled Yiddish stage in
America. Once upon a time, way, way back, when the drama
was in swaddling clothes and criticism was in
diapers—in those good old times of long ago, they would
have so torn into Dymow's drama that no stone would have
remained standing on another stone.... It's a great
picture of Jewish exile in Russia. It's as deep as the
Exile. It's black and cold like the Exile. And best of
all, truth to tell, it is also like the Jewish Exile.
The problem of Dymow's eternal wanderer—that's the Jew
who doesn't know where he'll spend the day or night; the
Jew, whom his child asks when the Exile will end; and
the father answers that he asked his father the same
thing; and he can still give the same excuse—a sigh, a
tear, an oath.... That 's Dymow's drama."
I believe the
above two excerpts give you a sufficient indication of
the impression the play and its production made at that
time. I wish to bring you also some citations of what
they said about my playing.
Abe Cahan
said: "Celia Adler created a marvelously alive type as
Sonia, the fourteen-year-old little girl. She often
overdid it. But it was the overdoing of an artist who
overemphasizes a living stroke, not of one who plays
without the strength fantasy. She fully confirms with
this role that she was born with the power of fantasy
and with the instincts of an artist."
Louis Miller
wrote: "The laurels of the evening among the actors
naturally belong to Celia Adler, and she should receive
them. She has earned them with her talent, with the
effort she made to immerse herself in the role, saturate
herself with the soul of the saintly foolish,
daydreaming, practical, diminutive Sonitschka , She has
deserved them for her love of her work, for her
attentiveness to duty. She deserves the honors of the
evening. After Celia Adler, comes the new, rising star
of the stage, Jacob Ben Ami, in the role of Moishele. If
you want to believe a prediction, if you want to judge
from one role, his future on the stage is also great.
Celia Adler on one side, Ben Ami on the other side. Also
Lazar Freed in the role of Saul. These are the three
young stars on our stage. And it's good that an accident
brought them together in one piece that is itself by 'a
young one.'"
Thus I could
bring you more and more complimentary opinions and songs
of praise of my playing in that role. But I think that's
enough. Perhaps others might think—too many. So I
wouldn't want to have to justify myself....
But I wish to
assert here that I've intentionally spent much time on
the occurrences that led to "The Eternal Wanderer"; also
on the rehearsals and on the reaction of the critics,
for two reasons: First, I consider my playing in "The
Wanderer" to have been an important step on the ladder
of my career; the recognition of the most prestigious
people in the newspaper world raised me up to a high
position in the Yiddish theatrical world. Not having the
status of a star, not being the owner of one's own
theatre, I raised myself up by my own strength to that
important position.
Second, I am
constrained to underscore with my success even more
boldly the disappointment that awaited me at the end of
that season.
We'll wait a
little with that disappointment. I still have to touch
here on Thomashevsky's production of Ossip Dymow's
second play that season, "The Borrowed Groom." I played
a youngster in that one also—perhaps ten or twelve
years old. It's a known fact in the theatrical
profession that actors stay away from playing two
similar roles in succession.
It's true that
no matter how great he is, every actor has certain
mannerisms—personal movements and behavior which repeat
themselves against his will, especially when he gets to
playing similar roles. That's why I was a little scared
when I heard that I would have to play a little girl in
"The Borrowed Groom" also.
However, when
the play was read and I heard the role, I perceived it
would be possible to avoid every similarity. Of course I
was in the happy situation that, in a child, the
difference in its age of four years could alter
tremendously the role's entire behavior and expression.
I thus can't
complain that my successive playing of two roles of two
adolescents in plays by the same author harmed my
success in any way. So I'm again going to bring you
excerpts from criticisms:
B. Gorin
wrote: "Among the players one must mention especially
Celia Adler who enacted the complicated role of the
child. Celia Adler is a great power on the Yiddish
stage. She's a star that came to us unexpectedly from
heaven and shines with her mm lights. We practically
forgot many times that we were dealing here with an
actress, that's how natural she was in her playing."
Abe Cahan
wrote: "Celia Adler showed herself to better advantage
than all the actors and actresses who played in the
piece. She has a role without words in the play—she
practically has nothing to saw or do—but the stage is
full of her. Her performance of a little girl that
steals into the kitchen from the living room is truly a
surprise to all attending the theatre; she plays the
role in a natural, lively, and truly childlike
fashion...."
Well, as you
see, I didn't embarrass myself in that role either, and
the theatre, heaven forbid, most definitely could
not
advance any arguments against me.
I cannot let
go of Dymow's two huge successes that season—"The
Eternal Wanderer" and "The Borrowed Groom," before I
narrate for you a happening that involved me and Boris
Thomashevsky. It extended from "The Eternal Wanderer"
until late into "The Borrowed Groom." The story begins
before a performance of "The Eternal Wanderer."
It occurred
after the matinee performance of a Saturday or Sunday.
As usual I went to my Feige to eat at home. I used to
stretch out on my couch in my room and rest for about an
hour after my meal. I did the same thing that time—took
something to read and began to doze off. Feige had to go
somewhere. It's possible she thought I had left for the
theatre while she was busy in the kitchen. I deduce this
from the fact that she bolted the door with the special
bolting lock which she used only when she left the house
herself.
The unusual
quietness transformed my dozing into an appetizing
sleep. I awoke, and the clock that stood near my couch
told me the terrible news that it was already twenty
minutes after eight. I jumped up in despair. The curtain
has to rise promptly at eight-thirty on "The Wanderer"
and Thomashevsky and I were the first people on the
stage in the prologue. It would seem that I had to get
to the National Theatre from Eighteenth Street, put on
makeup, dress myself—and for all this I barely had ten
minutes.
I rushed to
the door but I couldn't possibly open the peculiar lock
which consisted of a kind of iron bar that occupied the
entire breadth of the door. In my excitement I could in
no way whatever budge the lock. Meanwhile the minutes
ran. We lived on the third floor. Our windows led to the
backyard. I didn't have much time to think. I only knew
I had to get out of the house.
So I got out
through the window, onto the fire escape, and hastily
began to run down on the dizzying, narrow little steps.
Thank heaven
nothing happened to me as I ran. But about fifteen
minutes had elapsed by the time I got out on the street
and reached Second Avenue. No street car was visible
and, as if for spite, there was no taxi either.
In my despair,
I stood practically in the middle of the road with my
arms spread out hoping an automobile would notice me and
stop. I succeeded. In haste and despair I begged the
driver to drive me over to the National Theatre: "The
performance there cannot begin without me. I was to be
the first on the stage, I was tardy. I am Celia Adler."
My pleading
and my excitement worked. The man let me get into his
car and we proceeded to the theatre. After riding a few
streets, I noticed that passing opposite us was
Thomashevsky s big limousine driven by his son Harry. I
guessed he was driving around looking for me.
When I
breathlessly opened the door leading to the stage,
Thomashevsky was standing in his whole costume, dressed
for the prologue, with his long, white beard with the
crooked, long wander-cane. When he saw me, he didn't say
a word, but only asked with his hands and eyes:
"What's
this?..."
I didn't wait
for his words and, not stopping, I said:
"Don't ask me
anything now."
And I ran to
the dressing room. I heard yelling from all sides of the
stage:
"She's here!
She's already here! We can begin...."
The wardrobe
mistress came to meet me with the long tunic which I
wore in the prologue, helped me loose my long hair, and
I was ready to go on the stage with Thomashevsky.
I couldn't
say anything after the prologue either because I had to
change dress and put on make up for the role of
Sonitschka.
It was not
until after the first act that I had the chance to tell
Thomashevsky what had happened to me. I must admit that
I dramatized considerably my running on the fire escape.
Evidently
Thomashevsky understood that I didn't deserve to be
reprimanded over this. He never had a thing to say
against my theatrical discipline. I was always punctual
in everything. But nevertheless I did notice from the
expression in his eyes that he doubted the veracity of
my story somewhat.
I quickly
forgot the incident and felt sure that Thomashevsky had
also forgotten it.
"The Borrowed
Groom," which was produced several weeks later, also
began with a prologue. I, as a little girl, lay asleep
and I was dreaming that the half-mad Yoshke Musikant,
the play's hero, was approaching me. Yoshke
(Thomashevsky in that scene) rose as if from the earth
carrying a violin in his hand, A green "spot" fell on
him, and he called me very mysteriously and secretly
over to him, with his finger, saying: "Come to me,
little Olitcka, come to me."
And I, being
scared, asked him: "Where shall I go with you....?"
And
Thomashevsky (Yoshke) answered with equal language:
"Come with me on the fire escape...."!!!
In the middle
of that season, the Yiddish stage lost one of its most
luminous stars. Brought to his eternal rest on February
6, 1914, was the brilliant and truly immortal Sigmund
Mogulesco. Mogulesco had for decades made Jewish hearts
happy with his charm and comicality, called forth
laughter and brought great enjoyment to hundreds of
thousands of Jewish theatre-goers. His name was
frequently spoken in Jewish homes. People were delighted
with his wit; they sang his little songs.
Mogulesco's
talent went beyond the confines of the Yiddish stage. He
definitely has to occupy a place among the world's
greatest talents. I seriously doubt if any theatre in
the world could boast such a seminal talent as Sigmund
Mogulesco was. No wonder that, at his funeral, in
addition to sighs and tears, plain people could be heard
to say: "No more Mogulesco! There will never be another
like him!"
At the last
moments of his life, Mogulesco begged his friend Z.
Schwartz, the undertaker: "I want everything to be
beautiful at my funeral; you know that I've always loved
beauty in my life."
Schwartz
fulfilled Mogulesco's wish. In terms of organized and
impressive procession, it was the most beautiful and
most impressive that East Side Jews had ever seen. The
real mourners were those who founded and created the
Yiddish theatre with Mogulesco. Accompanying the hearse
on both sides were: Jacob Adler, David Kessler, Boris
Thomashevsky, Joseph Edelstein, and Lazar Zuckerman.
And remarkably
enough no one among the eulogizers moved me as much as
only the appearance of Lazar Zuckerman, the old
comedian, who had been Mogulesco's friend in his youth
and who had sung with him for Cantor Nissan Belzer. In
his day, Zuckerman played a big role, but I believe that
not many present-day Jews in America remember him. He
was the most tragic figure at Mogulesco's funeral. It
was so hard to tear him away from the casket.... He
pleaded with everyone: "Let me be near Zelik'l, my
friends.... How much longer will I see him?.... I never
imagined I would go to his funeral."
I can't keep
back the disappointment any longer. You've read the
excerpts from the most renowned theatrical critics in
regard to my playing and my success in the two
above-mentioned plays. I had every right to expect that,
long before the season ended, the management would grant
me the best terms and a considerable raise in salary.
Instead of that I didn't even get a proposal for the
following season.
I have no
answer for that season. I must accept the answer given
me by the good, warm-hearted actress Bina Abramowitz.
That was on a Sunday night, after the last performance
of the season. I left the theatre with a heavy heart. I
was rushing, walking hastily away from the theatre in
which I had my great successes.
I overtook
Bina Abramowitz also without an engagement. Here's what
she told me: "Serves you right, Celia, this will be a
good lesson to you. A young actress must not play so
well that she would be praised above everyone else above
the stars. That is why you're not engaged. Real talent
cannot but succeed in the end."
I doubted that
her wish that real talent must triumph would ever
eventuate. There were about seven or eight theatres in New
York. No one needed me. I was idle for the second
season.
It could be
that if I had followed that vicious-tongued actress of
the previous season and at least opened a door to an
editorial room, my destiny that season might perhaps
have been different.
But I've never
sought protection in the course of my career.
The year 1915
practically didn't exist for me as an actress. It was as
if my career had been interrupted. Thus I perhaps ought
to tell and narrate much what can happen in the Yiddish
theatre, but I shall not do it for two reasons. It
really added nothing to my career, but I believe that it
also [takes] nothing away from it. It's not pleasant to
describe chagrin and heartache, especially some
four-and-a-half decades later, when no one can benefit
from it.
If at least
there were now a theatre of some consequence, or if such
a theatre was in the offing, it would then be worthwhile
to range broadly over the whole matter—perhaps other,
new young forces would benefit from it. It's better to
keep quiet about the whole thing. Thus I must satisfy
myself with only one excerpt from one of the theatrical
pages of the 1914-1915 pre-season; it says the
following:
"Obviously
magic and talent playa small role in Yiddish theatrical
politics. Celia Adler herself is really magical; she is
really one of the few, truly significant talents on our
poor Yiddish stage—in roles of little young wives; she
is unique in grown-up girls—and it could be that in the
latter especially she seldom has an equal, and yet as of
now, Celia Adler finds herself without an offer to carry
on. All—among them a considerable number incompetents—have already been snatched up, but Celia Adler has been
left behind. So you will ask, how come? And the excuse:
politics.... Meanwhile, Celia Adler remains without a
post and, what is surely much worse, the Yiddish
theatre remains without Celia Adler. But let us hope
that it won't lead up to such awkward foolishness. The
Jewish public will simply not want to be robbed of the
performance it got in Sonitschka in 'The Eternal
Wanderer,' and in Olitchka in 'The Borrowed Groom'."
It may perhaps
be worth nothing here something Ossip Dymow, the author
of the two mentioned plays, told me only recently what
the real concern was that season. He was standing in the
theatre with a considerable group of theatre buffs,
writers, and actors at a performance of his "The
Borrowed Groom," and everyone was marveling at the child Olitchka, and they began to speculate who the parents
were of the little player of children's roles who was
enacting the role. When Dymow told them it was a
daughter of Dina Feinman and Jacob Adler, they opened
wide their mouths and ears: "It's already been about
twenty years that they've been divorced—you mean to
say...."
Dymow
continued: "Don't start imagining things because heaven
knows what you'll come up with. I'm telling you it's
their daughter, their only daughter, the only one of her
kind. That's our Celia Adler."
They hadn't
recognized me. I was very flattered indeed when I heard
this from the very much beloved, the truly warm-hearted
man, the completely devoted theatre buff, highly
talented dramatist and director, and good, good friend
of actors with whom he has an affinity.
It would seem,
however, that the theatrical writer of the
above-mentioned item was fooled in his hope that the
Yiddish theatre would not commit such foolishness.
Perhaps the Jewish public did not wish to be robbed of
such playing as that of Sonitischka and Olitchka. But
they didn't tell it to anybody.... The theatre managers
did know or didn't wish to know about it.... Thus a year
is missing in my career.
But that year
was not lost in my life. Thus, I'll give you an excerpt
from the same theatrical page from the same writer that
will tell you what I mean. He wrote there in speaking
of my mother, Dina Feinman:
"When you
speak of Mrs. Feinman, you mustn't leave out her magical
and in-every-way beloved Celia, a daughter of Jacob
Adler. It's particularly appropriate to talk about her
because you should know that Celia goes to her wedding
tomorrow. The wedding will be at the New Reading Hotel
in Atlantic City, and the groom is, well, can you guess?
Oh , no you won 't guess it even if you had ten heads.
He is none other than the young little Litvak whom
Thomashevsky brought over from Russia last year, who so
magnificently portrayed Saul in "The Eternal Wanderer,"
sings our folksongs in such a beautifully warm-hearted
way—you're already surmising it to be the likable and
affection-deserving Lazar Freed. It goes without saying
that everyone who has ever seen the young Celia or heard
the likable Freed wishes them both hearty good luck."
And so I feel
that both my four years of marriage with Freed and, even
more, our dear and beloved son, Dr. Selwyn Freed,
deserve my telling something more of our romance and
marriage.
I think you
already know me enough to know that I'm not one of those
self-confident people who can easily decide things,
especially when such an important step as marriage is
concerned. At that time me my mother was far away, in
South America, all the way in Buenos Aires, where she
was playing. My younger sister, Lillie, who was already
married to Ludwig Satz, was in Europe. And so I think of
that time and I try to figure out how I dared to make
such an important decision practically on my own
responsibility. Feige, my beloved and devoted Feige, was
the only one who helped me resolve my difficult problem.
The problem
consisted not only of my loneliness but—and I hope the
theatrical profession will forgive me—the backstage
behavior of a great part of those with whom I had to
live day-in, day-out, was not to my liking. Life for me
backstage was unpleasant and labored.
I've also
mentioned earlier that the three Europeans evinced an
altogether different form of behavior, a different
pattern of action. The mildest and politest among them
was Lazar Freed. He was also the one who concerned
himself a great deal over me. His European cavalierism,
his gallant bowing, his kissing my hand impressed me and
excited my young girlhood.
Despite the
bad name that so-called actress' poisonous words had
made for me, I still remained the dreamily romantic
girl. And so I very often felt elevated in my frequent
walks with Freed, when he accompanied me to Eighteenth
Street on my way home from the theatre. In our talks, he
very often let me know how flattered and happy he felt
that I, Celia Adler, was so friendly to him, so warmly
disposed toward him. His words were generally to my
liking, both for his pleasant voice that virtually
gilded my ears and his dreamy hopes for a better Yiddish
theatre which had to come about. Until then I had never
found such a sincere attitude toward the theatre as
Lazar Freed manifested.
I often wonder
why it didn't occur to me to look for practicality in my
getting married. My experience on the stage had already
taught me how necessary it was for an actress on the
Yiddish stage to have someone who was recognized in the
theatre. Freed surely never had the potential strength
ever to raise himself up to such a position in the
Yiddish theatre.
The thought
began to take root in my mind that I would be able to have
a happy life with him. There would be beauty, urbanity,
tenderness, and heartfelt devotion in our life together.
I often invited him to my house for a meal. I recall how
greatly concerned my darling Feige was that he should
get the impression that I was a woman of valor besides
being an actress. When he was smacking his lips over her
meals, she would sort of inadvertently say to him that
it was I who had cooked and baked everything. When I
asked her with my eyes: "Really now?" She waved it away
with her hand as if to say: "It's O.K. I know what I'm
doing..."
At last he
dared; and on one of our walks he brought on a serious
conversation about love and marriage, about an ideal
home, with a sort of guilty, helpless smile. I shall
never forget his eyes while he was carrying on the
conversation and aimed at what he wanted to say. His
approach and heartfelt truth that streamed from each of
his words said so much, promised so much. I truly began
to realize that what I had imagined in my youthful,
girlish dreams—to have someone to look up to and
admire—that he was the personification of it.
I felt so
good, I felt such a pleasant warmth to have him near me.
I was certain that he would call forth from me those
deep feelings of love for which I so yearned. His sweet,
gentle personality would evoke it from me. His eyes
filled up with heavenly joy when I gave him my answer.
Perhaps for the first time in my life I didn't hesitate
in my decision....
I wrote my
mother about my decision to marry the young actor Lazar
Freed, and that he wanted to have the wedding that
summer. When my mother got the letter, she quickly
concluded her guest appearances in Buenos Aires and sent
me a telegram about when she would arrive in New York.
At the same time, I wrote my sister Lillie about my
plans, hoping that they too could come in time, so that
I would have my nearest and dearest at the wedding. When
mother arrived, she helped us decide where and when the
wedding would take place.
But fate had
it that Lillie and Ludwig could not be at my wedding,
just as I hadn't been able to be at their wedding. They
got married in London, right in the middle of the season
when we began "The Wanderer." When I wrote them about my
wedding, they were in Lemberg as guests of Ludwig's
parents, where their first child Zirele was born. Talk
was already in the air about war. Being born an
Austrian, he already had difficulty [crossing] over the borders.
Their trip was delayed two whole weeks. Coming to my
wedding from the Adler family were my father, my sister
Julia, and my brother Abe.
Thus it seems
we were happily wed, although our luck didn't serve us
very well.
My earnings,
which were constantly bigger than his were missing for
us that year. We found a modest residence on Bedford
Avenue in Williamsburg.
My outlay and
Lazar's for the wedding, for the furnishing of our
residence and for a piano, which was an important
adjunct in both our lives, practically completely
emptied my bank book, which I had accumulated during my
successful years, (if you'll excuse the expression.) So
a not-very-luxurious winter awaited us.
Our not very
big residence was filled considerably the first few
weeks with the laughter and even not too infrequently
with the crying of a small, sweet child. Lillie and
Ludwig and their Zirele, in coming to America, had to
live with us the first few weeks. So, heaven forbid; it
was not too comfortable. Both young pairs, the baby and
Feige, who managed the house, made it a little difficult
for us in our little house. Though we had to live on
counted-out pennies, we didn't lack the necessities,
heaven forbid, especially since our life was filled with
joy and laughter. I used all my talents to play with the
glorious, delectable Zirele.
|
|
Celia Adler |
Lazar Freed |
|
With our Zelik'l
|
|
|
Me with my
Zelik'l
|
|
|
Lazar
with Zelik'l |
|
|
My Various Characters in the
Course of My Career |
|
|
|
|
"The Forgotten Mother" |
"A Flag is Born" |
"God, Man and Devil" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
"The Treasure"
— by
David Pinski |
"With the Stream"
—
Sholem Asch |
"Stempenyu" — Sholem
Aleichem |
Perhaps nobody
knows that when Ludwig Satz came to America he was
fanatically religious. So I was the first victim of his
fanaticism. We had decided of a Friday night to go see a
Yiddish performance on the avenue in New York. Satz
didn't want to travel at all on Saturday. The weather
was very mild. So we all decided to take a stroll on the
Williamsburg Bridge all the way to New York and back. I
have to tell you that, as a young wife, I was in my
first months of pregnancy. Thus the long walk robbed me
meanwhile of my future motherhood.
When I got
over it, my more experienced sister and Ludwig Satz
himself—not to speak of Lazar—reprimanded me severely
why I had kept my pregnancy secret. They never would
have let me take such a walk.
After my
wedding, my mother insisted that Adler engage my
husband, his son-in-law, Lazar Freed, in his People's
Theatre. It wasn't hard for my mother "to sell" Adler on
such a fine actor and singer. Freed didn't get a big
salary. When my bank book got empty, Freed turned to
Joseph Edelstein, the manager, for an advance on his
salary to be able to survive the summer. After that,
when they deducted the sum each week on account of his
advance, Lazar brought home and handed me the huge pay
of fourteen dollars a week. Thus, perhaps that walk on
the Williamsburg Bridge had done me a real favor. Even
in those years it was difficult to accomplish a
confinement on fourteen dollars a week.
My mother also
strongly sought to prevail upon Anshel Schorr in
Philadelphia, where she was playing, that he engage her
son-in-law Ludwig Satz. She had a tougher time of it
than "to sell" Adler on Freed. Very few people here knew
Satz. Only because he couldn't refuse my mother, Anshel engaged Satz for twenty-five dollars a week to play
whatever came along, but with one proviso: when the
theatre needed her, Lillie Satz would also have to play.
And all this for the same twenty-five dollar stipend.
I shall have
much to tell about what Ludwig Satz had to endure on the
way to recognition in the Yiddish theatre in America.
But meanwhile let us return to our home that suddenly
became so spacious. I missed terribly the sweet,
delightful Zirele and my sister and brother-in-law. I
needn't tell you how difficult it was for us to get
along on the stingy few dollars that Freed brought in.
We were helped a little by the accidental earnings that
fell into my lap (do you recall the famous matinee
performance of "Blind Love" for which I got fifty
dollars?) Also coming to our aid was the Gary Society.
It was a municipal organization that took care that
minors should not be exploited excessively. "Minor" meant
under sixteen years of age. This used to interfere a
great deal in the plays of the Yiddish theatre—plays in
which children had to perform.
The Gary
Society came to our assistance during that financially
strained winter of ours. "The Living Orphans" was the
greatest success that season in Adler's People's
Theatre. It was a tremendous melodrama by Isidore
Solotorefsky that caught on very strongly and ran
practically the greatest part of the season.
My sister
Stella played one of the children's roles in the play.
The Gary Society didn't permit under any circumstances
that minors play on Sunday afternoons and evenings. So
my brother Abe proposed how they could save themselves
from the Gary Society on Sunday: "Celia, although she's
a married woman, is more childlike in growth and
appearance than Stella as a child. Let her play the role
on Sunday."
Edelstein
called me, asked me to play the role for two
performances on Sunday. He paid me all of fifteen
dollars; I was very dissatisfied with this. I decided to
let them know that I wouldn't play for less than
twenty-five dollars. My mother was in New York for
several days. When I told her what I would do, she
strongly dissuaded me:
"These few
dollars for these several weeks will not make you
rich—it doesn't pay to create hostility."
I've often
wondered about, and was at the same time grateful to my
mother that, she never used her influence with theatre managers and
stars for them to engage me. She had within her that
pride and that firm consciousness that I, her daughter,
had shown up well enough with reference to the theatre
not to need any influential protection. Her healthy mind
dictated to her that to intercede for a recognized
actress made her smaller and insulted her. So I'm
eternally thankful to her, and not a little proud that my
mother had such a healthy, logical approach to this
matter.
Evidently, I
also took considerably after my mother in this matter of
pride.
My Sundays in
my father's People's Theatre again brought me very close
to my sister Nyunia. She also was already married to
Joseph Shoengold, was already the mother of two
children, Pearl and Liolitchka. So we often all four of
us went from the theatre—Shoengold, Nyunia, Lazar, and
I—to eat together, sometimes in a restaurant, sometimes
at her house. They would also come to our house from
time to time.
Thus I recall
a very curious and comical incident, although I
experienced a very painful moment over it.
It actually
happened at a concert in "The Forward" Hall that season.
The evening was held for a worthwhile cause, and one of
the arrangers made bold to ask me to help them make
their concert more successful—I should appear for them.
I told him I had never done it before.
"That's
exactly why we want you—you're going to be our star
attraction."
The fellow who
urged me was indeed capable. He quickly painted his
publicity approach:
"The great and
famous Celia Adler will appear at our concert for the
first time in her career."
Somehow I
couldn't refuse him, but I indicated to him that I
didn't know what to do in such an occasion. True, I
played theatre, but I had no program for a concert.
That, he said,
was hardly important: "I will bring you a strongly
dramatic poem by our great workers' poet, Morris
Rosenfeld— 'The Seduced One.' That's as if made to
order for you. I tell you, Miss Adler, you'll be
sensational."
At last I
agreed. He brought me the thing and I studied hard to
learn it by heart. I pitied "The Seduced" very much,
poor thing, and put all my strength into portraying the
pain and hurt of the seduced one.... Presently, here was
the lucky evening. I knew they would hold me for the
very last as the star attraction. When I came into "The
Forward" Hall around nine o'clock, the evening was
already in progress. Someone was speaking. When I pushed
through the crowd and went over to the corner at the
side of the stage that, so to speak, served as a waiting
room for the artists, I was surprised to find my sister
Nyunia and Ossip Dymow there. Understandably we
embraced. Neither she nor I had the slightest inkling
that we were both going to appear there.
This was
really my first meeting with this kind of crowd and with
the arrangers of such evenings. I sat enthralled by the
whole matter, even by the speeches. Suddenly, someone
came over and said: "You are going on shortly, Miss
Frances Adler."
And right away
I heard the chairman announce: "I have the great honor
to introduce to you the famous artist and actress,
Frances Adler."
And I heard
Nyunia's voice saying: "I'm going to recite for you one
of the pearls of the great poet, Morris Rosenfeld, 'The
Seduced One.'"
I remained
sitting as if paralyzed, my mind even began to burn.
What should I do now? This was the only thing I knew, I
began to look for a side exit—perhaps run away—but
meanwhile I heard Nyunia beginning the lines I had
learned with so much effort. She began with bitterness
and a strangled throat: "Remember how you swore your
love for me"—and then into tears: "The apple tree broke
into greenery amid the corn—the bird calmly looked from
the branches, and everything all around lay in
quietude." And very dramatically, with a fearful outcry.
Who could know your intention then?"
The audience
sat dumbfounded. The hall was virtually drowned in sobs
and tears: "Remember that night? Oh, you must remember ,
I begged you with pity...." And suddenly she broke out
violently: "Oh, don't pluck me out; you will trample me
later." And again in tears: "Oh, let me be; find me an
upright man, a lover among the machines—I'm a shop
girl; what choice do I have—I was born poor; I shall
remain poor."
The audience
dissolved in tears and, when at last she concluded very
dramatically, completely spent—"How can I, an outcast
and locked in loneliness, ask for my master's son as my
groom?" The audience stormed. They clapped their hands
and banged their feet, giving her merited
recognition.
She left the
stage happy, threw me a quick so-long, and happily
disappeared with Ossip Dymow.
I sat with
battered emotions, not being able to decide what to do
next. I felt that, if the boards opened up under me, I
would gladly have disappeared.
Thus I sat
beaten and in despair, as if all my ships had sunk. The
only thing I had prepared for that day's concert, my
first concert, my sister, Nyunia, had snatched away from
me without knowing , The one who had invited me to the
concert no doubt had kept his word. And here was my
whole reputation at stake....
My head
constantly banged as if with a hammer: What should I do?
Should I ask the chairman to leave me out, not to
introduce me? Give him a false excuse and in that way
get out of my difficult situation? Or should I go before
the audience and tell it the truth? In both cases I saw
the ruination of the bit of a name I had created in
such a hard way and with so much effort. How would I
look people in the eye—be so helpless, be so lost? I
felt that only a miracle could save me in this instance.
But instead of
a miracle I suddenly heard the chairman's words: "Celia
Adler" and a warm applause in the hall. I understood
that they had introduced me. It seemed that that was it.
I had to go.
I just don't
know how I got up and went to the stage. I only remember
that thoughts wandered around lost in my head that that
was the way a condemned person no doubt went to the
gallows. I got onstage. The hearty reception by the
audience as if electrified me and as if yanked me out of
my dumbfoundedness. My brain began to work on how to
find a way to salvation—and the miracle occurred.
It could be
that I ought to have deep within me a religious feeling
to be able to give thanks in a certain way for many such
miracles that have happened to me in my life. Perhaps
such a feeling exists in my consciousness. It so
happened that only lately, barely two years ago, I met
face to face with a difficult situation which frightened
my son considerably.
It was after
the death of my second husband, Jacob Cone. Our life
together had lasted twenty-five years. He died the day
of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary jubilee. For
twenty-five years he had carried the whole
responsibility for my being, for my life, for my
playing, for my existence. I only had to execute what he
had prepared for me. I didn't have to worry, didn't have
to think, didn't have to look for something to do. He
attended to everything, even household things, which are
ordinarily left to a woman—that too he provided for me.
So you can understand that, after twenty-five years of
such a life, when you are suddenly left alone, it's as
though the seat had been removed from under you, or the
wall you were leaning against had suddenly collapsed. I
was literally lost.
My Zelik'l
knew that and was very much worried over my helplessness
in losing my way. He consulted with a friend of his
youth, Abraham Ben-Avi, a great psychiatrist and doctor
of philosophy, the son of the notable and beloved
actress my chum and colleague, Anna Appel. He told him
about my dilemma, related to him as much as possible
my twenty-five-year life with my husband, how
fantastically helpless I felt. And Dr. Ben-Avi told him
the following:
Don't worry
about your mother. Besides her great talent as an
actress, she has an inborn capacity to be able
masterfully to get out of difficult situations, to find
just the right way of how to help herself. She may not
perhaps be able to give others advice because, just as
does her great talent, this also comes to her
intuitively, perhaps not previously thought out. Don't
worry about your mother. Just as she has reached her
high place in her career in the Yiddish theatre with her
own strength, practically without anyone's assistance,
or quite the reverse, against all difficulties and
stones put in her path, so she will also find her way
out of this difficult situation in life. Don't worry
about your mother."
Thus this
comes to my mind when I now speak of that difficult
situation on the stage of "The Forward" Hall. I've said
that the miracle happened. The miracle consisted in the
fact that the spontaneous, warm reaction and the ovation
with which the audience received me had as if suddenly
untangled the tangle in my mind, and I announced with
assurance and with a strong voice:
"We all have
just now received with enthusiasm the dramatic way in
which my sister Frances has recited for you Morris
Rosenfeld's great rendition, 'The Seduced One." But
every creation, no matter how great and artistic it may
be, can be ridiculed—can be put on as satire. I think
it's very interesting and certainly amusing to hear one
right after the other, two different approaches of one
and the same thing. Well, here it is, my version of 'The
Seduced One' by Morris Rosenfeld."
And I now
spontaneously recited the same thing I had studied, in
such a strongly dramatic way, in a very pixyish,
bitterly satirical, and lightly jesting way. In a sort
of tempting tone of voice, with a mocking look in my
eyes, and nodding my head in a knowledgeable way I
began: "Do you remember how you promised me love?"
The hall
immediately broke out in laughter.
That's all I
needed. I felt they had grasped the satire I had put
into the serious poem: "Oh, who then knew your
intention?"—I said it in such a way that the audience
laughed heartily. And when it came to the lines that I
had spoken with significance and previously with
conscientiousness, "Do you remember that night? Oh , you
must remember it....,"and the lines that followed that
I spoke with exaggerated gestures and pleading: "I
pleaded pitifully with you; oh, don't pluck me; you'll
trample me later"—the audience virtually laughed with
tears and convulsion.
And when I
concluded with a very mocking look at him in his corner,
as if I wanted to repulse him from me, saying very
playfully: "How can I, an outcast and locked in
loneliness, ask for my master's son for my groom?" the
audience laughed hysterically and rewarded me with such
resounding applause as lasted for many long minutes. I
bowed and bowed again to the audience—I was saved. I
hadn't shamed my name. But at the same time I decided
that I wouldn't let them talk me into participating in
concerts until I had a repertory of at least half-a-dozen numbers.
A theatrical
season began for me during the summer of that season,
when most people in the acting profession got away to
the mountains or to the sea for a rest. Freed was
suffering from a dry cough and doctors advised us that
he should spend time in the mountains, resting, having a
lot of sun, drinking milk, and generally taking care of
himself. So because of that, I joyfully accepted my
mother's proposal. She and Maurice Schwartz, as
partners, had leased the roof garden atop the National
Theatre and opened a theatrical season during the
summer. Thus, I became Maurice Schwartz's leading lady.
We had already
begun our constant battles that continued far, far into
the years of his Art Theatre, but it helped me to earn
enough to support Freed in the mountains, as the doctors
had advised us. My mother, being a partner in the roof
garden, also wanted Ludwig Satz to be engaged. He
also needed a few dollars. But Schwartz didn't want him;
the excuse was that he still wasn't in the union. My
mother didn't want to carry on a battle; it didn't pay
for the short summer season. But he was employed as my
mother's representation in the box office. With his
flair for humor, Satz immediately called himself the
"business manager," ridiculing his new profession....
I cannot say I
had much pleasure playing on the roof garden. Both the
heat and my colleague, Schwartz, tortured me
considerably.
The only good
thing left me by that season was a visit by Anshel
Schorr at a performance. It was not so much his presence
that made me happy, as that he proposed I become the
leading lady in his Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia.
He was also going to engage Lazar Freed. He proposed
very good terms for me; he also proposed a very fine
salary for Freed. Although I wasn't enthusiastic over
leaving New York, both the terms and the recognized
status of the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, which
had the reputation of a theatrical city in general, made
me feel that being a leading lady in such a theatre was
not only an honor for me but was a considerable
thrust in my career.
While still
playing at the roof garden, my mother stole away to
Philadelphia and got a residence there for all of us.
When she brought me the news, I somehow felt a burden
had fallen off my head. I was indeed happy to await a
new season, again knowing ahead of time where I was
going and what awaited me. I was also very much pleased
that, after a considerable number of years, I would
again be together with my small but beloved family.
Thus, I had something to wait for, to look forward to,
after the hard, empty season.
Understandably, I informed Freed of everything. He was
very happy that he would be away from noisy, tough New
York. So I survived the summer season on the
roof garden, thank heaven, and began to concern myself
with transferring to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly
love.
My
anticipation concerning the season in Philadelphia
didn't let me down. The troupe was a very friendly one.
Being together with my little, beloved family was also
very much to my liking. Thus, this was really my first
season in America when I didn't have to complain of
heartache.
My mother and
I were the top players throughout the season—the stars
of the troupe, so to speak. Even the assignment of the
roles according to plays and personnel also pleased me
very much.
I needn't tell
you that there never was the slightest drop of envy
between my mother and me, heaven forbid. It very often
happened that my mother played the secondary role to my
top role. And this also never brought a shadow of envy.
I underscore
this because in the theatre in general, it isn't news
that one's closest and one's own should bear envy of one
another. The Yiddish theatre is indeed no exception.
Even if I have to say it myself, I want to underscore
that we certainly were an exception.
Thus, that
season we performed countless plays, both of the old
Yiddish repertory and new plays. I don't want to burden
you with complaints about the hard work. If you're
contented, you can easily absorb hard work. Our family
life at home would indeed have been very ideal if not
for two elements overshadowing our private lives. The
first, Lazar Freed suffered practically the entire
season from bad hoarseness. That's a frightful state of
affairs for an actor in general, and for an actor-singer
in particular. Freed played very little that season.
That's also a bitter pill for an actor to swallow. So,
naturally, this had an effect on us all.
The second
element was Ludwig Satz. My mother had persuaded Anshel
Schorr to engage Ludwig. Thus, he was, so to speak, a
begged-in person, one [who was] superfluous. This is a frightful
situation for an actor with ambition. One feels
superfluous, one doesn't have the courage to ask. Thus
they threw such roles at him as did not make it possible
in any way whatever to show his tremendous talent. In
addition, every actor in the troupe felt more important
than him; so that wherever Satz had a joke or a phrase
that evoked laughter or applause in a role, someone
grabbed it away from him at the first opportunity.
Satz was a
sensitive artist. He was able to show his greatness when
he had the chance to build up a character, to create a
type. But they didn't entrust such roles to him. He had
no inclination toward so-called slapstick comic roles,
where dancing and jumping played the main role. But
because of his figure—he was then a slim, emaciated
looking young fellow—he looked very boyish, an aspect
suitable for light slapstick comic roles—and they kept
feeding him that.
The theatre's
soubrette, strong and ambitious, practically dominated
the stage in such roles and sort of erased him. Thus,
for example, she would just lift him in her arms and
carry him off the stage after each couplet and dance. So
she excelled with the audience on that score, but she
made Satz small and insignificant with it. He couldn't
protect himself against her. He felt terribly unhappy.
Thus he once
came to my dressing room before a performance. I would
usually come early to the theatre, so that I wouldn't
have to hurry with my makeup and dressing. He wasn't
playing that evening. I noticed he was terribly
disturbed. He strode nervously up and down for several
minutes as if were trying to decide something. Suddenly
he rushed over to the door, came over to my little
table, and sat down very disturbed. He wanted to start
talking several times but held back, until at last he
sort of burst out:
"Listen,
Celia, you're going to have to excuse me that I'm going
to pour out my heart to you. I've got to unload to
somebody. I can't say it to Lillie, she'll take it too
much to heart. I don't want to hurt her. You'll perhaps
understand better. I can't go on much longer this way.
I've lost my belief in myself. I see no future for me in
the theatre. Perhaps I talked it into myself that my
vocation was to become an actor. I can't fight any more.
I've got to look for another way of making a living."
I was quite
frightened by the despair in his eyes. The expression of
failure was lying all over his face. Being lost, being
hopeless—here was a man who stood before an abyss. I
began to feel that ordinary words would not help here.
Besides, I had great faith in his talent. In all those
foolish roles of his which disgusted him, I had noticed
several times sparks of a great talent, signs that
showed latent powers that lay hidden in the slim boyish
Ludwig. I began to feel I must save this man from
himself, from his own despair, from his weakness in
fighting, from his readiness to succumb. I quickly
turned around to him; I looked at him with wide eyes
and, instead of showing him sympathy, instead of
expressing pity for him, I practically screamed with
reproach and strong excitement:
"How dare you
talk that way about yourself?! You don't know yourself
about the powers that are hidden within you, the great
talent you have—and you're ready to give up right now?"
I took his
face into my hands: "I'm telling you, Ludwig, your
talent must fight through to its goal. You foolish boy,
your day must come; they're going to recognize you. I
have faith in you—have patience, don't lose your
courage. Your place is in the theatre."
He looked at
me straight in the eyes and little by little his eyes
lit up. Joy showed on his face: "Celia, you have taken a
stone off my heart."
He kissed me
and left my dressing room smiling and with a light,
sauntering step. He often mentioned to me that
conversation of ours in his successful years and, in his
memoirs, he openly thanked me for the courage and
strength I gave him at that time.
This scene
with Satz reminds me of an episode that borders on
melodrama. If someone described it in a play or a novel,
many people would consider it an exaggerated tale. They
do say that life is trashier than the biggest trash. So
here's a thing that happened to me that season.
I had my
"Evening of Honor" on the eighth of March. I prepared Z.
Libin's play "The Street Walker" for that evening. The
picture you see before you took up the biggest part of
the special poster.
About a week
before my evening I received this curious letter in
English:
"This is a
young girl writing to you, a student from the medical
university where I'm studying to be a doctor. Lately,
I've had a terrible experience that shook me up
frightfully and threw me into deep despair. I began to
feel I no longer wanted to live and decided to put and
end to myself. Wandering over the city streets, with
these ideas in my mind, I was as if by a secret power
drawn close to a pair of eyes that looked down at me
from a theatrical poster.
It was as if
those eyes were speaking to me, as if they were warning
me, as if they were giving me hope. I was virtually
hypnotized by those eyes, as if comforted by a
friend.... Those were your eyes.
"I decided
that before I committed the deed, I must first if
possible talk things over with you, tell you what drove
me to my despair. I have the instinctive feeling that a
person with such eyes must also have deep understanding
and the ability to get into a human soul. Perhaps it's
rash of me to disturb you, but I beg you don't refuse
me. I'm waiting for your answer , P. B."
Need I tell
you that though I was considerably occupied with the
preparation for my evening, besides the usual duties I
had to fulfill in the theatre, she got my answer on the
morrow.
We met a day
later. I saw before me a fine, intelligent, lovely, and
pleasant personality, a girl in her early twenties. And
here's what she told me:
About five
years ago she met a young man in college, also a
student. They became friends quickly, and a very strong
love developed between them. She saw everything in him
that she imagined in her girlish dreams. She was madly
in love with him; his love for her was also very strong.
He was a medical student in the last years of medical
school. She also decided to take up medicine, and she
entered "Women's Medical College" in Philadelphia. Two
years ago he graduated and was accepted as intern in a
Pittsburgh hospital. They were officially engaged before
he left. They decided to celebrate their wedding in
January of that year.
On the way to
the wedding, riding in his car, there was accident and
he was killed. She tried with all her strength to live
through that awful blow and continue to go on with her
life, but it got harder for her day by day until she
began to feel that life wasn't worth anything without
him. She had nothing and nobody to live for. She could
no longer live nor did she want to, so she decided to
put an end to it. He was everything to her; without him
she had nothing. She couldn't control her hysterical
outburst.
I put her
head on my shoulder and did not interfere with her crying.
I only tenderly stroked her lovely black hair with my
hands.
Her hysterical
weeping took quite a while. I stroked her head and
didn't say a word. You could only hear her heartrending
sobbing. All sorts of thoughts ran around in my head as
to how to be able to quiet her—how I could turn aside
her despair—what truly warmhearted words could change
her decision.
Her crying
quieted down; her sobbing stopped at last. I lifted her
head, held it in my hands, looked her straight in the
eyes for awhile and, little by little, I began to
talk—uttered these thoughts more or less:
"I understand
your despair very well.... l can't console you that
today, tomorrow, or next year you'll find another, a
better one.... Those will be empty consolation words
that you'll immediately feel are not true, are not
coming from the heart. And I don't want that. You're an
intelligent, understanding girl, and, if what you've
written me in your letter is true, I want to believe
you'll pay as close attention as you can to your
circumstance and believe me that these are not just
thought-up remarks, but words that come from the
heart—because I sympathize with you.
"You have
every right to feel unhappy and despairing. But it's not
right for a girl your age and with your capabilities to
think and ruminate, to submit to thoughts that the
dreadful misfortune sowed in you. Now then, dear, listen
to me. I'm surely not going to undertake to answer your
big "why," which filled your entire being when you
received the dreadful news. That "why" nobody can answer
for you. And your extremely overdriven step, your
despairing act, will certainly not answer it. True, you
won't be able to think any more, you will cease to
exist—well, now, is that really the answer? Forgive me,
but that would be the act of a coward.
"I only ask
one thing of you, let me have the opportunity to meet
you at least a few more times. I know that in your
present state you can't be expected to hear and think
everything over as you properly should. At this moment
your whole trend of thought is pointed in one direction.
"I want you to
believe me that it wasn't easy for me just now to spare
the time to meet with you. But I couldn't brush your
letter off. So if my eyes on that poster could have an
effect on you, I want you to give me the opportunity to
talk to you a few more times. You must promise me that.
My dressing room in the theatre or my home are open to
you at any time. So I want your word that you'll come to
me at least a few times a week. I know that if you give
me your word, you'll keep it."
She promised
me, and she became a frequent visitor in my dressing
room, as well as at my home. During our continuing
discussions, I didn't try to convince her that a happy
life was awaiting her in the future, but I strongly
underscored that, to get rid of such a life as hers
with an act that was weak, cowardly and at the same
time, reasonably bravado, was surely a sin both to
herself and to that for which she was ready to do it.
"You could do
so much good in the profession you are preparing for," I
told her, "not for your benefit—but you can at least
give part of your love to those who suffer and whom you
could help as a doctor."
I began to
feel that every new visit of hers was bringing her
nearer to her normal condition. I felt she was beginning
to accept my words gladly. In general, her soul knotted
itself with mine, and she hid no intimate, hidden
thoughts of hers from me.
In a few weeks
she announced her decision to me. She had contacted
several medical universities in South America. She
thought that by tearing herself out of the environment
here, she would be able to go on with her studies.
Sometime later she almost gleefully informed me that
she'd been accepted by a medical school in Cartagena,
Columbia, in South America, and she went there—with the
promise that she would write to me as often as possible.
She asked me to answer her at least from time to time.
So we corresponded during all the years of her studying
there.
At last the
day came when I began to reap what I had sowed. Thus,
I'm taking out some passages from one of her letters1 written when she was about to graduate from the School
of Medicine and Surgery. She wrote me that she was
working twenty-two out of every twenty-four hours. She
was satisfied because that way she forgot herself
completely. She was finding much satisfaction in helping
the needy poor in the free hospitals. But my greatest
satisfaction in that letter is the passage in which she
consoled me.
It was by way
of the years of my being divorced from Freed, as well as
disappointments in friends and colleagues in my
theatrical career, that I gave my pessimistic viewpoint
in one of my letters to her. And here is how she
consoled me:
"Words cannot
express the feeling of happiness that your picture
brought into my life. I take your picture in my hands
and look long into your eyes until I begin to feel you
are near me. So I'm deeply moved that you, to whom are
drawn so many honest feelings from your devoted fans;
you, who awaken in so many people the will, the desire
to work, to hope, to live; you who bring so much joy
into lonely lives—you have lost the faith, the belief
in people's honesty. You ought to consider yourself the
happiest person in the world among your countless
friends. To know Celia Adler means to love her, to
sacrifice yourself for her."
And so I'm
going to end this document of deep human feelings with a
visit of hers to New York. My son Zelik'l was then about
thirteen or fourteen years old. She had become associated
with the City Hospital on Welfare Island in visiting
here. She took my Zelik'l along to the hospital with her
and took him around to the various laboratories and showed
him all the instruments. She told me after that how he
observed everything with interest and asked marvelously
intelligent questions and sought answers. "I'm almost
certain that in the future he will somehow become
involved in the medical profession," she prophesied. So
here you have, if you please, a prophecy about my son's
future.
Just as the
incident with the desperate girl indirectly came about
as a result of the poster for my "Evening-of-Honor" that
season in the Arch Street Theatre, so I'm constrained to
report to you that my evening was a great success, both
morally and financially. The approximate thousand
dollars that left me from the evening came in very handy
when Freed and I had spent the whole summer at the
famous Shostak Farm in Lower Jamesburg, New Jersey, a
very popular place in the theatrical world.
I must also
tell you that Anshel Schorr engaged Lazar and me for
the following season right after my "Evening-of-Honor."
Because Lazar played so seldom due to his hoarseness, I
sacrificed a considerable raise in salary, which I would
have gotten. Here's the way Anshel Schorr explained it
to me:
"Celia, you
certainly deserve a considerable raise in salary—you've
earned it honorably. But you must understand that
Lazar's salary was a complete business loss this season.
He also doesn't know when he will be completely freed from
his hoarseness, so I must engage an actor in his place
anyway. But I must also keep him for the next season
because of you. That's where your raise is going."
Understandably, I couldn't argue with his honest
interpretation. So I was glad that the interpretation
remained a secret between Schorr and I. It was
very important for Freed's morale to know that Schorr
wanted him and engaged him for the following season.
Thus I accepted his proposal and signed a little slip. I
was also glad that mother and Ludwig were also engaged
with a raise. Another joy was added for me when my
sister Lillie was also engaged in her own right, not as
a bonus to Ludwig Satz.
Suddenly the
theatrical public and the small theatrical world in
Philadelphia were surprised by a great piece of news.
So now Mike
Thomashevsky came along with more news. He leased the
beautiful American Theatre, which was considerably
closer to the Jewish section in Philadelphia. Anshel Schorr, known as the "Bismarck of the Yiddish theatre,"
found out in time that Mike Thomashevsky was negotiating
with Jacob Adler for his new theatre. Schorr immediately
felt that such an attraction as a new theatre with Jacob
Adler and Sarah Adler as the stars would be a very
competitive thing for his Arch Street Theatre. So he
left for New York with the decision to grab Adler for
his theatre, even though he already almost had his full
troupe for the following season.
Boris
Thomashevsky occupied the National Theatre. David
Kessler had the Second Avenue Theatre. After the fall of
the trust, Adler took over the only left-over Yiddish
theatre—the People's Theatre.
Both
Thomashevsky and Kessler wanted to engage Adler for that
season. But my brother Abe, who was my father's business
consultant, did not want to allow that Adler should submit to
the caprice of those stars. He therefore lent an ear to
Mike Thomashevsky that Adler and Sarah become the
stars of his theatre. Anshel Schorr and his partners
decided that no price was high enough to cut down a competitor.
So, together with the famous theatrical entrepreneur
Edwin Relkin, they convinced my brother, Abe Adler, that
he accept the proposal of the Arch Street Theatre.
Understandably, helping this was the price they asked,
one that Mike could not meet. The price was four hundred fifty dollars a week for playing only on Saturday and
Sunday; one hundred dollars extra for each performance
at middle-of-the-week benefits.
That in itself
is already a considerable sum for a theatre that already
had a full troupe. Added to this was my brother Abe's
salary, and that of a couple without whom Adler couldn't
make a move. Those were the two magnificent
character-actors, Gustav Schacht and Isidore Cashier.
When Anshel
Schorr got through with the very good business with the
Adlers, he first had quite a difficult job convincing my
mother and me that we would not suffer one iota, heaven
forbid, either as it concerned the advertisements, or as
it concerned suitable roles. So we were preparing for a
new season to play with Jacob and Sarah Adler.
I recall a
considerable number of interesting trips that summer to
the wonderfully beautiful landscapes of that area. Also
there with us were my sister Frances and her husband
Joseph Shoengold and Bessie Thomashevsky. Coming to see
us very often during the last weeks was our well-known
journalist and managing editor of the "Morning
Journal," Jacob Fischman. We all had a penchant for
humor, so our trips were extraordinarily amusing and
interesting. We usually sat seven to eight people in the
car, and we were having a good time. Shoengold knew many
theatrical anecdotes. Bessie, Nyunia, and I not only
grabbed up the theatrical anecdotes, but each of us
would dress them up her way. It will be very interesting
for you to hear this characteristic episode that was
told by Shoengold on one of those trips and polished up
by my sister Nyunia.
It was often
one of Jacob Gordin's unsuccessful plays that Adler had
put on. He had lost a considerable number of dollars on
the play, so he wasn't in a hurry to put on a new play
that Gordin had placed in his lap. As many of you know,
Gordin was burdened with a considerable family, and the
need drove him not to leave Adler in peace, to get him
to buy his new play from him. Adler couldn't talk his
way out of it any longer and agreed to hear his play. He
had asked Gordin to come to his house.
I've already
mentioned in one of my first chapters a woman called
Ruchel who was to the Adler family what Feige was to our
family. Ruchel mixed into everything and spoke her mind
all over the place. That afternoon, when Gordin came to
read to Adler, Ruchel spread herself all over the couch
to hear the play. When Gordin finished the first act,
you could read in Adler's face that the play did not
please him. Gordin read on. There was a strong dramatic
scene in the middle of the second act that still
somehow didn't please Adler. Suddenly, Ruchel could no
longer contain herself and, affected by the moving
situation, began to cry. Adler immediately turned around
to Ruchel, observed her sincere weeping, and
straightaway directed himself to Gordin: "The play is
mine. Ruchel is my best audience." He bought the play.
It seems that Ruchel did Gordin a big favor indirectly.
The happy
vacation was over. We went back to Philadelphia. As
usual, Mother came to the city earlier and got a very
comfortable house for all us, where each of us had his
own little residence. Feige managed the home.
We had a
common dining room. We not only had our meals there, but
quite often the biggest part of our troupe would get
together and spend the time there.
I needn't tell
you that Anshel Schorr and the business managers of the
Arch Street Theatre did not skimp on advertisements to
let the people know that the great Jacob Adler was
playing in their theatre. Philadelphia was virtually
swamped with several kinds of posters announcing the
extraordinarily huge troupe the Arch Street Theatre had
prepared for the public: Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Adler, Dina
Feinman, Celia Adler, David Baratz, Gustav Schacht,
Mischa and Lucy Gehrman, Lazar Freed, Mr. and Mrs.
Boris Rosenthal, Moishe Silberstein, Ludwig Satz, Lily
Feinman, Esther Waxman, Max Skulnick, Isidore Cashier,
Molly Picon, Yudel Belzer, and Anshel Schorr.
They found it
constantly necessary to let the public know in various
ways how much effort and money they had to expend to
assemble such a troupe for the people of Philadelphia.
They knew that, despite their having been able to grab
Adler away from Mike Thomashevsky, they still had a big
competition—Mike had obtained the immortal Bertha
Kalich for his American Theatre.
Anshel guarded his promise to my mother and me and, as you see,
did not slight us in the advertisements. As concerned
the roles, the wise Anshel avoided having my mother
play in the plays in which the Adlers performed. But it
happened anyway that mother revived her entire repertory
during the middle of the week. As far as I was
concerned, I performed only in those Adler plays in
which I had an important and suitable role. Thus, in
this respect, there was no family clash—heaven
forbid—during the entire season.
But my father
and my mother did play together in one performance
during the season. It was the sensation of that season
and again showed Anshel's wisdom in theatrical matters.
He prevailed upon my mother and Adler that for his
"Evening-of-Honor" they play for him the first play with
which Jacob Gordin began his stage career. That was the
famous play, "Siberia," which was a great sensation in
its time both in the Yiddish theatre in New York and
with the press, as well as with the intelligentsia in
general.
You yourself
can understand that the theatre was virtually
beleaguered at that performance. The public not only
came to see the play with which Gordin first appeared in the
Yiddish theatre twenty -five years earlier, but also
came to see the personal Adler family drama that would
be enacted on the stage. I wish to indicate here for
sentimental memory reasons that the first performance of
"Siberia" was given in 1891, about a year after my
parents' divorce. And here are the personnel and the
actors of that very first performance:
Abraham
Rosencrantz—-Jacob Adler
His
wife——Paulina Edelstein
His
daughter—-Sarah Adler
Levin, a
teacher—-Sigmund Feinman
Fanny—-Dina
Feinman
Samuel, a
student—-Leon Blank
Saburov, an
investigating judge—-David Kessler
Berl
Taratutie—-Cesar Greenberg
Spendik, a
waiter—-Sigmund Mogulesco
The first new
play that season was Libin's "The Big Question." I
consider it important to underscore here that, in his
theatre, Anshel Schorr was boss of the stage. He went
against the accepted method in the Yiddish theatre that
the troupe's star had to be the director. Even my
father, the great Jacob Adler, had to submit to Anshel
Schorr's direction. Adler was quite content already in
those years to have less work and fewer
responsibilities. Anshel scarcely mixed into plays from
Adler's repertory. Isidore Cashier, who knew Adler's
repertory and his ways very well, took care of that.
It started at
the time when nearly every star and sub-star had their
sworn patriots who cared a great deal about and guarded
the prestige of their idol. While this is an almost
forgotten chapter in the history of the Yiddish theatre
of about four decades ago, I feel I must clarify more
what it was these patriots stood for. Now this name of
"patriot," which is ordinarily bound up with sensitive
feelings for one's native land, only partly expresses
what the Yiddish theatre patriots felt for their chosen
ones. Their devotion and loyalty were limitless.
Nothing was
too difficult for a "patriot" to do for his beloved—go
on an errand, carry packages , generally satisfy every
caprice and, at times, wild demands that happened to
strike their beloved star....
It was their
greatest happiness when their star asked them to do
something for him. Woe to him who expressed
dissatisfaction or spoke disparagingly about a star in
the presence of his "patriots" (buffs). There were very
frequent wars, indeed physical encounters, between one
group of patriots and another. This would happen
especially when a male or female star would endeavor to
play a role of another male or female star. So the
"patriots" not only battered each other, but the stage
would often get spattered with rotten fruit and soft
tomatoes.
I recall
mother narrating [a story] about Keni Lipzin's first appearance in
one of Berta Kalich's roles as Ettie in Gordin's
"Kreutzer Sonata." She came into the dressing room in
despair, practically in hysteria, and complained to my
mother who was a co-player in the play: "Dina, they
threw apples and pears at me."
So Mother
consoled her: ''Don't be in such despair. You've been
honored with "früchte" (fruit).
Mother
purposely said it in German it should sound
complimentary.
Most of those
patriots were very poor because, being deeply immersed
in their beloved and in the Yiddish theatre, in general,
they neglected making a living. There were stars who at
least showed sympathy and furnished free tickets in
their theatre for their patriots. They even threw a
little petty cash their way from time to time.
But you have
to credit a considerable number of those patriots with
reaching high positions in the Yiddish theatre, as well
as on Broadway and in Hollywood. It will suffice to
mention only the famous Broadway impresario, the great
David Belasco's son-in-law, Morris Guest, who began as a
patriot in the Boston Yiddish theatre, and our own
Isidore Cashier, who had nothing to be ashamed of in his
attainments in the Yiddish theatre—he also had started
as a patriot. He was one of the "strong ones" in that
patriotic group, a devoted fan of Adler. He strongly
deified Adler and, in time, became Adler's closest
confidant. Cashier practically became his bodyguard.
Very often, when Adler met someone he didn't like, or of
someone behaved impudently toward him, especially if it
was a Gentile with an indication of anti-Semitism, he
would tell Cashier to take care of him....
Thus, for
instance, a scene transpired in the subway, where Adler
sat reading a Jewish newspaper. Sitting opposite him was
a strong Gentile fellow who looked mockingly at Adler.
At last he stood up and cynically handed his English
newspaper to Adler. Adler folded his Jewish newspaper,
took the Gentile's English paper and exchanged it with
his Jewish paper. The Gentile spread himself out, opened
the newspaper, and strongly mocked the Jewish paper's
script.
My father
didn't read any more. He sat penetrating the Gentile and
his mocking with his look. When the Gentile got up to
leave, Adler got up, winked at Cashier and told him:
"Come on, you're going to have to pay him for
everything...." Heaven forbid that the fellow should
have been disappointed. Cashier paid him for everything.
He surely didn't forget the beating for a long time.
But Adler
sensed a capacity and talent for the stage in Cashier,
aside from his strength. He encouraged him strongly, let
him play a role from time to time, promised to put in an
application to the Jewish Actor's Union for him. He even
came himself to the union when Cashier took his
examination. Both the union and the Yiddish theatre in
general drew a winning card in Isidore Cashier.
I cannot
conclude this chapter on "patriots" before I tell of a
very curious meeting of mine in London, around 1931.
Before I left for Europe, a good Canadian friend of
mine, being in New York, asked me to render his personal
greeting to his brother in London. He obviously had
written him about my coming there because I received an
unusually warm reception from his brother and his wife.
They once invited me to take a trip to a good friend of
theirs with them. "We're sure you're going to enjoy
meeting him."
And so I was
definitely surprised by the unusually luxurious palace I
walked into. My friend's brother explained to me that
the entire English movie industry was in the hands of
the owner of this palace. I'm really sorry I can't
remember his name now. The movie industrialist had a
very dignified appearance and received us in a very
friendly manner in his indigenous London English. His
wife, on the contrary, dressed up in a riding costume,
excused herself very coldly to us—she had a previous
appointment—and left. As soon as his wife had left the
house, he hurried over to me and began talking to me in
a hearty, juicy Yiddish. He told me that some decades
ago he had been one of my father's "patriots" and was
often an extra in his Adler's Grand Theatre. He happily
remembered how he was one of an Oriental army, in a mass
scene in a certain play. He had to stand very tall, his
head high, and with the spear right before him. But he
was so absorbed in Adler's playing that he completely
forgot his pose. His head was not high, his spear didn't
stand straight. When Adler walked past him in the role
as the ruler, and saw him in his crooked pose, he
slapped him.... He was happy to this day that he called
forth such attention from Adler. He proudly boasted as
he told of the incident.
When we were
doing a few fast rehearsals of Adler's repertory before
the opening of that season in Philadelphia, I truly
marveled at the fantastic confidence and practically the
respect that Adler showed his one-time patriot, Isidore
Cashier. It took Adler a long time to recognize
somebody. But the moment he noticed sparks of real
talent in someone, he became his most devoted glorifier
and helped him as much as possible and led him out
before the broad public and gave him open recognition.
Thus a
considerable number of actors in the profession
benefitted a great deal from his recognizing them. Cases
are even known of actors whom Adler gave recognition and
devotion, even though they caused him much chagrin and
worry. One of them was Gustav Schacht, that very fine
actor. He was a naturally inclined revolutionary, often
revolted against Adler, and didn't hesitate to speak his
piece to him in the presence of the entire troupe. This,
of course, worried Adler a great deal. Every time he was
about to engage Schacht, he would be warned: "He's
causing you so much worry; what do you need him for?"
Adler always had one answer. "It's true that he worried
me many times. But he's a good actor. I have to have
him."
The fact that
Schacht is his daughter-in-law's father played no role
here. You surely remember that Emily, Gustav Schacht's
daughter, is my sister-in-law, my darling brother
Charlie's wife.
It was really
from Lemberg that Satz was engaged for the 1912-1913
season in the London Pavilion theatre where Morris
Moskowitz was the star and director. Satz was already
showing there that he had a serious attitude to the
theatre in general, as well as showing his respect for
and deep thinking in his study and penetration of a
serious character role.
Moskowitz had
produced Jacob Gordin's "Elisha ben Abuyah," and he
gave the young Satz the famous character role of Erica
Abiyuni wherein, as many of you will recall, he plays on
a little whistle. Satz did not want to rely on holding
something on the stage that looked like a little whistle
and that someone should play for him backstage. He
specially bought such a little whistle and learned how
to play the melody from a musician, despite the fact
that he never had played a musical instrument.
After that
season. Moskowitz went all the way to South America,
and Joseph Kessler took over the direction of the
Pavilion Theatre. My mother, Dina Feinman, was his
female star; his soubrette was my sister Lillie. He also
engaged the young Ludwig Satz. This wasn't the first
time Ludwig met his future mother-in-law, Dina Feinman.
He met her in Lemberg when she was doing guest
appearances there, and he appealed to her to help him
crawl out of Lemberg. And Moskowitz brought him to
London on mother's recommendation.
Presently we
were sitting at the reading of the first play, Z.
Libin's "The Big Question." The comic role, a painter,
one of Libin's characteristically soft, comical little
people, was as if tailor-made for Satz, figure and all.
He had to be a dried-up, weak little man. I decided I
must do everything that Satz should get the role. No
roles were handed out after the trial reading because
they had not yet been written out. I awaited until the
troupe left and was left alone on the stage with Schorr.
I asked him how he was going to allocate the roles.
Anshel penetrated me with his look, and his wise eyes showed
with a smile that he knew what I was driving at:
"You know, of
course, Celia, that Silberstein is the theatre's first
comedian; the role belongs to him."
I looked at
him straight in the eye and told him very seriously:
"Believe me,
Anshel, that I'm talking to you now not simply because
Satz is my brother-in-law. I listened to the role very
carefully and I'm telling you: you're committing a great
sin against the role, the play, and your theatre if Satz
won't play the role. You just don't realize, Anshel,
how custom-made the role is for him. It may very well be
that it's for your own good that the roles are not yet
ready right now. You know, of course, that if the roles
had already been assigned, I wouldn't talk to you now. I
beg you, Anshel, think it over before it's too late.
"Aside from
that, consider the contrast, Ludwig—a spare, weak
little man who scarcely has the strength to talk—versus
his wife with eight children, played by Lillie with her
present considerably rounded-out figure. I see the
contrast so clearly. That in itself will add no end of a
comic situation."
Schorr
observed me with his sharp, wise eyes: "You know, Celia,
you should have been a lawyer maybe. But maybe you're
right. But I want to tell you that I'll do it only to
please you. I'm taking a considerable load on myself.
I'm going to have a lot of trouble with Silberstein, and
it won't be so easy for me to win your father over to
it."
"Let me have
your word that Ludwig will get the role. Leave my
father's acquiescence to me. "
He assured me.
"Now listen
carefully, Anshel, I'm as convinced of the truth of my
opinion that I'm ready to risk your trust in me, which
is valued so highly by me. So I want to say that if
you're not satisfied, even excited, by Satz in the role,
I'll consider it as my having lost to you. I don't hold
my reputation lightly and certainly not your trust in
me...."
Ludwig got the
role. But neither Ludwig nor I had a moment of peace
during the two weeks of rehearsal. My father showed his
lack of satisfaction in every way possible. He could not
imagine at all that Satz, with his boyish appearance
would be able to portray the painter, father of eight
children. So, wouldn't you know, none of Satz's modes of
playing pleased him. This had such an effect on Satz
that he really couldn't show himself to any advantage
at the rehearsals—that's how intimidated he was by
Adler.
But evidently
an end occasionally also comes to troubles. The
rehearsals were finished. So I want to say here that it
was to Schorr's credit that, although I felt how much
remonstrance my father had with him for giving Satz the
role, he never threw it up to me. Presently, the evening
of the premiere arrived. I knew Satz's heart and
imagined with what a tremulous feeling he was making up
for the role.
As many of you
know, Satz was an outstanding make-up artist, thanks to
his talent as a painter. Many actors told me that,
standing close to him, they could not recognize which
lines on his face were his makeup and which were
natural. When he had finished with his makeup and
dressing for that painter, he decided to go to Adler's
dressing room, so that, if it didn't please Adler he
would still be able to change it. You also ought to know
that Adler himself had a big reputation for making-up.
When Satz
knocked on his dressing room door and walked in, Adler
impatiently and looking very strictly in the mirror said
to him: "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Satz stammered
an answer: "I—er—I'm that fellow Ludwig Satz." Adler
turned around to him with his big, pried-open eyes,
looked at Satz and said: "No, you're not Satz; you're
the painter, Libin's painter."
From that
minute on Adler became Satz's biggest booster. As long
as Adler remained in the Arch Street Theatre that
season, Satz didn't have to worry about roles.
I never had to
"sell" Satz to Anshel Schorr any more. He realized
Satz's greatness.
During that
1916-17 season in the Arch Street Theatre, another big
future star of the Yiddish stage tried hard to make it
almost unnoticed; an adolescent of about
sixteen-seventeen with a very childlike figure. She was
used partly as a chorus girl and played a small role
from time to time. Her mother was the theatre wardrobe
mistress, so she counseled her little daughter to stand
in the wings whenever she had the time and look at Celia
Adler play. "You can learn a great deal from her."
I frequently
saw how her big, shining eyes were following me from the
wings. I've already mentioned several times that Anshel
Schorr had a sincere and strict attitude toward the
stage. There was often a play in which I had no proper
role. But there was a small role in it for a young girl.
So Schorr would prevail upon me that, to please him, I
should play the little role during the first week the
play was on the boards. "I beg you, Celia, don't refuse
me. I have someone to play the role, but I want you to
establish it."
Schorr
generally treated me so well in his theatre that I
couldn't refuse him. After the first week, the little
girl played the role. But she didn't have the chance
that season to show her subsequent greatness. Only a
year or two later, when she had gotten married, her
ambitious and theatrically capable husband took her on a
trip to Europe where she became famous in a charming
musical comedy, "Yankele." Her great success in Russia
reached the American theatre managers, and the young
Edelstein flew to Romania to engage that girl from
Philadelphia; and he made a lot of money with the great
Molly Picon.
She occupied
the top among the stars in the Yiddish theatre for a
considerable number of years. To this day, the firm of
Molly Picon and Jacob Kalich is a great sensation in the
Yiddish theatre.
But what is
very curious is that, after her success in Romania, when
I had occasion to make guest appearances there, a number
of theatrical buffs, friends of the Yiddish theatre,
expressed themselves in praise of me:
"But please to
excuse, Madame Adler, it's remarkable that many of your
frolicsome movements and tones of voice remind one very
strongly of Molly Picon."
Even in the
happy throes of becoming a mother, a leading actress in
the theatre has to remember not to damage the theatre she plays in
with her good fortune. I had that problem that season
in Philadelphia. So during the last weeks of the season,
they had to arrange things so that on the stage I stood
behind a chair to block my not very girlish figure from
view.
I recall how
many of my admirers expressed their wonder that I, their
beloved Celia Adler, was not guarding her figure. They
mourned the fact that I probably gave in to my appetite
and obviously ate too much. They advised me to provide
myself with a better corset. One of them who had a
corset shop invited me to her shop to help me in that
respect.
Luckily for
me, my pregnancy was of such a type that no one
suspected I was pregnant. It occurred neither to the
public nor even to the actors on the stage with me that
I was pregnant. The last play that was on the boards
that season was Kobrin's noted drama, "The Number Three
Door." Thanks to this play, I had to entrust my secret
to the actor David Baratz.
He, as my
husband, had to lift me up in his arms in a very
disturbed state of mind in a certain scene, run with me
across the entire breadth of the stage in order to save
me from a mixed-up intrigue. So I was very much afraid
that something should happen, heaven forbid, although he
was a very strong and energetic man. In the interest of
security, I told him my situation and asked him to be
careful both when he picked me up and when he put me
down. I remember that, even when he ran with me across
the stage, I would whisper: "Be careful, be
careful!...."
My son was
born a little more than a week after the theatrical
season on the fifteenth of June, 1917, in Saint Agnes
Hospital in Philadelphia, I can't say that my pregnancy
and delivery were difficult for me. But attendant
thereon were irksome and also comical occurrences.
My greatest
disappointment was that my father did not come to my
son's circumcision ceremony. The excuse was how come I
had named him after my second father, Sigmund Feinman—in Yiddish, Usher Zelik.... Thus, although I was already
used to frequent non-fatherly behavior from my father,
it hurt me very deeply at the time. There is something
in motherhood that calls forth extraordinarily sensitive
and sentimental feelings.... It was a temporary
disappointment that I forgot in time.
However, a
countless number of happy and comical episodes occurred
around my becoming a mother. I got to the hospital four
o'clock in the morning. Understandably, most of the
people in the house were up and took me to the door. I
remember my mother calling after me: "Remember, Celia,
darling, I'm expecting a son from you.... And I called
back: "You can depend on me mother. I'm going to please
you."
When the news
hit the papers, I got an endless number of letters and
cards from the Philadelphia public wishing me well. Many
wrote that they had made a holiday of it in their shops
and factories, drinking wine and "wishing our Celia good
luck." This was also written up in the newspapers.
I recall the impression my cries elicited during my worst labor pains
in the hospital. Everybody knows that birth pangs are no
small thing. So this thing I'm going to tell you about
is remarkable. Usually, a woman in childbirth yells,
"Oh, my mother" while she's having her labor pains. The
word "mother" is long drawn out during the labor pains.
So my yells and the tones of voice that emerged in the
drawn-out word "mother" sounded in my ears as if they
reminded me of Boris Thomashevsky's frequent unnatural
outcries on the stage. The moment the pains left me, I
laughed heartily about it.
It's very
curious that I was envied even in this, in having a
child. Our comedian Moshe Siberstein's wife was a
considerably big woman as compared with me. So, as it
turned out, it was two weeks after my giving birth that
she was going to have a baby and had a very difficult
time of it. She had one thing to say in crying her labor
pains, "For heaven's sake, how could Celia Adler have a
child?!"
I forgot to
tell you one more thing. When I left for the hospital
that morning, I didn't let them wake my Feige. I did it
for two reasons: First, I knew she'd want to accompany
me to the hospital, so I didn't want her to go through
my rough time. Second, perhaps you recall that Feige,
when she urged me to have a child, said to me: "All you
have to do is bear the child and have it. I'm taking the
rest on myself...." Since I had already gone through the
pregnancy in good order, thank heaven, I also wanted the
birth itself without her, if' possible, and thus to
fulfill my pact with her, so to speak.
I began to
fear that my life with Freed was on the verge of
collapse, and I decided that a child might perhaps
change the situation.
So I want to
conclude my narrative about that season in Philadelphia
by citing what the famous journalist and theatre critic,
A. Frumkin wrote in a lengthy article on the occasion of
my "Evening-of-Honor" that season.
He paused over
the fact that I was leaving Philadelphia before the next
season and tried to explain the reasons:
"We've already
pointed to the circumstances that have for more than a
half-season virtually put Celia backstage or let her sit
in the loge and watch others play roles for which she
was made and which suited her. This may perhaps have
contributed to Celia's decision to say goodbye to
Philadelphia.
"Theatrical
life is full of such circumstances, of backstage
intrigues. Actors tell of having to meet up with
unpleasantness at every step, of the jealousy and hatred
that reigns among actors, of the trouble that has to be
endured from patent 'stars,' wily managers, and
sometimes even from one's equal colleagues. The young
Celia was no exception in this respect. In the few
precious years she's been on the stage as a grownup,
she's had her ration of unpleasant experiences, bitter
frustrations.
"But her fate
was even more tragic in a certain respect.... She was
destined to be ignored by that which, according to all
logic, should be closest to her. The one who had a
thirty-year career behind him, the one who is proud of
having brought so many actors into the limelight, who
discovered so many talents—he was the very one who
closed his 'Adler-eye' to his own flesh and blood, and
his artistic eye did not see, as it were, what ordinary
observers saw. The excuse was that Celia is physically too
weak, too delicate—her figure is against her.
"It is indeed
true that Celia is not blessed with a physically strong
figure. That's why, however, she's blessed with a fuller
measure of talent.
"It must
certainly not have been easy for our Celia to decide to
say goodbye to Philadelphia for the time being, to the
city she surely loves, and to the public to whom she
must doubtless be grateful for the warm recognition she
received from it. Let's hope she'll be with us again. "
As the
daughter of an eminent father, I am driven to tell
something that has a relation to Frumkin's reproaches
against him.
It happened a
year or two before his death. He bared his heart in a
letter to his elder son, my brother Abe. In expressing
his feelings toward all his children, he wrote about me:
"I feel very
guilty over Celia—of all my children. I never did a
thing for her. "
I also recall
our meeting a few months after that letter. He was
spending his time at the ocean during the summer. So I
took my Zelik'l—he was then about seven—and went to
see my father. I wanted my child to remember his famous
grandfather. We found him sitting in a wheelchair
enjoying the sun. He was very sick. It was already very
hard for him to talk. But I read in his expressive Adler
eyes that he was thankful we had come. He constantly
kept looking at me. There was an ocean of sadness,
prayer and guilt in his eyes. He broke my heart. I
nestled close to him for a long time and kissed the head
that was once so imposing....
So the
excerpts from A. Frumkin have already revealed to you
the secret hat I was engaged in Kessler's Second Avenue
Theatre in New York
for the following season of 1917-1918. It's of course
true that, generally speaking, actors are ambitious to
play in New York, and I certainly was no exception. Both
the prestige of the New York Jewish press and the New
York Jewish theatrical world have the power to draw
every ambitious actor.
But I wish to
confess that I was really sorry to part with the warm
public in Philadelphia and the heart-warming friends I
made there in the two seasons I played there. Lazar was
also engaged in New York as singer in Thomashevsky's
National Theatre.
So we again
spent that summer in Shostak's House, but not as
worry-free and happy as the previous season. Both my
duties to my baby and the after-pains of childbirth
didn't let me hurry too much or indulge in the pleasures
of a vacation. My mother was there with us, facilitating
my duties of being a young mother considerably. My Feige
remained with my sister Lillie in Philadelphia to help
her with her two little children. That summer on the
farm also helped Lazar to overcome and almost completely
lose his hoarseness, and his voice and throat served him
as well as ever before.
Before the end
of that vacation, my mother hurried to New York and
provided for us a very fine residence on Fifth Street—a
very comfortable residence, flush with the entrance from
the street, so that neither Feige nor I would have to
drag ourselves with a perambulator on stairs.
When we at
last came home after our vacation, my Feige had already
arranged everything in our residence and, just as she
had promised me, she really took on her duties toward my
child. After that she never left me. She devoted herself
completely to our household and to the child. It was
only for my own pleasure that I would go proudly on a
promenade with my little baby carriage on Second Avenue
where actors and actresses were envying me over my
Zelik'l's shining face....
I certainly
preened myself, but no one was able to equal my dear
Feige when she brought Zelik'l to my dressing room with
her head held high for me to nurse him, just as she had
brought me to the theatre some twenty-plus years before,
so that my mother would nurse me. She absolutely
couldn't get her fill of compliments paid my child by
the actors and actresses in the theatre. She virtually
grew taller and taller, as the saying goes, from
happiness.
It was surely
due to her that I acted like an old-fashioned mother and
nursed Zelik'l on my own breast. But I had to give it up
after several months because I became terribly thin, and
my doctor warned me that if I went on like that,
"nothing will be left of me. Zelik'l will lose nothing
by being nursed in modern ways." I had to relinquish my
being old-fashioned, and my poor Feige had to occupy
herself with all that variety of formulas with which the
child specialist fixed us up. And so it was not easy for
Feige to follow and exactly measure out all those
combinations that are brought together in children's
food.
It was my fate
that, immediately after arriving in New York, I was to
receive a considerable shaking-up from the sudden death
of Morris Morrison, an adored friend of mine and a great
actor. No one knew how much he suffered from lack of
wherewithal in his last years when his guest appearances
had become rarer and rarer.... But it's remarkable that,
although he was gradually so far removed from strict Jewishness, he asked for two things in his will: First,
that he be buried in the Washington Cemetery, not far
from Sigmund Mogulesco's grave. His second strong
request was that his funeral be thoroughly Jewish. Both
his requests were fulfilled.
His death
affected me strongly. He had become very dear to me
because of his heartfelt warmth.
Somehow my
season in Kessler's theatre was a curious mixture. It
opened with a considerable number of stars appearing as
guests, among whom were Bertha Kalich, Maurice Moskowitz, and Keni Lipzin. I didn't do much playing
with the guest artists. So it helped me very much in my
young motherhood. I seem to recall nothing about my
roles during the first months of that season. It was
first in December that they produced a new play, a
comedy by Moshe Richter, "The Two Grooms."
And so I bring
you here an excerpt of a critique in "The Day" about
that play, written by the theatrical reviewer Dr.
Wortsman, who had come from California that year. He
wrote:
"Celia Adler
has at last succeeded in getting at least a bit of a
decent role this season and she's convinced me that the
paeans of praise about her playing I've heard so much
about are truly deserved. She plays with charm, tact,
and understanding. One movement of hers, a shrug of the
shoulder at the right moment, expresses a whole slice of
experience. And when she speaks, you hear a person who
knows what to say. She really is the Bessie who tries to
win her father to her side, to win her loved one, and
not like one—as often happens in the Yiddish
theatre—who speaks to the gallery."
Another
reviewer spoke about a play, "On the Legitimate Way,"
which was a translation from English: "Celia Adler has
succeeded in creating a new comical type of woman that
hasn't as yet been seen on the stage. We'll have the
occasion sometime to speak of Celia Adler in general.
She deserves the highest attention. As a young actress,
she is surely one of the most gifted the Yiddish stage
possesses. Besides her innate talent, she also shows a
diligent zeal. You can see it in her smooth and
well-studied playing. Keen industriousness is a very
rare virtue among Jewish actors."
I cannot point
to great achievements that season either on my part or
on the part of others in the troupe. But I have retained
several memories of curious episodes that were directly
linked with Kessler's characteristic traits. Much has
already been written about how Kessler reacted to plays
he didn't like, especially to fabricated contraptions he
had to present in the theatre. I thus recall a play by
Isidore Solotorefsky who was considered for many years a
successful playwright for the Yiddish stage, especially
because of his strong melodramas.
Here we were
playing "Sweet Dreams," one of his melodramas, on its
first night. The first act ended with such a scene as
this: I was playing a thirteen-year-old boy in knee
pants. I went over to my father, played by David
Kessler, to say "Good night, Daddy" to him. Kessler was
supposed to answer: "Sleep well, my son, and may you
have sweet dreams." When Kessler repeated "sweet dreams"
for the second time, the curtain had to descend slowly.
So Kessler, it seemed he had enough of Solotorefsky's
dialogue during the first act, speech that was very
distasteful to him, and to my "Good night, Daddy" he
answered, "Go to sleep, my son, and may you have sweet
dreams." And suddenly he turned around to the audience
and expressed himself in deep pain: "A sweet dream, a
bad dream to Solotorefsky."
The curtain
slowly descending as I noticed from the stage that
Solotorefsky ran out of the theatre.
Such reactions
did not happen to Kessler only in the so-called trashy
plays. Such a reaction often hit him even in plays by
recognized literary men. Thus for example, such a
reaction also overcame him in Sholem Asch's famous
drama, "A String of Pearls." Something in the play's
action and in his role got on his nerves. It may even be
that he himself didn't know why. But he had studied the
role without appetite and repeated it in a very
desultory manner. He never knew his lines.
It just so
happened that, during the second week of the play's run,
charming, polished lover-singer Samuel Rosenstein played
my groom—not a singing role—in "A String of Pearls."
When he suddenly took sick during Friday night's
performance, they prevailed upon Jacob Ben Ami that he
jump into the role at the Saturday matinee performance.
You can
realize that Jacob didn't have the opportunity to study
the role properly, so he had to depend a great deal on
the prompter's box. Being in a bad mood, Kessler, as was
his wont in such cases, kept breathing heavily down Ben
Ami's neck, who had to draw his words from the prompter,
so to speak. This unnerved Jacob very much. I
sympathized so much with his predicament and was
chagrined at Kessler for his unjustified behavior toward
him. At the Saturday night performance, Jacob more or
less grasped his role already and lost his helplessness.
But Kessler, needing somehow to express his lack of
satisfaction, didn't stop pestering Ben Ami with his
famous "Well! Well!...."
In the last
act in my role as Rebecca, I had a love scene with my
groom, David (Ben Ami). He had to deliver a considerable
monologue. When Ben Ami held me close, I suddenly felt
like paying Kessler back somehow for his unjustified
behavior. I began to beg Jacob quietly not to speak the
monologue.
"Why, Celia?"
"You'll see."
And, sure
enough, even before I finished my answer to Ben Ami,
Kessler repeated the entire monologue that the prompter
read out of the script. Only when he had finished did we
hear him mutter:
"Somehow a new
speech...."
Both Ben Ami
and I felt a certain satisfaction that our plan had
succeeded.
After the
performance, Ben Ami got into Kessler's dressing room:
Excuse me, Mr. Kessler, for what happened on the stage
in the last act. I want you to know, however, that I did
it on purpose. You worried me a great deal with your
breathing down my neck, when you knew that I got the role
only a few hours before the performance. I wanted to
show that you who have had a considerable number of
rehearsals in your role and should know the play better
than I—you've been playing for almost two weeks—you
know your role so little that you seized upon and
recited another monologue but your own.
Kessler fixed
his eyes on Ben Ami but, instead of angrily bursting
forth as could have been expected, he grasped his
shoulders and called out in his best manner with his
characteristic expression:
"It's all
right, my boy! It's all right!...."
THE SECOND
GOLDEN EPOCH
During the second half of that
1917-1918 season, the first seeds were sown in Kessler's
Second Avenue Theatre that led to a new epoch in the
Yiddish theatre. I designate it as the Second Golden
Epoch. But simultaneously with that also came the first
push toward the finish of Kessler's career and perhaps
indirectly toward his early death.
Although the
new epoch brought me much happiness and joy on occasion,
I nevertheless had more of chagrin and heartache. Until
this day, when I remind myself of this most important
chapter in my career, I feel deep pain, both as concerns
my own evanescent hopes and the almost hopeless
situation of the current Yiddish theatre to which that
epoch contributed its share.
I certainly
cannot think peacefully of Kessler's last year of travel
before his sudden death. Thus, before I get to that
chapter, I wish to relate to you two more charming
Kessler episodes. Let them serve as a farewell, as the
end of my sweet memories of those few years I had the
good fortune to play with that truly brilliant artist,
perhaps the most talented actor our Yiddish theatre
possessed....
I had occasion
to go on a summer tour with Kessler in Libin's "His
First Bride," and in Gordin's "God, Man and Devil,"
greatly advertised with four stars: David Kessler, Malvina Lobel, Maurice Schwartz and Celia Adler. Kessler
liked me very much. You already know from before that I
laughed a lot on the stage. He was also very often in
the mood for laughing and making jokes. I recall how
almost before every performance on that tour he would
suddenly ask me:
"How goes it
today, Celia, with or without?...."
If I said
"with," we laughed throughout the whole performance. In
"His First Bride," the play by Z. Libin, La Lobel played
the leading role. Her name was Freidl. I was Kessler's
sister and my name—Bertha. In his role in the second
act, he was to tell me that, walking on Broadway, he
thought he saw Freidl. So he said to me, Bertha, as
follows:
"Listen,
Celia, I'm walking on Broadway and I think I see
Bertha."
So I began
choking with laughter. I had to answer him, but
couldn't.
So he again
said:
"I'm talking
to you, Celia. I'm walking on Broadway and I see
Bertha."
Here I could
no longer contain myself, hid my face, and virtually
shook with laughter.
The scene
ended catastrophically in universal laughter....
We were
playing J. Gordin's "God, Man, and Devil" in Milwaukee's
Pabst Theatre.
It so happened
that an iron bridge over a rivulet had to be erected
very close to the theatre, and the riveting machines
hammered very hard. They had to work nights. Have you
ever heard the terrible hammering of a riveting machine?
The audience
practically couldn't hear anything spoken on the stage
while their hammering was going on and, somehow as if to
salt the wound, the machines would hammer harder just as
Kessler began to speak.
He had his
famous monologue at the end of the second act when
Hershele Dubrovner begs his wife Peseniu to forgive
him, but he wants a divorce from her. And he concludes:
"Don't be
angry with me, Peseniu. I don't deserve your honest
tears. I'm much worse than you figured me to be; I
know, I feel how hard it is for you now...." And he
falls weeping at her feet: "Oh, Peseniu, Peseniu!''' And
the curtain falls.
The machines
hammered so hard in this scene that he was beside
himself. And in order to show that the audience wasn't
hearing anything he said anyway, he began to yell the
monologue with which he concludes the second act of "His First Bride," instead of speaking the monologue from
"God, Man, and Devil":
"No, no. I
can't sing in the opera. My father and my sister have
sold my voice...."
I was playing
Zipeniu in "God, Man, and Devil" and, hearing what he
said, I looked at him with fear in my eyes.... When he
saw me looking at him, he called out: "Why do you look
at me with your Adlerian eyes!"....
When I heard
such language, I ran off the stage.... But he yelled
after me:
"You can run
out, all right, all right; but I must stay here and
finish...." And he fell at Peseniu's feet and screamed
tearfully: "Peseniut Peseniu!"
The curtain
fell to stormy applause. Evidently, the audience really
hadn't heard his words; they only heard him yelling and
carrying on and no doubt they sympathized with him
because of the outside hammering....so they awarded him
with applause....
We were still
in the middle of that last season in Kessler's theatre
when rumors began to circulate that all was not well
with the Second Avenue Theatre. Max Wilner, who played
an important role as business leader and
theatre-entrepreneur, was David Kessler's stepson. So it
all started as a family feud. As a young businessman,
Wilner was interested in the Yiddish theatre as a
business. He had no feeling for the Yiddish theatre as
an institution and certainly no concern with the
founders and builders, among whom Kessler was such an
important member.
When business
in Kessler's theatre was very bad on the last few years,
it went into debt in terms of many tens of thousands of
dollars. There is usually a combination of poor income
with poor domestic harmony in human experience. So it
came to harsh words and to quarrelling scenes between
Wilner and Kessler; and their antagonism rose from day
to day.
The climax
came when Wilner spoke up very clearly and simply in
cold practicality that Kessler was a hindrance to
theatrical business, that he was played out, and
generally so debased him in front of his family, that
Kessler slapped him in anger. Understandably, after such
a scene, there could no longer be any discussion of
further business deals between Wilner and Kessler.
The pressing
debts made it impossible for Kessler to take the theatre
over himself. On the other hand, Wilner, as a young
businessman, was ready to release Kessler from the
theatre and take on himself all the responsibilities and
all the debts. The matter became public.
The theatrical
writers held the public in suspense with news of the
cauldron of theatrical politics for several weeks in a
row: "Heaven and earth are turning upside down about
Kessler's theatre on Second Avenue. David Kessler is
separating from his partner and manager, Max R. Wilner.
They're divorcing. Kessler is leaving, and Wilner is
staying in the theatre, Mr. Kessler has been holding pen
in hand to sign the divorce for three days now but
hasn't signed it. They can't agree on certain points
they won't reveal. As we are given to understand, the
suspension is over the sign on the theatre. Kessler
doesn't want to sign the divorce until the signboard is
taken off the theatre; the signboard has Kessler's
Second Avenue Theatre written on it. In other words,
Kessler wants to take his name with him when he leaves.
So he's still holding the pen in his hand. Meanwhile, a
new play is being produced under Maurice Schwartz's
direction. And so, new bosses, young blood now prevail
in the great Kessler's theatre...."
"When Kessler
quit his theatre, he was snapped up by Louis Goldberg,
Thomashevsky's manager, for his own Thomashevsky's
National Theatre with a salary every poor Jew might well
wish for himself—five hundred dollars a week. So the
manager of the America Theatre in Philadelphia came
along and offered Kessler six hundred dollars a week to
play in Philadelphia. He accepted."
"But there was
another theatre in Philadelphia that belonged to Anshel
Schorr. So Schorr didn't want such competition; he held
a meeting with the owners of the American Theatre and
proposed the following to them:—"Philadelphia cannot
support two big theatres. If you pay Kessler six hundred
dollars a week, besides paying the other people in the
troupe, the expenses will eat you up. We too will get
our head chopped off in this game. Here's my
proposition: we'll give you seven thousand dollars if
you will completely close the American Theatre and leave
Philadelphia."
"After a
little bargaining, they accepted the proposition. They
left Philadelphia. Kessler was left with a signed
contract to a theatre that no longer existed."
Thus you can
understand from all these news items that Kessler sipped
no honey. In the course of seven years, when he was a
wanderer, he played in various theatres—in my father's
Grand Theatre, in Bessie Thomashevsky's People's
Theatre, and also in Boris Thomashevsky's National
Theatre. He felt unhappy everywhere. Kessler never told
anyone about his heartache. But I remember that my heart
was pained when I saw him occasionally on the Avenue.
In his
wanderings in those years, he had occasion to play in a
successful operetta by Thomashevsky. To be able to
announce Kessler's name in the operetta, Thomashevsky
created a silly entrance for him in the third act.
Kessler had already reached a behavioral attitude of not
protecting himself. He accepted the role. I recall how
Jechiel Goldsmith described a scene in the Actors' Club
for me with pain in his heart:
"I sat playing
two-handed pinochle with Kessler. He was joking to hide
the bitterness gnawing at him.... Suddenly he glanced at
his watch, stood up, and with a smile on his face that
virtually broke my heart, said as the saying goes among
vaudeville actors: "I must go—my appearance is
ten-seventeen...."
In that phrase
of his, he expressed his heartache and his debasement
more strongly than you could describe in a whole
book....
Wilner
recognized a potential star in Maurice Schwartz. He was
impressed by Schwartz's ambition, his youthful fire, his
great belief in himself, his capacity to make others
also believe in his powers and to fire them with his
enthusiasm for the great plans to be achieved by him. In
one word—Wilner visualized the pot of gold in Schwartz
as far as his business future in the Yiddish theatre was
concerned.
Thus the
moment he set Kessler aside from his theatre, he made
Schwartz his right-hand man. He handed over to him the
stage direction of the Second Avenue Theatre until the
end of the season. Schwartz, from his point of view,
realized that this was the opportunity he was dreaming
about. Wilner could put him on his feet.
Everyone knows
the American expression, "when opportunity knocks at
your door...." Schwartz was ready when the wonderful
opportunity presented itself. He had the additional luck
that at that time good fortune knocked more than once at
his door, and he grasped and utilized it with all his
energy. Besides the windfall of Kessler's being
alienated from the theatre and Wilner's trust in him,
the chance of getting the splendid Irving Place
Theatre for the same money showed itself. The theatre
was as if tailor-made for an intimate dramatic theatre.
With energetic fever Schwartz infected that theatre's
owner with his far-sightedness, and he succeeded in
getting the theatre. He stepped into it with
decisiveness to show how right he was when he predicted
to his young pal, Sol Dickstein, that he, Schwartz,
would one day be bigger than Adler, Kessler, and
Thomashevsky, all rolled into one.
I promised you
when I spoke of Schwartz's ambition that I would give
you my opinion about him and the other three. I can't
state clearly why I'm driven to make this comparison.
Perhaps it's because, during what I have designated as
the Second Golden Epoch in which Schwartz was the most
important factor, I often made the comparison in my
mind. In addition, I've also been affected by an
unexpected, happy surprise the last few days. I've
received a very heart-warming letter from Schwartz. In
his upright comradeship that very often comes over him,
he compliments me very much for my telling the story of
our first season in Philadelphia. He has also awakened
in me a part of our theatrical dreams with his
wonderful, open-hearted approach, dreams which later
evaporated into thin air so gruesomely.
Thus, I'm permitting myself to make his letter public,
and I hope Schwartz will pardon me. I have the feeling
that his letter will enrich my narrative and will be of
great interest to the reader. I herewith reproduce the
letter from A to :—
"Hollywood,
May 13—my lucky day.
"Dear Celia:
"Alfred Guldin
sent me the article in which you tell about our playing
together in Green Street in Philadelphia. I saw before
me our youth and all those feverish experiences. It's
remarkable of you to remember all the details, all the
happenings, which I don't have the chance to remember or
cite because of my difficult work in many branches.
"How fast the
years went by!
"How poor we
were, but how happy! Every minute on the stage was a
great joy!
"How many
hopes of the Yiddish theatre were destroyed because
of those who ruined what the better artists sought to
create.
"You no doubt
recall the occasion when you suddenly let it be known
that you were engaged, betrothed to a certain
manufacturer and, since everyone was in love with
you—and I perhaps more than all of them—the jealousy
was overwhelming.
"Where is
she?—What are her whereabouts?
"Turbulence
and commotion prevailed until they found your address.
"And since I
could imitate your father, Jacob Adler very well, I
spoke to you on the telephone and yelled like him—What
kind of a daughter are you to take a bridegroom without
asking me? And why a businessman, of all people? I'm not
satisfied with a manufacturer—I want an actor. And if a
bridegroom, why not the young Maurice Schwartz? You'll
both be a good pair like me and Sonia....
"'If you've
already received an engagement ring, give it back. If
you don't obey me, I won't dance at your wedding ....
A. D. G." (etc., etc, etc.)
"Wasn't it
remarkable that you were the only one who believed that
it was Adler talking? We all found out later that you
were playing a comedy with all of us.
"Best wishes
for your good health and say hello to your Zelik for me.
"As always, in
friendship,
Maurice
Schwartz
I must confess
to you that I shed a considerable amount of tears at
certain points in the letter, especially at these
lines! How fast the years have gone by—how poor we
were but how happy—every minute on the stage was a
great joy." Ah, how sadly true that is! What became of
that joy? And again, "How many hopes of the Yiddish
theatre were destroyed because of those who ruined what
the better artists sought to create!...."
So I add,
through my tears, another phrase—also because of
frenzied ambition to surpass....
I also want to
say here to Schwartz's credit that he imitated my father
so wonderfully then that I honestly believed my father
was speaking to me. Perhaps I wouldn't have given
Schwartz my answer that I was playing a comedy, I
revealed my secret, believing that I spoke to my father.
The follies of young boys and girls—but how sweet they
are....
And so I'm
deeply grateful to Schwartz for his delightful little
letter—both for his compliments about my narrative and
for the sweet memories of the charming telephone
conversation when he imitated my father so wonderfully.
And now about
the comparison.
I played with
Schwartz for many years, I also had the opportunity to
see Adler, Kessler, and Thomashevsky in their greatest
achievements, in their very crowning years and I think
I'm not fooled or unjust in my assumption that Schwartz
has also already reached his highest attainments by now.
Thus my overall appraisal can be complete. There is no
doubt about the fact that Schwartz's
name will remain forever in the history of the Yiddish
theatre. He wrote a chapter of theatrical achievements
which are infinitely greater than those shown by those
three others. But Schwartz cannot compare as an actor
with anyone of those three. I believe it would have been
a great thing for Schwartz and for his name as an actor
if he had recognized that fact at the very beginning of
his career.
The wonderful
creations that engraved themselves the strongest in his
viewers' minds were his David Shapiro in "It 's Hard to
Be a Jew," "Tevye, the Dairyman," both by Sholem
Aleichem; the miller in "A Secluded Corner," Nissen-Alter
in "The Blacksmith's Daughters," both by Peretz
Hirshbein; the little tailor in "Jewish Martyrdom" by
Sholem Asch, and similar roles of this genre. Had he not
fallen into the weaknesses of those Great Three that he,
as star, could play anything, his theatrical
achievements would also have been much greater. Those
others could do it....
I shall again
have occasion to indicate some more weaknesses that
Schwartz inherited from those three.
About these
two comparisons of mine—about his acting powers, about
his enormous achievements in the history of the Yiddish
theatre—I shall pause some more and strengthen my
opinion when I consider the Second Golden Epoch in the
Yiddish theatre step by step.
It was surely
a risky step to take to open a Yiddish theatre on
Fifteenth Street and Irving Place in those years. Our
theatre was at that time centered between Grand Street
and on the Bowery and Second Avenue. The established
theatrical entrepreneurs, managers, and stars looked
upon it as a wild venture.
"The Jewish
public will not travel that far, especially without an
established star," they mocked the young puppies and
already stroked their little bellies with satisfaction
over their prophecy that the whole matter would quickly
burst like a soap bubble....
But Schwartz
and Wilner had the courage to dare, and as soon as the
lease for the Irving Place Theatre was signed, they
began to greatly propagandize and acquaint the public
with their new deed.
Schwartz threw
himself into the work with his youthful fire. He began
to organize the venture with inexhaustible energy. On
the second of March, 1918, in an article in "The
Forward" under the heading, "Is It Possible To Support
A Better Yiddish Theatre in New York," Schwartz gave his
credo, his program for such a theatre.
I find it
important to repeat most of Schwartz's article as it was
printed:
"After two
years of day-dreaming, I was at last able to get the
most, the very best theatre I've ever
thought about. A small theatre with a splendid large
stage where beautiful, good plays could be produced and,
most importantly, where there must be harmony. The
theatre has historical significance. The greatest
artists have played there. That's why, when the news
came out that I've taken over the theatre for ten years
(with the option of another eleven), I'm now being
looked upon as a madman, as a daydreamer—because the
opinion prevails that such a theatre cannot survive.
They reason that those who yell for good plays don't pay
for tickets but ask for passes.
"Besides this,
there's another big obstacle against good plays of
literary persuasion. The theatres are too large; they
get lost. The batting of an eye is too small. In order
for all two thousand people to see, you really have to
shine with your eyes. A quiet sob gets lost. Then the
audience and indeed the critic, who gets pulled along by
the audience, says that the actor or actress has no
temperament, no soul, no sympathy, etc. In all the
English theatres where good plays and indeed beautiful
operettas as well are produced, they are played in a
theatre of a thousand or twelve hundred seats. The
viewer then feels as if he were at home where he can see
and hear everything comfortably and can get into the
mood of it. And this gives the actor the opportunity to
play better because he feels he's being given attention.
"In order to
make the theatre financially successful, it must first
be a moral success. And I an counting on it to be a
double success on the basis of the following points:
"(1). The
theatre shall be a sort of shrine where there should
always prevail a festive and artistic harmony;
"(2). A
company of young artists who should love the Yiddish
theatre and bring it to a beautiful state;
"(3). To play
good dramas, splendid comedies, successful farces, and
beautiful operettas. And if it's to be a melodrama, let
it be an interesting and logical one;
"(4). Produce
each play as it deserves to be produced and wherein the
author should also have a say about his play. Have
enough rehearsals so that the actors should have enough
time to master their roles. Each play should also have a
dress rehearsal with costumes and scenery;
"(5). The
press and the theatre should go hand in hand and, if the
press, the people, and the theatrical unions will give
me the necessary support, I am certain that the Irving
Place Theatre will be the pride of our Jews in New
York."
And so, with
his credo, and with his deep belief in his great
ambition, Schwartz got going on the assembling of his
troupe for the ideal theatre which he so beautifully and
attractively painted in his article. I was lucky enough
to be the first with whom he dealt; he virtually
enchanted me with the beautiful colors in which he
painted for me that fantastically wrought theatre of
his. He wanted me as his leading lady; he needed me to
help him. He felt secure with me. The combination of
Maurice Schwartz and Celia Adler would be attractive
both to the public and the press, as well as for the
better young actors whom he intended to draw into the
theatre. He had no difficulty coming to terms with me.
He promised me that I would be advertised everywhere
together with him, that no one would be advertised as
lavishly as we two.
He put that
into the contract, and we signed it. I even granted him
his request that I shouldn't ask for a raise in salary
over what I had received from Kessler that season. I
must help him during his first season—after all, it was
"our theatre."
About a month
later, he came to me with another request. Since he
wanted to draw on the best young powers possessed by our
theatre, he also wanted to engage Bertha Gerstin. During
the first years of her theatrical career, Bertha Gerstin
played in New York vaudeville theatres. She had
transferred to the so-called legitimate theatres only
during the last few years, and she very quickly
established a name for herself as a first-class actress.
She was the leading lady in Thomashevsky's National
Theatre the previous two seasons. She also wanted to be
advertised as a leading lady in the Irving Place Theatre
on a par with me. He couldn't agree to her request
without my acceptance, according to my contract. I
certainly had the right to refuse it. Thus, he also had
no difficulty in this case in winning my permission—"I
must help him, after all."
Just as
Schwartz agreed, so most of the theatrical people must
agree that another person in my place would not have
made such a sacrifice. But I realized that our theatre
would benefit greatly from her.
It will be
worth repeating here a conversation I recently had with
Bertha Gerstin relative to that time. She told me that
she very much hesitated to leave the established
Thomashevsky National Theatre for Schwartz's dreamt-up
Irving Place Theatre:
"I didn't
understand at the time why he emphasized the playing of
better theatre so much. I didn't know the difference.
What's better theatre? If you play well, that's better
theatre."
But with his
giant strength and his great enthusiasm Schwartz didn't
let go of her, especially when he enumerated for her
whom he already had. All those better young actors with
whom he would surround himself—young folks with
youthful ambitions—"We will show them what theatrical
performance means!" He convinced her.
A few weeks
later, he again asked for my help. He wanted Ludwig Satz
in his troupe, and he believed that I was the only one
who could have an effect on Satz.
Satz had had
huge success with Adler in his Grand Theatre that
season. The Jewish press received him with great
acclaim. Adler also wanted him for the coming season.
Satz was very happy with Adler, and it didn't even enter
his mind to leave him.
I felt that
Satz should also be present at the building of such a
new theatre. I believed very strongly in his many-sided
talent and knew he would create his place in that kind
of theatre. I began to talk Satz into it. At first he
wouldn't hear of it at all. He was even panicky over the
thought of leaving Adler. "Celia, I feel so indebted to
Adler. He gave me my big chance. How can I thank him
this way?"
I insisted:
"Listen,
Ludwig. I believe very strongly in the new theatre. You
will strengthen the theatre very much with your power.
You owe me a greater debt than you do Adler. I am more
of your family than Adler is. I believe I've shown it to
you on many occasions. So I deserve that you place my
request higher than Adler's. You may believe me that I
also have your benefit in mind. You must be among the
founders of such a theatre."
I also drew my
mother's help into it. I proved to her the possibility
of the success of such a theatre.
"We shall all
be able to realize ourselves there. We're building a
future for ourselves and also a new epoch in the Yiddish
theatre."
My mother
understood me. She helped me convince Satz. He gave in
at last. And I again helped Schwartz. I brought Schwartz
the news with gratification and felt that I had added
considerably to the effort of creating the new theatre.
My certainty and strong belief in the success of "our
theatre" was greatly strengthened when Schwartz let me
know several days later that he had also engaged Jacob
Ben Ami.
I was left
with a good esthetic quality about Ben Ami from the time
yet when I played in Dymow's "The Eternal Wanderer"—his
personality, his talent, and his attitudes toward the
theatre pleased me greatly.... I was indeed delighted
when I discovered that Ben Ami would also be with us....
I was very
much impressed by Schwartz's ambitious act and his
courageous belief that we, the youth, had the strength
and talent to create a new path in the theatre, to shake
off the mold that had grown on our theatre because of
personal temptations that our first "great ones" could
not avoid—to peel out their clean, shining legacy from
under the thorns and wild growths that had accumulated
in the course of the years and had darkened its luster
and minimized its great worth.... I felt elevated that I was the first one whom Schwartz had attracted. I began to
feel a part of that great daring attempt, was glad over
every new power our theatre had acquired....
It will be
worthwhile by the way, to mention something here that
set Ben Ami aside from the rest of us. You already know
from my story about the preparations for the Irving
Place Theatre, that we looked upon it and hoped that a
new path would be created—a more beautiful approach to
things theatrical. But it was Ben Ami who directly
sought to achieve and assure that the theatre would make
a great effort to produce plays of literary worth. In
his negotiation with Schwartz, he insisted on the
request that a literary play be performed at least once
a week.
There was a
lot of bargaining over this point. Schwartz feared that
such a promise could burden the theatre. There was talk
of playing a literary work every Wednesday. Ben Ami
really called it "literary Wednesday." So Schwartz
argued that he would lose money those evenings; he
wanted Ben Ami to add something of his own to this
thing—to give up at least five dollars from his salary.
Ben Ami agreed—instead of seventy-five dollars a week,
he was left with seventy.
During the
1917-1918 season, my father brought out and very often
praised before the public in his Grand Street Theatre a
practically unknown actress. She distinguished herself
greatly in character roles. That was our very talented
Anna Appel. Schwartz engaged her also.
Thus I really
found joy and the best of expectations when I at last
read over the names of our troupe at the Irving Place
Theatre. I had the feeling that Schwartz kept his word
and really surrounded himself with the best young powers
the Yiddish theatre then possessed.
We got to work
for the season with eagerness and diligence.
I recall the
holiday spirit, the inner joy I felt going to the first
rehearsal at the Irving Place Theatre. Every fiber of my
body sang within me. Beautiful dreams, sweet hopes wove
themselves in my mind. We were embarking on new paths
that would lead us to a secure shore.
I read the
same spirit in each member of the troupe when we first
assembled on the stage. The joyful expectations could be
seen in everyone's eyes, in the shining faces, a
readiness to give brain and brawn to help make a
beautiful new beginning. You could almost feel the
excitement of seminal youth chockfull of energy,
infected with ambition to proceed on their own new paths
to a more beautiful, better Yiddish theatre.
Right at the
first meetings and in the mating of new acquaintances I
began to feel a purified atmosphere, a sort of
elevation. It was an altogether different approach than
I was used to finding in previous beginnings of seasons.
There was an absence of banal jokes, cynical gossip, and
sharp jests that always left a bad taste.... Thus, that
first get-together warmed me, strengthened and
encouraged my sweet hopes.
I recall that
the usual approach to the pre-reading of the first play
somehow weakened my holiday spirit. It seemed to me that
Schwartz should have previously spoken to the troupe, to
work us up, so to speak, for following a new path with
faith. He didn't do it. He went right ahead with the
pre-reading as was then being done in all other
theatres. No new approach was evident.
The spirit for
a better Yiddish theatre was expressed from all kinds of
corners—both in the theatrical pages of the Jewish
newspapers and in special articles by recognized
litterateurs, journalists, and theatre buffs. Thus, for
example, an article by Ossip Dymow, the dramatist,
appeared in "The Day" on the eighteenth of May, 1918. I
am citing from that article here:
"Something
new, fresh is straining to gain entrance into the
atmosphere of our theatre. The theatre public has
changed for the better; many old, firm theatrical
traditions have unexpectedly been set aside.... Many
fresh theatrical flowers have blossomed forth in a short
time and many theatrical stars have been snuffed out....
Many reputations have bit the dust; but quickly, almost
without being noticed, new names, new powers showed up
in their places.... Somehow with heartless but justified
gruesomeness.... The lifeless, ancient things are going
down and their place is taken by the new, the young....
That's how it is in life; that's how it also is in art.
The public has suddenly become cold to things they
previously enjoyed.... Plays that would have been
well-received by the public two-three years ago have now
completely fallen through.... And whatever has seemed
not able to succeed has indeed been disapproved...."
As has been
said, the above-mentioned was only one of the number of
articles of that type that were written at that time. It
was indeed a great help to our new beginning in the
Irving Place Theatre, a worthwhile advertisement of
excellent scope....Schwartz and Wilner sought to exploit
this spirit and began a campaign for yearly
subscribers.
Schwartz also
had a plan for founding around his theatre a club of one
hundred extras—of both men and women. Even a dramatic
school could come out of this in time. The extras will
be specially trained to know how to appear on a stage,
so that the mass-scenes should appear natural and with a
certain understanding.... The payment for their work
will be free attendance at the theatre whenever they
wished it.
But not
everything went along as smoothly in the theatre as it
appeared to go. Symptoms of the first crisis began to
show themselves as soon as the first theatre
advertisements were being prepared. The crisis got out
into the open very quickly. Since my name was involved
in it, I consider it my obligation to clarify the
matter. As it was then told in the "Forward":
"The two most
important artists in Maurice Schwartz's Irving Place
Theatre are rebelling and are on the verge of leaving
the theatre. They are Celia Adler and Ludwig Satz. We
shall describe at another time why Celia Adler and
Ludwig Satz are rebelling. The mutiny is very
interesting; it is the star-system, a grievous chapter
in artistic circles.... But meanwhile we shall say that
Celia Adler and Ludwig Satz are about to buy a play by
Ossip Dymow and have a go at things on their own....."
Well, what did
the "interesting mutiny" consist of?! How can such an
insinuation as a star system happen in our
theatre that's seeking to create "a new path," "a new
approach"?! Here's what led to it:
You will
recall that I was directly responsible for Satz's
leaving Adler's Grand Theatre to be with us in the
Irving Place Theatre. When the first
theatre advertisements began to be prepared and Satz saw
that Maurice Schwartz, Celia Adler, Bertha Gerstin were
being advertised more prominently, he demanded of
Schwartz that he be advertised the same as us. And just
as I agreed that Bertha Gerstin be advertised the same
as me, Schwartz could agree that Satz be advertised the
same as him. At first Schwartz had refused Satz's demand, so
Satz wanted to leave the theatre. I felt that I had an
obligation to Satz and had to stand with him in his fight.
I told that to Schwartz. It didn't take long for
Schwartz to yield to Satz.
Everything was
agreeably settled....
Schwartz chose
Z. Libin's fantasy drama, "The Man and His Shadow" as
the first play with which to open the new Irving Place
Theatre.
Although the
play was far from fulfilling the hopes that were
entertained for the new theatre, it is worth mentioning
that the press gave it a warm reception and the same was
true of the serious approach by the most important,
theatrical reviewers of that time.
As the
beginning of a new attempt in the Yiddish theatre—an
attempt which changed its appearance for many years and
which led to the Second Golden Epoch in our theatre. It
is of the utmost importance to pause over it as concerns
the reception the Irving Place Theatre got in the Jewish
press.
For example,
Hillel Rogoff, the present editor of the Forward, wrote:
"The Yiddish
theatre has been enriched this year by yet another stage
and yet another star manager. The young artist Maurice
Schwartz has transformed the old German theatre on
Irving Place into a Jewish house and has opened the
season there with Z. Libin's serious play, with a troupe
of outstanding young actors and actresses, with a
beautiful production and capable direction. Of all the
theatres that have begun the season with dramas, the
Irving Place Theatre has made the best impression. This
should impart courage and strength in his undertaking to
the guest in our theatrical world."
You feel that
in speaking of the drama, Hillel Rogoff was wrestling
with Libin's none-too-appropriate play, and with his
unwillingness to hurt the new beginning....
Rogoff speaks
up in a very generous manner for most of the actors in
the ensemble. Reading his appraisals, I recalled the
sincerity with which most of the actors approached their
roles. I recall, for example, that for my role in the
last act as a doddering old woman, I spent whole days in
several old-age homes studying all kinds of old
women—their movements, the tone of their speech, and in
what manner they expressed their abdication of life,
their "it's all over."
"Ludwig Satz
makes the greatest hit in a small role which is almost
sort of tacked on to the play. Evidently Satz
thought—you wanted to shunt me off with nothing, to
give me a 'camouflaged role'—so I'll show you that
you've made a mistake because I will draw as much
attention as you, and perhaps more. And he's done it....
Satz marches right to the very top very quickly among
the character-comedians on the Yiddish stage."
There appeared
in those years in "The Day," a "Uriel Mazik" in pseudonym
form who created a stir with his reviews of the Yiddish
theatre. The theatrical world and also the newspaper
world speculated for a long time over who the writer was
who was hiding behind the pseudonym "Uriel Mazik." Thus
it was a great surprise to many when the secret came out
after a long time that "Uriel Mazik" was the journalist
and storyteller Alter Epstein. Here is how "Uriel
Mazik" reacted to the opening play, "The Man and His
Shadow," at the Irving Place Theatre:
"It is
certainly a great pity that a foolish, awkward thing
should have been put on right at the very start of a new
theatre, where youthful powers have been assembled and
they being among the very best we possess. I was
convinced from reading the theatrical reviews and
critiques in our daily press that Z. Libin's last work
fell flat. Sitting at home I, together with all other
critics of the arts, also wanted to express my
irritation against Mr. Schwartz for wanting to fool us
with various sweet pledges. Also it wasn't necessary to
go see how the thing was put on, see what the actors and
actresses did because the opinion was clearly expressed
that hardly anyone could do enough for it to be praised
in any way whatever. So I sat home and waited for this
terribly bad drama to be removed and a better one
substituted for it."
"But it
happened—the play 'The Man and His Shadow' began to get
popular. The public was flocking to it, and there was no
thought of producing something else. I got to talking
with a number of theatre visitors, and they assured me
that the thing was not really so bad, that it was
bearable to see it performed. This was a curious thing
to me.... Such a difference of opinion between the
critics in the papers and the critics from the public is
educational and interesting in many respects. Well,
anyhow, I went to see 'The Man and His Shadow.' I sat
through a whole performance and couldn't see for the
life of me the element in the play that could so enrage
my friend Dr. Wortsman, for example. 'The Man and His
Shadow' is far from being the sort of melodrama we are
used to seeing from the kind of writer Z. Libin is.
Indeed this last creation of his made me feel like the
author wanted to rise up here and free himself from the
foolish rubbish that he has fed us these last years. It
is a tentative trial balloon to impart something
worthwhile, and the writer must and should get the
necessary recognition."
I maintain
that these two reviews sufficiently brought out the
expectations that were put on the Irving Place Theatre,
and the good will to help the theatre to proceed only
along the paths the theatre had promised.
But it really
fell to Louis Hirsch, an English reviewer on "The
American Weekly Jewish News," to underscore a piece of
important news and a very big change that the Irving
Place Theatre had brought about. It was truly a
revolution in the Yiddish theatre. What made me wonder
very much was why this had not been brought out by the
two mentioned critiques in "The Forward" and "The Day."
So I'll give you a verbatim translation of an excerpt
from that article:
"This year,
the prompter's voice, the respected, long-lived
institution, will be missing in one Yiddish theatre. The
Irving Place Theatre, which opened last Thursday under
Maurice Schwartz's direction, permitted itself to commit
this very sin against tradition. For so many years in
the Yiddish theatre, we were used to first hearing the
prompter's raw words and then afterwards the actor's
words.
"Schwartz has
surrounded himself with a glorious troupe and they
already showed at the first performance that they knew
their roles. This was such a surprise to the audience
that they sat amazingly quiet and attentive through the
entire performance. That too is something new in the
Yiddish theatre. That's the power of a new attempt.
Thus, much hope is put in that theatre. And a serious
approach can be expected both from the press and the
public. True, there are no stars there, but all are
curious, enthusiastic and filled to the brim with clean,
artistic thespian talent. And they are seeking to create
a new path in the Yiddish theatre."
Dymow's play,
"The Awakening of A People," was a considerable artistic
success. Even this play didn't fill the theatre's
pockets full of money. But this artistic success more or
less assuaged the theatre and gave it courage to keep
going.
And so I wish
to be allowed to take for myself a little bit of praise
and a few compliments given by Hillel Rogoff for my
acting in the play: "One of the beautiful scenes depicts
two children playing father-mother Friday night. It's
been a long, long time since we've seen such a picture
on the Yiddish stage. Dymow poured into it a full
measure of his talent, and he was fortunate that Celia
Adler was right there in the troupe at the theatre where
the play was being performed. The scene fell into her
hands. There are no words to express the joy which the
audience experienced at the few chosen minutes during
which Celia Adler enacts this marvelous little scene.
She achieves a high degree of art; she's wonderful."
It was really
a pity that the play didn't have the needed financial
success. I liked my role very much. So, if I won't be
accused of boasting, I shall express here a frivolous
thought of mine. In keeping with my promised
open-heartedness, I shall risk doing so:
The history of
the theatre all over the world is rich in oases where
actors and actresses become world-famous for playing a
certain child role. Thanks to such a definite role,
their career was assured them for their entire lifetime.
As a grown-up I had the occasion in the course of my
career to play some ten child roles. The roles were from
close to ten to around thirteen-fourteen years of age.
In each one of these roles, most of the critics, both in
the Jewish press and not infrequently in the English
press, praised me very lavishly, almost considering it
as the greatest achievement in the art of acting, even
though in the plays there were characters with large and
important roles, virtually the greatest actors of our
stage. My huge success has not especially enriched my
career, nor the reverse, but each success had me wanting
more....
The children's
roles of which I speak now, I have played as an
adolescent, myself even being the mother of a child. My
reward for this extraordinary success was, as is said,
the opposite. I'm playing
parents with my little buddy on Friday night.
Thomashevsky
and I in "The Eternal Wanderer"
Celia as Alie'tshke
in "Gedungenem
khosn"
My child role
in Ossip Dymow's "The Awakening of a People."
The Irving
Place Theatre also didn't have much luck with David
Pinski's play, "The Crooked Ways of Love." It is
definitely one of the great dramatist's poorest things.
So I shall be satisfied with excerpts of a critique
written jointly by "Uriel Mazik" and the famous painter
Saul Raskin.
Uriel Mazik
said: "Crooked Ways" is a very deformed play, written in
a very lame fashion, and it made a very lopsided
impression." Saul Raskin said: "It would be hard to
imagine an actress other than Celia Adler who would be
able better to express her sad state with her playing.
The young actress plays with her eyes. Every actor
mainly plays with one thing—one with his voice, another
with his figure, a third with his mimicry. Celia Adler
plays mainly with her eyes. And here she has shown her
entire art—big, loving eyes, big, sorrowing eyes, big
mocking eyes full of expression, fire and light and,
more than anything, intelligence, a full basic
understanding of her duty and means of portrayal."
During the
time that the previously mentioned plays were being
performed on weekends without success, a number of
literary plays were performed during the middle of the
week, most of them drawn from the world repertory. Thus,
were put on Schiller's "The Robbers," Gutzkov's "Uriel
Acosta," Bernard Shaw's "Mrs. Warren's Profession," and
others. Ben Ami demanded very strongly in accordance
with his contract that literary plays from the
literature of Yiddish drama be performed. Schwartz told
Ben Ami that he was giving him the right to put on a
play that he himself would chose, "I'm not going to
interfere at all...."
Ben Ami
consulted Jechiel Goldsmith, and he proposed that he play
Hirshbein's "A Secluded Corner".... We've played it in
the Progressive Dramatic Club, and I believe that it is
very appropriate for our theatre here."
Ben Ami, who
was a sworn comrade and friend of Hirshbein, grasped it
and put the play before Schwartz. Schwartz hesitated
over the play, even though he didn't know it: "What the
amateurs have been playing?...."
Ben Ami began
to insist that he set a date, a Wednesday, for "A
Secluded Corner." Perhaps I should be more knowledgeable
of Freudian teaching to be able to tell how it happens
that people very often fight unknowingly against their
own greatest interest. Something of the sort happened to
Schwartz.
Everyone now
knows that Hirshbein's "A Secluded Corner" and "The
Blacksmith's Daughters" were truly the forces that led
Schwartz into his long-lived career in his Maurice
Schwartz's Yiddish Art Theatre. Schwartz sought to
postpone the first performance of "A Secluded Corner"
with all kinds of excuses. At every approach by Ben Ami,
he had pressing reasons why it had to be postponed. But
Ben Ami didn't relent; he didn't get tired asking.
Goldsmith also encouraged him and strongly drove him to
demand a specific date of Schwartz. Now, when I tell
about that epoch, I've taken the trouble to and had a
talk with Ben Ami about this matter. And this is what he
told me:
"Evidently I
was young and foolish. Although I had responsibility
toward my wife and child, I nevertheless laid down an
ultimatum: If I didn't get a date within two weeks, I
would leave the theatre."
At last
Schwartz decided the date would be Wednesday, October
sixteenth. "I'm not going to play, and I'm not going to
participate at all—do as you like."
We began to
have rehearsals under Ben Ami's direction. Both Ben Ami
and Goldsmith sought on many occasions to convince
Schwartz that the role of the miller in the play was
tailor-made for him. Schwartz refused, and Ben Ami gave
the role to Boris Rosenthal. Our rehearsals were treated
like an orphan by the theatre. We had to get them in
between other rehearsals.
But Schwartz
once visited a rehearsal, sat down near the prompter,
Julius Erber, who was known in the profession as the
literary prompter. The first act ended.
Schwartz
glanced at Erber and remarked: "Is this it? This is a
final curtain?"
Erber answered
half in jest and half in earnest:
"Mr. Schwartz,
after all, this is literature...."
It must be
said here to Schwartz's credit that when he got to know
the play he began to feel that it was definitely
worthwhile to make the attempt, but his responsibilities
tortured him with doubts. A problem that tortures every
theatrical entrepreneur is to foretell whether a play
will or will not be successful. It is known that
Broadway would be ready to payout many hundreds of
thousands of dollars to find a person who could predict
if a play will be a hit. Very often, when the director
and the theatrical entrepreneur are reading and studying
a play they look, for example, for scenes in the play
which will call forth laughter from the audience.
It was hard to
predict that such a scene as the closing of the first
act in "A Secluded Corner," that such a really quiet end
of an act, shall call forth great enthusiasm in the
audience. These feelings fought with Schwartz; his fear
of a failure and his wanting to be one of the
participants if it all turned out successfully. So we
all welcomed very much the fact that, when a few days
later, after he had seen several rehearsals, he informed
Ben Ami that he would play the role of Chaim Hirsch, the
miller. But he wasn't going to mix into the direction.
But his doubt still didn't completely leave him. He
rehearsed without enthusiasm and very often with
mockery. It wasn't easy for Ben Ami to stick it out
until the premiere of "Secluded Corner."
You've read in
the reviews of Libin's first play, "The Man and His
Shadow," which they praised the production very highly.
Schwartz and Wilner didn't spare letting it cost them a
lot of money, so that the stage would look as it
should. But Ben Ami couldn't do a thing to get some
sort of equipment for the play when it came to "Secluded
Corner."
There are
three different sets in the play: the cemetery and the
outside of the grave-digger's house, the richer home of
Chaim Hirsch, the miller; and the poor residence of
Note, the gravedigger. Wilner brought along a few old
stage sets from his Second Avenue Theatre, and Ben Ami
had to produce "A Secluded Corner" with them. He
couldn't even convince anyone that Chaim Hirsch's
residence should be painted so that it would look more
prosperous than Note the gravedigger's.
Schwartz
really argued with Ben Ami: "It would cost thirty
dollars to paint a set. I'm greatly doubtful that the
box office will take in thirty dollars at the
performance on Wednesday." So Ben Ami saw to it, pained
as he was in heart, that they patched up the old sets
somehow for use as equipment. Thus, the patches were
really noticeable.
Evidently,
however, if a play has what it takes, the public will
hail it even with patched-up equipment. And,
contrariwise, expend many thousands of dollars on
equipment, but if the play doesn't have the necessary
magic, the most magnificent equipment will not make it a
success. It would seem that a play without equipment can
become a hit; equipment without a play—never.
It's possible
that the hardships of the first production of "Secluded
Corner" had perhaps lowered his spirits. But we did not
lose our excitement over the play and over our roles on
that account. Our instincts really didn't betray us.
True, the theatre was not packed that Wednesday. There
were perhaps fewer than three hundred people. But the
excitement, the enthusiasm, the warmth with which the
small audience received the play is hard to [deny.] We
on the stage practically began to feel that an
electrical charge was flowing from the audience to us on
the stage with every sentence, each phrase reached the
hearts and feelings of the audience. The ovation after
the performance was such as I had never before seen. The
joyous calls, the yelling of bravo all over the house as
if the theatre were packed.
Most of the
audience assembled near the stage. Those who couldn't
find a spot there stood up on the chairs and kept
applauding continuously, calling out the names of
actors, and yelling excitedly. We stood on the stage not
believing our eyes and ears. Some of us showed tears in
our eyes. The curtain remained up for many, many
minutes. They didn't want to take their leave of us.
Schwartz
couldn't get over the miracle and stepped out to make a
speech—else the audience might not have let us go. True
to his trembling over his undertaking, he appealed to
the audience to help us. "You see we took a chance and
produced such a fine literary play. Tell your friends
about it and see to it that we are able to go on with
our good work."
"A Secluded
Corner" was played twice more in the middle of the week.
The audiences and the excitement rose with each
performance. But the end-of-the-week plays, poor
things, failed one after the other. So Wilner and
Schwartz gambled and put the play on Friday, Saturday,
and Sunday. "A Secluded Corner" brought in the greatest
intake for twelve weeks in a row that the Irving Place
Theatre got that season. Even the smart Second Avenue
stars and theatre managers mocking of literariness, as
they called literary plays stuck in their throats, poor
fellows.
Artistic
achievements, countless songs of praise, and a very
great amount of inward satisfaction sufficed for the
entire troupe. A new epoch had begun in the Yiddish
theatre. The triumph of better Yiddish theatre was truly
complete because it had won despite all obstacles that
stood in its path.
"A Secluded
Corner" had laughed in theatrical practicality's face,
as it were: "You treated me like a stepchild, didn't
let me come near you, didn't recognize, didn't take care
of me—were ashamed to bring me before the public—so,
to spite you, everyone liked me and now people mirror
themselves in me. So may you all have a good time with
it, those of you who believed in me as well as those who
looked upon me with mistrust."
It goes
without saying that we all felt in a holiday spirit.
Every performance was dear and lovely for us. I cannot
to this day explain the curious feelings that came over
me at the performances during those holiday-like weeks.
A sad feeling overcame me when the curtain fell after an
act at every performance of "Secluded Corner": "One more
act played, one more piece of holiday gone."
It's
superfluous to say that Ben Ami and Goldsmith were the
happiest and luckiest people in the troupe. They somehow
felt that this was their personal miracle. As
Hirshbein's personal friend, Ben Ami really soared to
the heavens. When Ben Ami had written to Hirshbein
asking for permission to produce his "Secluded Corner"
in a professional theatre, Hirshbein answered him:
"I give you
the rights to the play only on condition that you take
upon yourself the responsibility of the production."
So you can
imagine with what joy Ben Ami wrote Hirshbein about the
enormous success of his play.
An author's
talent and his personality are a theme that was treated
very often and a great deal was written about it. The
summation, the last word of most of those who wrote
about it, is that it is in general more helpful both
for a writer and for his readers that they should not
meet personally. All too frequently the writer's
personality and his enormous talent are strongly
dissonant. This can express itself in the writer's
bodily appearance, his actions, his manners, and his
character in general. And it often happens that the
reader's disappointment in the writer's personality
takes away from him his appetite for the author's
creations.
I believe that
Peretz Hirshbein was among the few happy exceptions.
His personality did not disappoint the reader and the
theatre viewer. First,
Hirshbein was a quiet, modest man, without pretensions.
He often said about himself that people owe him nothing for
having had the desire to become a writer, a poet.
Hirshbein's personality and his image bore urbaneness,
refinement, and quietude.
A very
characteristic conversation between Hirshbein and
another great Jewish poet is related—a poet whom all
these virtues I previously enumerated with respect to
Hirshbein also fitted very well. I mean here Yehoash,
our great Jewish poet. I'm certain that all those who
knew these two talented personalities will agree with
me.
As they sat
together one day, Yehoash inquired of Hirshbein where
he was living, whether he had a comfortable residence,
and Hirshbein answered: "Such quietness reigns in my
residence that I can practically hear a fly beat its
little wings."
And Yehoash
regarded Hirshbein with contentment and said: "The
quiet in my residence is even deeper than yours. I can
hear my neighbor's intention to hesitate."
But don't
think that Hirshbein was a weakling, a docile person.
He was very strict and cautious as regards his plays and
his writing in general.
By the way, it
may perhaps be worth mentioning here that Hirshbein was
also very strong physically. I myself saw him take a
half dollar between his fingers and bend it.
His strong
character expressed itself in a number of his
negotiations as playwright and journalist. It's
superfluous to say that when Hirshbein came to America
he was far from a rich man. Nevertheless, when one of
the biggest daily New York newspapers proposed that he
write for the paper and added: "The greatest writers who
came to America all write for my newspaper."
Hirshbein
refused and added on his part: "I don't want you to
always be able to say that...."
He also had
his own approach to the theatre. It is a known fact that
for many years stars bought up a dramatist's play and
made it their possession for their entire lives. In the
1918-1919 season, when Hirshbein's plays suddenly
became such big success in the Irving Place Theatre,
Louis Schnitzer, who was the money power in the
1919-1920 New Yiddish Theatre, invited Hirshbein to his
office to talk business with him. Hirshbein came with
his wife, Esther Schumiatscher, the subsequently famous
poetess.
As they sat in
the office, Schnitzer turned to Hirshbein:
"You know, I'm
ready to spend a lot of money, actually a nice few
thousand dollars for selling me your play 'The Green
Fields.' I would like it very much if my wife would have
sole rights to the play. I mean I should like the play
to be hers for her entire lifetime."
Hirshbein
didn't spend any time thinking about it and responded:
"You may keep on wishing. Come, Esther," and both left
the office.
Well, as you
can see, Hirshbein could take care of his own without
pretensions.
It's also
nothing new that Hirshbein was a constant wanderer. He
constantly traveled the world. When "A Secluded Corner"
suddenly became such a success at the Irving Place
Theatre, Hirshbein was in Canada. When Ben Ami
announced the great success to him, he answered Ben Ami
that he was coming to New York. The news of Hirshbein's
coming not only made Ben Ami happy but all of us as
well, and the better Jewish theatrical public in
general.
The "Forward"
theatrical writer told every one the good news in the
following language:
"Hirshbein is
coming for a bit of pleasure! Peretz Hirshbein, the
quiet, modest Jewish writer, whom the New York
theatrical world has recently had occasion to think well
of, is coming to New York to gather pleasure from his
success with his own eyes. By the way, I shall also
reveal to you a secret here: Congratulations are due to
Hirshbein; he's become a bridegroom in Canada."
That wasn't
the first time Peretz Hirshbein came to America. He was
here several years before, but he had no tie-up whatever
with professional Yiddish theatre at that time. He came
then and mostly spent his time in dramatic association
circles. Hirshbein was until then generally little
known in America. His one-acters, and plays were
performed from time to time only in dramatic
associations, especially in the Progressive Dramatic
Club. Thus, it is perhaps worth mentioning here that
that club indirectly played a hidden role in the New
Epoch of the Yiddish theatre.
Both plays,
whether "A Secluded Corner" or "The Blacksmith's
Daughters," were written about especially for the
Progressive Dramatic Club. This happened in a very
curious and charming way. When Hirshbein became
acquainted with the above-mentioned club, when he was on
his first visit to America, the club performed several
plays by the famous Polish dramatist Pschibischevsky in
its repertory. Hirshbein didn't like those plays. He
thought that a Jewish dramatic association ought not to
be too anxious to perform such complicated plays, loaded
down with heavy problematic themes.
In a
conversation with Yoel Entin, that club's leader, he
argued with him over how he came to perform such plays.
Entin's answer was that there was an important reason
why those plays were chosen. The reason was that there
were few women's roles in them. The club's acting
personnel had a very limited number of capable
actresses.
Several weeks
later, Hirshbein appeared with a manuscript and said:
"Here's a play for you that's very suitable for your
actresses."
He brought his
magnificent comedy, "The Blacksmith's Daughters." After
that, within a very short time, he wrote one after the
other, this cycle of folk plays: "The Blacksmith's
Daughters," "A Secluded Corner," "The Abandoned Inn,"
"The Green Fields." Neither Hirshbein nor anyone else
had the slightest notion that the cycle of folk plays he
had then written would create a New Epoch in the Yiddish
theatre.
I don't recall
the time that a play on the Yiddish stage brought forth
such a furor both in the Jewish press and among the
theatrical public.
Abe Cahan's
critique appeared on December 29th, 1918, under the
headline of "A New Play by Peretz Hirshbein in the
Irving Place Theatre."
"The
well-known, talented writer, Peretz Hirshbein, had
written a four-act play several years ago which he
called 'A Secluded Corner.' When the writer of this
article saw the performance, he, at first, got very weak
impressions of it. The first act and a part of the
second act have more faults than virtues, and do not
stand out with any special artistic worth. But slowly a
situation develops which grows in strength and reaches a
high state of such original, such dramatic interest that
it simply creates an epoch in the history of the Yiddish
stage. It's a great event in our theatrical life. The
originality consists of the special zest that the
simplicity of life receives in this play.
"Hatred—the
enmity between two competitors-that's the feeling that's
treated in the new play. Everything is so plain, so
without novelty, so without notions, so A-B-C-ish, and
yet it grows until it erupts like a typhoon.
As if pieces
of dynamite were being assembled. It seems there's
nothing to see, but from these gray, ordinary pieces an
explosion occurs which blows up a world. This is a
classic force. It has no equal on the Yiddish stage; we
have much greater plays on our stage, but none of them
have such classic force. The enmity is about their
livelihood. A man who makes his living as a gravedigger
is getting ready to build a mill. The township's miller
gets scared at the competition, and a battle begins
between the two families. The miller's son is in love
with the gravedigger's daughter, and the two competitors
will not hear of the match. It's a sort of Romeo and
Juliet story, and the love situation is permeated with
the battle between the two families. Peace is
established through the plan that the pair settle in the
new mill after the wedding. The miller's son would then
be his competitor, and such competition pleases the
miller.
"It seems that
you've read or seen something similar to this a thousand
times, and yet it grips you as if you'd never seen
anything like it, as if you'd never ready anything like
it before. The play exhales a rich freshness, no
additional explanation, no additional artifice, no
imitation—it's Peretz Hirshbein. It's his own soul,
his own wine. It's full of the gold of artistic
integrity. It's previous. It's magnificent in spite of
all weaknesses and rawness. Bravo! Bravo!
"Maurice
Schwartz deserves credit for producing such a simple
play. You can pay him tribute with all your heart. You
have to have courage to produce such a play. But the
public adds new courage to this new production of the
play. It would seem that the simple strength of this
play will be well appraised by the public and, if that's
the case, it will be a source of hope that good strong
drama can be successful with us. The basic thing is that
the effects should not be manufactured, no pudding made
of marrow and whimsical raisins.
"The play has
many raw elements. They need to be polished, smoothed
out, refined. Peretz Hirshbein lacks the bizarre form
of art. He also lacks artistic development, polish. But
he has within him a strong artistic essential; he is as
naive as a child. And in this childlikeness of his there
is a real talent. Such a writer can only limp along in
his technique; often the elements are rather too
childlike. Therefore, when the artistic endeavor doesn't
require any technique and everything simply revolves
around natural feelings and the power of fantasy, then
the childlikeness and naïveté are the essence of
powerful art. The most important scenes and figures in
the play are as if hewn from huge boulder rocks. Not
planed off, not polished, big, awe-inspiring....
"In general,
the play is well done, occasionally undercooked, but
overall good.
"The role of
the girl, the heroine, the gravedigger's daughter, is
played by Celia Adler. She's outstanding, as usual. She
often manifests the characteristics of an American girl
instead of an old-world type, but she is nevertheless
still outstanding. Schwartz himself plays the miller.
He's an irascible Jewish man who yells all the time but
whose anger has no significance—it passes and begins
again, and again becomes unimportant. Schwartz observed
the role well and he creates the type. One would want to
have him show more artistically impulsive élan and less
cerebral work. Nevertheless, he does create the type,
and there emerges a fairly strong living portrait. One
would also hope that Schwartz would at last free himself
of imitating Jacob Adler's voice and artistic-speeching
on the stage. Adler is outstanding; but to imitate is
not art, even if you imitate the greatest.
"Ben Ami plays
the hero, the miller's son, a young simpleton in love
and hot-blooded. He plays the role well and he also
creates the type, although he can't free himself of that
certain Ben Ami tone which you hear from him in all
plays. Overall, what emerges is a living piece of
existence with live people."
Maurice
Schwartz was beside himself when he read over Abe
Cahan's words addressed to him. He had put a great deal
of his intuition and creative power into the role of
Chaim Hirsch and had created a living character. Both
the public and the actors recognized his successful
achievement in the role. So he was terribly aggrieved
when Cahan reproached him for imitating Adler's tone of
voice.
Thus, Schwartz
dared to discuss things with A. Cahan in a letter to the
"Forward." I cite a part of his letter:
"You write
that I've created a living type in the role of Chaim
Hirsch, and yet you say I shouldn't imitate Adler. It
must have been one or the other, if I created, then I
didn't imitate. If I imitated, then I didn't create. But
I want to clarify two points. The first, that Mr. Adler
should be at peace and not believe that my success
consists of traveling on his ticket. And the second, the
public coming to the theatre should know that I've only
imitated actors at concerts for a certain feature, a
lot for my own amusement, because you yourself, Mr.
Cahan, laughed a great deal at my imitations. The
thought of imitating someone else is not my thought at
all."
Abe Cahan did
not ignore Schwartz's open letter. He immediately
answered his letter. So we'll cite partially from
Cahan's letter:
"Let Schwartz
take only his art seriously, but he shouldn't take
himself to seriously.... The remark that Adler doesn't
have to be afraid that he, Mr. Schwartz, 'won't travel
on his ticket' doesn't make a good impression. Nobody
will agree with Mr. Schwartz that Mr. Adler has to be
calmed over his fear of Mr. Schwartz annihilating him.
Not at all. Mr. Schwartz is not the only actor who loses
worth, poise, and measure when a critic points to a
fault in his playing.... Subject only to the criticism
being written in decent language, a critic must be
absolutely at liberty to express his opinion."
I've given
part of the arguments of those whom Ab. Cahan treated
superficially, as well as the exchange of letters
between Schwartz and Ab. Cahan, because my instinct
tells me that I owe it to my own six decades of being on
the stage to reveal the grief and heartache that actors
live through when they feel themselves aggrieved.
On November
17th, 1918, Yoel Entin, the very strict literary expert
and critic of many years' standing, wrote as follows
under the heading, "The Triumph of the Literary Play,"
in "The Truth":
"The Yiddish
literary play now celebrates its greatest triumph. If
anyone still harbors the slightest doubt that the
Yiddish literary play can renew our stage, raise it from
its inferiority, let him go to the Irving Place Theatre
to see 'A Secluded Corner.' Our artistic wheelers and
dealers argue that there's no audience in our midst for
the really literary Yiddish play. So let all those who
have the least inclination to give in to them come to 'A
Secluded Corner.' They will witness the most blissful
excitement that the idealistically enlightened and
aesthetic person could wish for. They will experience
that sympathy between the public and the artist toward
which the noblest theatrical art has ever aspired. They
will begin to feel that heartfelt co-performing between
auditorium and stage which is the most beautiful aiming
toward, the most glorious redress, of dramatic art....
it is somewhat difficult to describe the fine suspense,
the deep joy in individual scenes, moments, and
traits.... the most generous-hearted enthusiastic
ovations at the end of the acts, even as the
metamorphosed Jew was in Heinrich Heine's poem, 'On the
Arrival of the Holy Sabbath '....
"'A Secluded
Corner' is one of the happiest creations of Hirshbein's
blessed pen. A Jewish 'Romeo and Juliet," an
honest-to-goodness rural love story from one of those
out-of-the-way little corners.... People laugh at every
scene, at every remark, at the smallest expression and
least mien: it's that hidden, inner humor that one can
hardly suspect exists if looked at from the surface. And
it has no humor outside of itself, neither in the
persons involved nor in the comedy's situations—the
humor in 'A Secluded Corner' gushes forth from its
locale and because its people have permeated it, and
vice versa."
It was a
wonderful, honestly deserved, truthful Song of Songs
leveled at the magnificence of "A Secluded Corner' ....
And I believe you can surmise from it why the play
created such an epoch.
On November
17th, Dr. I. Wortsman wrote in "The Day" under the
heading, "A Beautiful Play Magnificently Performed":
"It's been a
long time since I've had such spiritual pleasure in the
Yiddish theatre. My joy was indeed great when I saw how
enthusiastically the public received both the play and
the actors. Maurice Schwartz can really congratulate
himself now. He's brought Peretz Hirshbein to the
Yiddish stage which has been so dreadfully anemic
lately....
"The play is
truly performed resplendently. Maurice Schwartz plays
Chaim Hirsch, the miller, and it's been along, long time
since he's played so well. Ben Ami plays Noah and it's
not enough to say that he plays well. Little Henrietta
Jacobson plays very well as the little girl Chayele. You
can say that she's become an actress with her current
playing. She occasionally reminded you of Celia Adler
when she played child roles. Goldsmith was also splendid
as Noteh the gravedigger. His makeup, his deportment,
his bringing out of that type of Jew—well, it would be
hard to imagine a better rendition.
"Celia Adler
as Zirel virtually gave a concert. One cannot describe
it—from her first appearance at the door, her stance,
the way her eyes looked at the time. You have to see it
to appraise it properly.
"Ludwig Satz
also gave a concert as the old Todres. Until now, Satz
has heard songs of praise about himself. But many feared
that he was a one-sided actor. He has set aside all
questions with his playing of the role of Todres. He's
an artist of the first order. It's worth seeing the play
just for his performance alone."
I came across
a critique in "Kundes" during my research which I
consider sufficiently charming from which to bring some
citations. Someone signed himself with the pseudonym
"Pif-Paf":
"To put it
briefly, Peretz Hirshbein's 'In a Secluded Corner' is
like an alarm clock for your blood—a Jascha Heifetz for
your emotional disturbance, a Song of Songs for your
heart, a wine garden in the desert, a white hospital for
the Yiddish theatre of the Rokoffs, the Gabels, the Steinbergs, and so forth and so
on.
"Hirshbein's
'A Secluded Corner', which graduated from an ordinary
Wednesday night to Friday, Saturday, and Sunday matinees
and evenings, has thrown back the vile calumnies of the
Jewish theatrical mangers that the Jewish theatrical
public likes to chew old mattresses."
I am now at
the beginning, at the first stage of the Second Golden
Epoch of the Yiddish theatre, I get the strong urge to
tell what was said in such a variety of ways about the
play and the troupe.
But my
theatrical instinct has whispered to me that, even
though every word written about that beginning has great
interest for me, it can become tiresome for most
readers.
Much was also
written in the English press and on a very large scope.
I'm going to content myself by mentioning a few writers
here. You will understand from the names how serious the
Broadway theatrical world's approach was to our new
attempt. Just to mention a few names, the writers were
Ludwig Lewisohn, George Jean Nathan, Samuel Spivack. It
was my good luck to have the mentioned English writers
pause very much over me and my playing. I often wonder
if this was my good fortune. Just as it was not very
healthful for a young actress to receive to much praise
from Yiddish reviewers for her work in the old Yiddish
theatre, so it was also perhaps not very good for me to
receive in the new theatre those extraordinary songs of
praise in the English press....
I hope I've
succeeded in imparting to you at least a portion of the
excitement that our beautiful beginning at the Irving
Place Theatre called forth among the better Jewish
theatrical public. According to all logic, a theatre
that called forth so much notice, so much praise,
recognition for everyone, should according to all human
logic, have experienced an honest-to-goodness familial
harmony, a happy contentment among all, both in the
theatre itself and especially on the stage.
To my great
sorrow and deepest disappointment, it was not like that
at all. Evidently, the weaknesses and temptations that
misled the great ones in the first generation also
transferred in part to us. It became harder and harder
to endure the atmosphere in the theatre and especially
on the stage from performance to performance. There
began a sort of race to upstage, to run after laughter,
to pull for applause. True, the old star-owner who did
this by force was missing here, but the result was
practically the same. Enemies were made practically
without a reason.
I will
decidedly not separate myself from those who sinned. I
only know that my sins were surely no worse than the
sins of others. But my heartache was enormously deeper
than that of the others. An illusion that fed me
throughout the long weeks and months of our preparation
for our new path in the theatre evanesced within me. I
hoped and believed that the theatre would become our
home, that the troupe would build and create for many
long years.... There would be no star-owner who only had
himself in mind.... It would be all for one and one for
all.... The theatre would be the one and only thing....
Thus, my disappointment was very bitter.
Understandably, the relationship between Schwartz and me
was not improved. A much more serious matter came along
that perhaps poured oil on the fire, as the saying
goes.
About that
time, negotiations began over opening a new, better
theatre with Louis Schnitzer as the money power. After a
time of quiet negotiations between Schnitzer, Ben Ami,
Goldsmith and me, the news got out into the open. I
shall tell more about this in my later chapters.
It's easy to
imagine that the competition of a new, better theatre
worried Schwartz more than anyone else. Perhaps he was
also worried that the new theatre was already credited
with two of his actresses, Anna Appel and I, and two
actors, Ben Ami and Goldsmith. Schwartz never went over
the matter with us directly. But the matter began to
play a big role at the performance of "A Secluded
Corner." Hirshbein's innocent, simple prose, to be
spoken by plain people, was pointed in the actors'
mouths toward the founding of the hew theatre.
In the fourth
act, Chaim Hirsch (Schwartz) argues with his son Noah,
(Ben Ami) why he's in love with Zirele, the
gravedigger's daughter (Celia Adler). But arguments
between Schwartz and Ben Ami eventuated. For instance,
Schwartz yelled, "Tell me, who is she?" The implication
was how come Ben Ami had attracted Celia Adler (Zirel)
to the new theatre....
And suddenly
he yells. "I no longer want you as my child...," and
the son answers: "Maybe you'll get along better without
me...." These were also arguments between Schwartz and
Ben Ami.
In the fourth
act, the old "Todres" (Ludwig Satz) comes along
insisting on making peace. When the old man turns his
face to the window, Chaim Hirsch says to his wife: "What
in the world does the girl want of me?...," meaning me, Zirel.
Todres answers
this. "The girl is dearer to me than you and your mill
put together."
But Satz put
into the answer a deeper connotation by using movement
and mimicry which we on the stage clearly understood as
his really saying to him: "Celia Adler is dearer to me
than you and your whole theatre put together...."
Through the
prose spoken by Hirshbein's heroes, the relationship
between Schwartz and us became even more strained.
I was getting
ready for my "Evening of Honor" at about that time, a
provision I had in my contract. I didn't even propose to
him that he participate in my performance.
I picked out a
play on my own responsibility. It was a magnificent
comedy by the great German dramatist, Hermann Sudermann,
which became world famous thanks to the brilliant
Russian actress Komisarzhevskaya.
What did
Schwartz's getting things off his chest at me consist
of?
The custom in
those days was that when a troupe member had an "Evening
of Honor," a big sign was posted at the theatre weeks ahead
of time announcing the date and the play of the evening
involved. The bigness of the special sign depended on
the status that the actor involved held in the theatre.
There was a special supplement about the performance
added onto both the newspaper announcements and the
weekly advertisements—and it ran for a generous number
of weeks. In those years, when the Yiddish theatre was
an important adjunct of Jewish life in New York, these
special announcements and notices were a big help in
making the "Evening of Honor" a financial success,
especially for leading players in the theatre. I was
cheated in one way or another of the sign in the lobby
and of all those other privileges. Understandably, I was
in great spiritual pain because of it, and I trembled
greatly over the possibility that my Evening would
suffer on account of it.
I was never
among those actresses who were connected with
organizations and individuals that lent a hand at an
actor's "Evening of Honor." I relied completely on the
notices in the newspapers and on the advertisements to
bring the public to the box office. To my happy
surprise, the theatre was filled to the rafters.
But it was not
entirely a miracle. I've already mentioned in my story
that I'm eternally grateful to the Jewishness. It has
always treated me very well.
Before that
evening, there appeared several times practically in
every newspaper considerable notices and longer articles
under all sorts of names and pseudonyms about my coming
"Evening of Honor." Doing research in the Jewish
newspapers of that time, I honestly admired with how
much warmth of heart and love the Jewish newspapers
wrote about my Evening beforehand, and I can't
understand to this day how, despite the hindrances from
the theatrical management, my Evening nevertheless got
so much publicity.
Without
considering the accusations of "that crafty actress," I
must yet emphasize that the longer articles were written
under names that are still unknown to me to this day.
For example, several days before my Evening, someone
wrote under the nickname of M. Grim and, although he
accused me of things with which I generally was not in
agreement, I consider it worthwhile to pass on to you
several citations of his charm:
"A small,
almost miniature girlish figure, curvaceous and
vivacious, with slender hands, a slender neck, a little
head, with large eyes, and a prominent nose—Celia Adler
(so my prominent nose is also a virtue.) She is still
very good in the roles of little children. She just has
to put on a short, little dress, let her hands drop
helplessly, and even her basic voice doesn't interfere
with giving the impression of a little girl. But in
grown-up roles, the little dress becomes longer, the
sleeves cover the arms up to the fist, the head rises,
the figure becomes slimmer, and the little girl is
transformed into a grown-up woman, conscious of her own
status.... Whether in the case of the little girl or in
the miniature self-righteously conscious woman, the eyes
are still strongly visible, large, wise eyes, that never
cloud over and always remain wise.... It often seems
that Celia Adler's greatest fault also lies in the
wisdom and clarity of those eyes.... Celia Adler
knows.... She knows that she's brainy, she knows she's
talented, she knows she can, she knows that eyes watch
and admire her.... " (Oh, my, how well off I'd be if I
possessed all he attributes to me. I wouldn't even
consider it a fault.)
"Occasionally
it seems that she impresses her own self, falls in love
with herself, and can't keep from saying to herself:
Celia., how smart and talented you are; she will forgive
us, this wondrous Celia, that her major fault is being
spoken of right at the time of her 'Evening of
Honor'—you can only talk this way about actors toward
whom you're not nonchalant.... And not being indifferent
is the least one can allow oneself to say openly: (I
haven't the heart to argue with someone who admits he's
in love with me. Dear Mr. Grim, you are nevertheless
incorrect in my being in love with myself.)
As has been
said, much was written before my Evening and after my
Evening, so we shall yet return to it. But now I wish to
impart to you my own impression of that Evening of mine,
which, for many reasons, was chock-full of drama, of
upright friendship, and of false theatrical interplay.
And since the unknown Mr. Grim stamped me as smart, I
shall carry out what they ascribe to smart people and
tell all in the order of their importance. First, the
drama.
Not only the
stage but the entire audience was overcome by a
suspenseful drama played out in the loges of both sides
of the auditorium. In the loge on the right side of the
stage were sitting my father and my sister Julia. I
needn't tell you that no sooner did my father's
graceful, silver-white head show itself, he drew
everyone's attention, especially in the case of a Jewish
theatrical audience. This time, however, all the
attention didn't fall only on him because, in the loge
of the left side of the stage were sitting my mother
and my sister Lillie, and throughout the entire
performance. Both when the curtain was up and the play
was on, and certainly during the intermissions, an
electrical current flowed from the audience to the right
and left loges.
In those
years, the theatrical audiences not only knew and loved
their great actors, but they more or less knew the
family mix-ups in which their beloved actors were
involved. The family mix-up of my parents, Jacob Adler
and Dina Feinman, lay deep in the hearts of the theatre
public of that time. Neither my father and certainly not
my mother showed any signs of bad feeling in any form of
expression or looks one for the other, heaven forbid.
But the audience tried to find signs of their family
confusion with its urgent, searching looks.
A curious
bliss, a thoroughgoing heartfelt sympathy and elevation,
a satisfaction of having the good fortune to witness
this quiet drama that filled the theatre and extended
from both loges to the stage, and from the audience to
all three, dominated the audience.
This repeated
itself at the end of each act when my father and my
mother imparted to me their hearty applause from their
loges and sent me their love with their eyes—expressed
their satisfaction with their daughter.
The end of
this quiet drama in the theatre came at the conclusion
of the third act, when the curtain remained up and when
they began the ceremony of greeting and handing out
gifts and flowers to the beneficiary. The stage
practically changed into a flower garden very rapidly.
And it fell to Eli Tenenholtz's lot to go on with the
ceremony.
A new way, a
new approach also eventuated at the ceremony of heaping
honors upon the celebrant of the evening. The stage was
transformed into a speech-making platform on which
colleague actors expressed their feelings to the
beneficiary. Eli Tenenholtz saw that part of the
ceremony through with great talent and intelligence.
I am
constrained to say that, under normal circumstances,
Schwartz would no doubt have carried on the ceremony as
director of the troupe. But under the circumstances that
existed we weren't sure if Schwartz would even show up
on the stage on my Evening. I know that I didn't expect
it. But Schwartz has a healthy instinct for such things,
and when he began to sense the dramatic tension
mastering the audience in the theatre thanks to the
presence of my parents, he attired himself in his very
best, ordered a magnificent little flower basket, and
showed up backstage at the beginning of the ceremony.
So Tenenholtz
was in a quandary. He knew the relationship between
Schwartz and me; but he felt that Schwartz had to be
introduced. He was looking for an appropriate
opportunity.
And so, many
heart-warming words were said to me and about me by a
number of the troupe's members. My brother-in-law,
Ludwig Satz, left quite a surprising impression both
with his intimately heart-warming few words and with the
original gift he provided for me. He cleverly concealed
the two or three cut-out little holes in a closed little
box, he held and, in a moment, as he spoke to me of his
suitable gift, he opened the box with a flair, and two
pure-white doves flew out into the theatrical hall. The
exclamations of wonder and dumbfoundedness expressed the
joyous surprise of all the public. It was a very
magnificent, touching scene....
Tenenholtz's
theatrical instinct told him to introduce my parents as
a climax at the very end of the ceremony. He introduced
Schwartz before them. So I want to indicate a feeling
that overcame me when I saw Schwartz all dressed up,
holding a little flower basket in his hand, knowing that
both he and I would be forced to play a lot of false
theatricality before the audience....
And now here
was the scene of false theatrics. Schwartz paid me
many colleagues compliments in the most beautiful
flowery language, and I accepted them with a put-on,
happy-smile expression and with the same smile took from
him the flowers and a check he handed me as a gift of
the management of the theatre.
Meanwhile,
after Schwartz's speech, Tenenholtz introduced my
parents with a few appropriate, very heart-warming
words, with a lot of reverence, and asked them to came
to the stage. My language is not rich enough, and I don't
know if there are suitable words in the world that could
paint the scene on the stage when my parents embraced me
with true parental love—and words that could certainly
not impart the self-disciplined, warm-hearted response
of the audience and, especially, the trembling of my
heart when, perhaps for the first time in my life as a
grown-up, my parents embraced and kissed me
simultaneously. If you understand between-the-lines
language, you will perhaps find more here between the
lines than in the lines [themselves]....
Understandably, my father expressed his satisfaction and
his admiration of my attainments in his theatrical
Adlerian fashion. He even indicated that I had reached
the high position I held in the theatre all by myself,
without his help. But it remained for my mother to be
the one whose words made both those of us on the stage
and the entire audience catch our breath for a moment.
She only said nine words, but she touched the very
depths that can hide in a human soul with these few
words. And the words were indeed true. And it is a
percept, isn't it, that words that come from the heart
go to the heart. She said: "We, my child, we're
descending, but you are ascending ...." It was a
wonderful conclusion to the ceremony....
Much was
written about that Evening of mine, both as concerned
the play and the performing of it and the drama in the
theatre, I shall perhaps return to this later. But an
indication of the already mentioned M. Grim and his
appraisal of my Evening was that he made a side remark
about which I have much to say. He said: "Here is a
piece, and a very splendid piece at that, which could
have a run in the Yiddish theatre. But whether its first
performance will not be its last—that only the director
of the Irving Place Theatre knows."
You will
doubtless not find in the records of the Yiddish
theatre that I was ever again in a performance of the
play.
I am led by my
feeling for truth and justice to exculpate Maurice
Schwartz, the director of the Irving Place Theatre to
this. He indeed wanted to put the play on again, right
during the second week. Only a few days after my
performance, at a rehearsal on the stage, Schwartz
enumerated the repertory that would be played the second
week and decided that, on Thursday of that week, as a
benefit performance for political exiles, he would put
on "The Battle of the Butterflies." Right or wrong, I was peeved at
Schwartz for not asking me about it before promising to
put on the play. I refused to perform in the play.
I'm indeed
sorry now, when I think of it, that I robbed myself of
having in my repertory such a magnificent comedy as
"The Battle of the Butterflies," and such an outstanding role as is found
in it for me. My spitefulness over Schwartz misled me
into not considering that side of the situation. Thus M. Grim's prophecy that the first performance of "The
Battle of the Butterflies" would also be the last was just about fulfilled.
But Schwartz,
the director of the Irving Place Theatre, was not
guilty. The guilt was mine.... I hope that the unknown
M. Grim, or the one hidden behind that name, will gain
satisfaction from knowing who was guilty.
I hope I've
succeeded in imparting to you be mood in the theatre on
my "Evening of Honor." But besides me, other
professional writers also gave their impression of the
drama and the mood that reigned over the audience in the
theatre. My parents' presence goads me into giving you
some citations about the matter. I'm terribly sorry that
I shall have to give you a wonderful citation from an
appraisal of the Evening, but that I cannot give you
either the name of its writer nor even the name of the
newspaper because the excerpt is old and falling apart.
But I'm sure you'll agree with me that the citation is
worth making.
I cite: "The
real drama that brought tears and happiness, hope, and
all sorts of thoughts about people and things, occurred
after the third act at the celebration of beneficiary
Celia Adler's holiday. Unfortunately, this is a personal
drama which awaits the artist who could make an opus out
of it. But I cannot free myself of the impression.
"In the loge
near the stage are sitting the relatives; from among
them shines forth a majestic figure with a magnificent
white head. His expressive face shines like the sun, and
the large artistic eyes look at the stage. And his looks
are saying, My blood, my flesh, my spirit—an exposition
of my creation of my life.... and his look caresses and
nestles his child. And his child, the young goddess, the
queen of the Evening, she sends young, warm thankful
looks to her father, and every look is like a sunbeam,
and it seems her lips murmur quietly—Thank you, father,
thank you, you holy source of my life, of my spirit."
"In the
farthest corner of another loge sits a middle-aged woman
dressed holiday-fashion. That's the great mother of the
great daughter. She looks little at the stage, and the
daughter looks little at her. Neither needs to declare
herself any more. Both are secure in their love for each
other. The blood that passed through the mother's milk
to the daughter makes them one forever. The woman looks
toward the father, and her eyes are full of triumph. She
has old accounts with him, and the greater the
daughter's talent, the greater her happiness. And, God,
how much talent the daughter showed this very night.
This one is an actress and that one is an actress—this
one is a woman and that one is a woman—this one will
proceed with her life, her existence. The mother's heart
is full of bliss."
Again someone
is writing under the hidden name of "Luminus" without my
having any notion as to who is hidden under the
nickname. I shall only cite for you what he says about
this matter:
"The scene was
a touching one when Celia Adler's father, Jacob Adler,
and her mother, Madame Dina Feinman, got on the stage.
The picture of the parents rejoicing over their
successful child was truly pathetic, heart-warming. The
quintessence of the picture was the mother's words: 'My
child, we are descending, but you are ascending.... Thus
it is a comfort and a proud enjoyment not for the
parents only that this ascending is truly an attainment,
a climb to the strongly beckoning future of a great
artistic career."
And so I have
found an excerpt in English that I again cannot
ascertain as to from whom or whence it comes; it is
under the heading which reads as follows: "An Important
Rung in Celia Adler's Career."
"Those who
participated last week in the Honor Performance on
behalf of Celia Adler at the Irving Place Theatre
witnessed an extraordinary moment when people weep for
joy. In this case, not only the actors on the stage wept
when Celia Adler's mother, herself a famous actress, got
on the stage at the invitation of the
master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Tenenholtz, and spoke to the
audience about her happiness and joy over being able to
participate in the occasion, but the entire audience
that packed the theatre from the loges to the highest
gallery shared her joy. But when the mother began to
choke down tears in her throat, and Celia Adler quickly
buried her head in her mother's shoulder, trembling
tearfully, countless sobs from various sides of the
large audience could be heard...."
I've mentioned
in the previous chapter our veteran Yoel Entin's review.
I cite his opinion of the play:
"The Battle
of the Butterflies" is not only one of Hermann Sudermann's best plays.
It is also one of the liveliest and playable ones on
every stage."
Celia as "Rozkhen" in "Battle of the
Butterflies"
The reviewer
of "The Day" wrote: "The beneficiary Celia Adler put
everything she had into Rozchen. She put so much of
herself into the girl that fear gripped you from minute
to minute. She not only interpreted a type, she created
it and gave it life. As Celia Adler portrayed her, Rozchen is so charming in her naïveté, so naive is her
wisdom. To say that she plays naturally is banality. She
is Rozchen—the true type of 'the bakefish'—the girl
that still isn't a woman but also not a child
anymore....
Now, when
I'm at the twilight of my theatrical career, may I
be permitted to express my grievance and that of my
actor colleagues at an injustice a number of theatre
critics often commit concerning indifference to the
actor and, at times, because of self-satisfaction.
Our Yiddish
theatre has never reached that degree in its performance
that, when the critics are invited to it, it is such
that all the actors will have had the opportunity to
work out their roles completely. On the English stage a
performance is tried out for weeks before the critics
are allowed to come and see it. This is not so with us
unfortunately. True, during the years of the epoch I'm
now describing, Schwartz and the other directors of
better theatre did not ask the critics to come until the
third or fifth performance. But this was far from enough
for an actor to really be able to fathom his role,
especially when it happened in our Yiddish theatre that
a play was an unexpected failure and a new play had to
quickly be mastered.
Most of the
theatre critics were strongly knowledgeable of the
theatre circumstances. It is my belief that they should
therefore have been careful with their verdict. Never
mind even mentioning an "Evening on Honor," which is
mostly an added study for actors, and seldom has the
opportunity of being made fully ready. I know of a great
many of my actor colleagues who have had a lot of
aggravation from reviews by recognized and long-time
theatrical writers who, in general, didn't take into
consideration the circumstances that were well-known to
them.
I consider it
important to emphasize that my argument is really
pointed at our most honest, most upright, and truly most
understanding theatre critics for whom I and most of my
actor colleagues have always had the greatest respect.
They should have taken into account the frequently
unprepossessing circumstance under which even the most
serious theatres had to make a play ready.
In the first
weeks of January, 1919, we heard the trial reading at
the Irving Place Theatre of Peretz Hirshbein's second
successful play of that season, "The Blacksmith's
Daughter," with great expectation and a great deal of
satisfaction and enjoyment.
It is
certainly no new discovery that just as luck plays a
role in human life, so things also have their luck. And
that's certainly the case with plays. "The Blacksmith's
Daughters" was much luckier than "A Secluded Corner,"
although both were equally successful. Actually the two
plays ran almost the same number of weeks. "The
Blacksmith's Daughters" was lucky in that it was
approached with quite a different seriousness.
As you
remember, the play, "A Secluded Corner," came into our
theatre as if by the back door, somehow as if it had been
smuggled in. That's why those of us, who were so
atremble in our souls until "A Secluded Corner"
surmounted all doubts and all stepchild treatment, took
up with great pleasure the serious and respectful path
of going into the rehearsals of "The Blacksmith's
Daughters."
You will
recall that the management of the theatre was afraid to
risk spending thirty dollars to paint over an old set
for "A Secluded Corner." But for "The Blacksmith's
Daughters," the management took great pains and didn't
stint on money, so that the two sets—both the forge and
the blacksmith's house—would be built well in every
particular. Great care and expense were especially put
into the outfitting of the forge.
And I wish to
emphasize here that Schwartz put a great deal of care
and gave much thought to the production of "The
Blacksmith's Daughters." I am not using the term
"direction" intentionally because the important part of
theatrical art was still strongly missing at the Irving
Place Theatre that season. Thus I was not shocked by an
article by the M. Grim, unknown to me, which appeared on
March 29, 1919, under the heading: "Direction—Something
Our Theatre Doesn't Possess." I shall only cite the
first paragraph:
"An
acquaintance asked me: How come Yiddish theatrical
critiques concern themselves only with the piece's plot
and with the actors' playing and never pause over the
direction? My answer to that is: You can't criticize
what isn't there."
But again the
word "luck" enters. Each role was in the hands of the
actor who, being of lesser or greater talent,
nevertheless, all had a real flair for better theatre
and the capability and intelligence to penetrate deeply
into their
roles and extract everything the author had hidden in
his prose. And because each actor felt and recognized
that way of life, the portrait emerged complete and in
the style of Hirshbein's created atmosphere—despite
directional insufficiency.
Thus, for
example, the play was enhanced by two little songs, one
for Maurice Schwartz that became also world-famous—the
very charming boyish little song, "Little Girl, Little
Girl, Little Girl"; and the second, a half-folk song
that I sang in the play, "When a Young Girl is in
Love".... These were not official song numbers, heaven
forbid, such as are put into plays and that are
accompanied by an orchestra and stop the progress of the
play, so to speak, so that the singer or songstress can
distinguish herself with her voice. The song quite
frequently does not fit at all into the plot of the
play. Neither Schwartz nor I was accompanied by music
from an orchestra. We wove them into our roles, and the
whole thing came out as a natural expression of the
plot.
Schwartz sang
his song while working in the forge and thereby vivified
his young rural swain's love. I sang my song when
serving and used the tones for better characterization
of my youthful, girlish mental rumination. I'm sure the
thought never occurred to anybody that these things were
not in the play and the roles. We both made use of the
songs in such a way that Schwartz's Nissen-Alter and my
Zelda were thereby enriched as characters in
Hirshbein's play.
My heart
doesn't allow me to pass the great Muni Weisenfreund
(Paul Muni) and not pause any longer over the
world-famous actor who, in the barely ten years he
played on the Yiddish stage, wrote a big slate of
artistic achievements and creations. I have expressed
the idea several times in my story that the sincere and
truly talented actor is never sure that he has achieved
completeness in his role. Muni Weisenfreund was one of
those actors. He perpetually doubted his great talent
and constantly sought to deepen himself in his roles
more and more.
Thus, for
example, I know that, after the premier of "It's Hard to
be a Jew," in which he was stamped almost overnight in
his role as "Ivanov" as one of the truly great talents
on our stage, he was depressed and doubtful—he was sure
that he was a failure in his role; that the critics
would tear him to pieces. He had a certain justification
for his feeling of doubt, Paul Muni never played a young
role until then.
He began
playing when he was still a boy. His parents, Philip
and Soltsche Weisenfreund, had their own moving picture
house in Chicago, where they would also put on sketches.
Already in those years, Muni was playing only fathers
and grandfathers, always with a beard, his lean, boyish
body constantly upholstered so he'd look more advanced
in years. Thus he got the impression and the belief from
his early youth on that his genre as an actor was only
fathers and grandfathers, characters of older people. He
was afraid of playing a young role.
He was
therefore very unhappy when Schwartz allocated to him
the role of the young gentile student "Ivanov" in "It's
Hard To Be A Jew."
It's a known
fact that it was this role that was the big thrust that
brought him at last to world fame. It's worth indicating
that Muni fought against and tried to protect himself
from this role with all his strength. He was convinced
that it would be his greatest failure. He was afraid of
the thought of showing himself perhaps for the first
time in a bigger role in New York with his face clean
and not bearded.
That fine
journalist, M. Osherowitch, one of the veterans of
"The Forward" writing staff, concerned himself with the
theatre for a
considerable number of years, even creating a few plays
for the theatre. He's one of the select few literati who
enjoyed a good relationship with actors, and he very
often digs deeply into the actor's soul. In his book,
"David Kessler and Muni Weisenfreund—Two Generations of
Yiddish Theatre," Osherowitch shows a tremendous
understanding of theatrical experiences and troubles
which an actor undergoes in the course of his career,
especially one who has a serious attitude to his
vocation.
Writing about
Muni's climbing and growing in his career in New York,
he indicates and ranges broadly over Muni's big
successes in Schwartz's theatre, especially when he
began to play recognized roles. Thus, quoting the most
important theatre critics of that time, Osherowitch
shows us with what admiration and deep appraisal they
received each appearance of the young, growing, great
artist. Osherowitch finds it necessary to make the
following comment after a season of Muni's great
success:
"He constantly
nestled close to the Yiddish Art Theatre, where he was
at any rate the right actor on the right stage. But as
it turned out, it seems he was not engaged by the
Yiddish Art Theatre just right after his great success
in "It's Hard To Be A Jew"—just right after all the
critics had written about it with so much enthusiasm.
That was the result of professional jealousy which often
happens in theatrical circles when a young actor begins
to attract too much attention".... (Goodness me, how I
know the taste of that!....)
I herewith
openly wish to express to friend Osherowitch my
greatest thanks and recognition for underscoring and
bringing to light the helplessness in which the young
actor often finds himself in the course of his career.
No one will surmise that great attainments, which an
actor achieves by hard, strenuous work, through great
talent and artistic intuition, often can and will hinder
his career.... But it really didn't hinder Muni from
attaining his high position, from becoming world-famous.
But it did hinder him from dedicating himself and living
out his days in his first love—the Yiddish theatre.
Others do not have the luck to get the chance he got and
perhaps also not his brilliant talent—and they get lost
or suffer all their lives.
Very few
Jewish actors were so praised for their creations from
all quarters and with such unanimity. And Osherowitch
remarks: "And Muni Weisenfreund was again not engaged by
the Yiddish Art Theatre after his great success in
Gogol's 'The Inspector General' and in Sholem Aleichem's
'The Grand Prize'.....
"This was a
great disappointment for people who were close to the
Yiddish Art Theatre. One simply couldn't imagine the
Yiddish Art Theatre without Muni Weisenfreund.
"Dr. Mukdoiny
then wrote: 'How will Schwartz's theatre look without
Muni Weisenfreund? Weisenfreund was the pure artistic
conscience of that particular theatre.'"
Muni
Weisenfreund was already again with Schwartz a season
later.
"That's how
the whole thing rotated—one season at the Art Theatre,
then in exile; a season in exile, and then back again at
the Art Theatre."
Osherowitch
is constrained to summarize it all in the following way:
"Maurice
Schwartz can't accept the tradition that an art theatre
has to incorporate the actors within itself, and has to
grow together with them."
Thus
Osherowitch takes Muni through his career of some ten
years on the Yiddish stage in New York until he takes
him to his appearance on Broadway in "We Americans," and
then to Hollywood. And he closes his study of Muni
Weisenfreund, underscoring: "It was those ten years in
New York that so strongly formed Muni's real talent. It
was those ten years in New York that led him to fame and
great possibilities."
Right now,
speaking of Muni Weisenfreund (Paul Muni), I get to
thinking that in my career I've never had the
opportunity to play with this brilliant actor during my
career on the Yiddish stage. Even though we played many
seasons at Schwartz's, fate so decreed that Schwartz was
not more of less hostile with me during those seasons
when Muni was with Schwartz's theatre; and contrariwise,
it was not until twenty-seven years later, during the
period I am describing here, that I had the pleasure
to play with him, the then already famous Paul Muni. But
it was not in Yiddish; it was in the famous Ben Hecht
spectacle, "A Flag is Born," on Broadway.
So I feel
flattered to this day that, when they placed before Paul
Muni a list of almost twenty recognized actresses, among
whom were the very greatest American actresses, famous
figures from Broadway and Hollywood, Muni said very
cold-heartedly, looking over the list: "There's missing
here just the name of the actress who is as if born for
the role—get me Celia Adler."
I shall still
have occasion later to tell about that spectacle and
about Muni's playing and mine.
I'm sure
you've already forgiven me for interrupting my story and
dedicating a chapter to one of the rays that shone on
and warmed our better theatre for several short seasons.
I did it with pleasure, and I'm sure you also enjoyed
it. I can now return to that first season at the Irving
Place Theatre in February, 1919, when Peretz
Hirshbein's magnificent comedy, "The Blacksmith's
Daughters" was produced on the professional Yiddish
stage for the first time.
I consider it
a great privilege that it was my good fortune to play
the leading women's roles in all of Hirshbein's plays
that were produced on our stage. Each of the four roles
gave me much inner happiness, deep joy, spiritual
profit, and endless theatrical satisfaction. I should
hope that I gave as much of myself to the four roles as
I got from them.
I believe that
no dramatist has brought out Jewish adolescent
flirtation, girlish love, and boy-girl pranks as Peretz
Hirshbein has done in such a really Jewish manner in
his cycle of folk plays. Until this day, when I get to
dip into and read the prose of my roles in "The
Blacksmith's Daughters," "Green Fields," "A Secluded
Corner," and "The Abandoned Inn," I can't stop wondering
how remarkably and with what ease he brought out the
sudden sprouting of girlish ripeness, and yet in such a
true Jewish fashion, without a drop of the usual worldly
adolescent love gushing. Even in the names
themselves—Zelda, Zina, Zirel, and Meite. I perceive
so much Jewish charm.
Hillel Rogoff
wrote in "The Forward" of March the fifth, 1919:
"Now playing
at the Irving Place Theatre is 'The Blacksmith's
Daughters,' a second pearl from Peretz Hirshbein's
dramatic treasury, a drama that deserves the same
exciting appraisal from the Jewish public as 'A Secluded
Corner.' The great success of 'A Secluded Corner' was
the happiest appearance in the theatrical world of this
generation. Are the great masses of theatre-goers really
sufficiently mature for such a poetically tender,
literarily delicate type of performance?....
"The proof is
now in the offing.... Success for this drama will be the
biggest victory for more beautiful, better drama on the
Yiddish stage.
"For his
heroes in this play, Peretz Hirshbein has chosen four
clean Jewish hearts. Their love is clean, beautiful.
Their fight does not have any signs of gruesomeness, of
poison in it. Everybody would rather like to run away
from the field of battle, leave the place to the
adversary—a play in which all the people get the
fullest sympathy, the fullest affection of the viewers.
A play in which everything is lovely, everything is
clean, in which everything is bathed in poetry.
"And the
actors and actresses have caught the play's true spirit,
and they play their roles in a marvelously artistic
manner. Celia Adler in the role of Zelda and Maurice
Schwartz in the role of Nissen-Alter have outdone
themselves. Sitting in the theatre and watching them
play, I cannot but believe that Peretz Hirshbein
created the roles especially for them; that he
discovered the capabilities of these two actors before
he painted these two characters."
No doubt many
of you still remember that the then famous American
theatre impresario, Arthur Hopkins, brought Jacob Ben
Ami to Broadway with the play, "Samson and Delilah," for
a number of successful years. In the same manner, the
famous American institution, The Theatre Guild, took
into its repertory Pinski's comedy "The Treasure." At
the first production, they called on me for the role of
Tillie, which I had played at Satz's Evening. I shall
perhaps again have the occasion later to tell about my
first appearance on Broadway.
I also recall
several curious episodes on those Evenings. You must
understand, that one cannot, even with the best of one's
will and serious attitude, study a play for such an
Evening as completely as one would like to. Usually it
happens that such Evenings are additions to the usual
rehearsals in a theatre's performing routine. It seldom
happens that a play is really ready for a performance on
such an Evening.
Schwartz's
second play "The Ideal Man" by Oscar Wilde, also comes
to mind. There are titled English lords and ladies among
the heroes of the play. I also played such a lady. So I
recall how the wardrobe mistress looked so curiously at
me when she saw that I was already about to go on the
stage. I wore a dress that distinguished itself with a
tasteful style, but simply, without frills or feathers.
Much aristocracy lay just in that simplicity. At last
she took a chance on telling me:
"Celia, you're
really going to play Lady Chiltern in such a dress? You
don't look like a lady in that dress...."
Hearing that,
Bertha Gerstin gave a smile and, slapping the wardrobe
mistress on the back, said:
"Mrs.
Lateiner, it's hard to believe but that dress costs one
hundred and fifty dollars in the finest dress shop.
Ladies wear only such clothes—without spangles...."
And so it was
that we concluded the first season at Schwartz's Irving
Place Theatre. And so I again feel resentment when I
compare our seasons then with what's going on now in our
theatre. That season lasted nine months, and so also for
many years thereafter. It's a miracle today if a
theatre barely lasts four months. After the nine months
in New York, there first began a tour over the provinces
of at least six or eight weeks.
After the huge
success of the Irving Place Theatre, the troupe, and
especially the two Hirshbein plays, and after the
outstanding reception of excitement which the entire
Jewish press had given both the plays and the troupe, we
left for the tour of the provinces, with the assurance
that it would prove to be a tour of triumph. Almost the
entire troupe left; only two of the important actors
didn't go along. Jacob Ben Ami and Bertha Gerstin
remained for a summer season at the Irving Place
Theatre.
I'm not going
to get into the politics that brought about the fact
that two such important actors were left behind. I
mention it only as a historical fact.
The tour
distinguished itself in every way as an enormous
financial and moral success. All of us received honor by
the pound and the theatre management filled its pockets.
But the tour began with an unexpected bad occurrence
that worried all of us and caused me especially much
fright and heartache.
The occurrence
came as an aftermath of the First World War that had
only recently been concluded. Our first trip was to
Canada—to the then two magnificent theatrical cities,
Montreal and Toronto. At that time, in the U.S. and
Canada, they were still guarding very strictly a law
left over from the war years and called the Enemy Alien
Act. Since Ludwig Satz was an Austrian—he had not as
yet become a full-scale United States citizen—the
border officials in Canada didn't want to let him in. In
order for you to grasp better what this step meant to us
all, I want to give you a letter that Maurice Schwartz
wrote to the editor of "The Forward" theatrical
division, namely, the journalist and storyteller, Berl
Botwinik, about that incident. He made it public on the
theatrical page of the "Forward."
I'm sure that
the very charming and humorous tone of the letter will
amuse all of you:
"Montreal,
Canada, was the first city where we were going to
surprise the public. And the first troubles began here.
Poor Ludwig Satz was punished for being a Galician. And
so he brought a considerable amount of trouble on us. It
was still in New York that I told him that they wouldn't
let him into Canada because he was an "enemy alien." So
he turned on his heel and said a la Satz: They certainly
will let me in. I went to a lawyer and he saw my first
citizen papers and it's all right.
"All right is
all right—so we'll go. We got to Rouses Point,
bordering on Canada, around seven in the morning. Satz,
who was with us in the car, slept very well in the
berth above me and dreamed of the success he would
have in the provinces. Suddenly, bang—someone
knocks....And the bang was some bang: Get up there!
Where is the Austrian?"—I heard a voice. And, before
you could say Jack Robinson, there was Satz already
standing in his pajamas and trembling like a leaf. "Come
and dress yourself!—hurry up!" a character with long
whiskers was yelling.
"You will no
doubt understand that, looking at Satz's pale face, I
couldn't let him go by himself. So I quickly dressed and
yelled with mock heroism: 'Satz, I'm with you!'
"We got off
the train, the other actors went away to Canada with
broken hearts, and we were left here. My arguments were
of no avail to the effect that we had nothing to do with
the war, that Satz was indeed naturally afraid of war,
that in 'A Secluded Corner', he plays the role of the
Jewish Wilson who makes peace between the two millers. I
could have saved my breath—it was like talking to the
wall. 'You have to get photographs of yourselves,' yells
a Canadian employee—'I'll be back here at ten o'clock
and you'd better bring me those pictures." And off he
went, grumbling.
"We remained
standing like slaughtered chickens. 'Yes, Brother Satz,'
I said. 'Come, we'll look the township over meanwhile.'
And we made for the township that was ten steps away
from the station. Meanwhile, a big black dog came toward
us, a veritable cur, remained standing right opposite
us, and looked at us with protruding eyes. When we
sought to keep going, he kept on looking at Satz as if
to say: 'So you're really a Galician?"
"To make a
long story short, we couldn't get rid of the dog at all.
Whenever we just stirred—oops—there he was. We went in
to the photographer—a tall, skinny, Irishman—who
photographed us. I didn't have to get a photograph, but I
did it out of sympathy for Satz. He took the two dollars
from us with an angry expression and told us to come for
the pictures at a quarter-to-ten. Already waiting
outside for us was the dog with whom we were now on
familiar terms, and we made for the township to look for
a restaurant. The dog ran ahead of us, happily wagging
his tail. We grabbed a bite and also favored the dog
with a ham sandwich.
"We called for
the pictures and went to meet the inspector with the
long whiskers. The inspector took us to the United
States Immigration Office that issued Satz a passport
after a thousand-and-one questions. We got into a car
and happily got going to Montreal.
"When we
arrived at Lacolle, on the opposite side of the Canadian
border, real profound severe sorrows first began to rain
upon us. An inspector looked over Satz's passport,
smiled and said quite matter-of-factly: 'It 's all
right, the passport says you can leave the United
States, but we can't let you in even for a million;
you're our enemy!"
" 'For
heaven's sake—what to do now?!', yelled Satz. 'How are
we going to play today, and where will I stay here? Look
at how many priests are loitering here—they'll convert
me yet.'
"Presently it
was four 'clock. It would take three hours to get to
Montreal. I telephoned the Minister of Justice in
Ottawa, and his answer was to return to where he came
from. In short, we said goodbye, and each of us took to
the road tuckered out, hungry, and depressed—I to
Montreal, Satz to Cleveland, here he was to wait for us
until Friday.
"Luckily, I
got to Montreal about eight o'clock. I got into the
lobby of the theatre, but there wasn't a living soul
around. Some kind of little girl was standing at the
box office and buying a ticket for herself. 'Where are
the people to pay homage to art?' I yelled at the
manager. "Where are the people who wrote so many
hundreds of letters that we should not forget them, that
we should bring them literature?'
"They're not
here,' answered the manager. 'They went to the motion
pictures.'
"Well, you can
imagine how I felt. That evening we played to half a
house. Rosenthal played Satz's role, and the people
thought he was Satz. But someone who had seen Satz in
New York asked an usher if that was really Satz or his
brother because he was somewhat taller, but Satz was
shorter. But the performance was a moral success.
"What was to
be done if the public didn't attend? You satisfied
yourself with a moral success. But people were turned
away the second night. They couldn't get tickets. We
played 'The Blacksmith's Daughters,' and my stage
manager, who is as small and skinny as Satz and who knew
his role by heart, played Satz's role and imitated him
so artistically that we ourselves thought it was Satz.
After the performance, when I told one of the audience
what had happened and that it wasn't Satz, someone said
to his wife, 'A wise-guy, she thinks I'm a fool—as if I
didn't know Satz...."
It seems that
the new winds that began to blow in the Yiddish theatre,
as Dymow had revealed in his article that I've cited in
an earlier chapter, were not entirely a figment of his
imagination. Something got to stirring both in the
Yiddish theatrical world and the Jewish newspaper world
and, in a certain measure, also among part of our theatre public.
Certainly
Schwartz was instrumental in a considerable share of
disseminating these "new winds" with his first season in
the Irving Place Theatre. Peretz Hirshbein's two
tender, quiet and simple folk dramas gave the "new
winds" fresh impetus with their enormous success and
with the excitement and enthusiasm they called forth
among the public at large. And so plans for the "New
Yiddish Theatre" were already being worked out in the
middle of that season—a theatre that later played out
its short life in the old Madison Square Garden. Since
it fell to my lot in this case also to be among the
first to be drawn toward that second attempt, I shall
tell here in full detail how the new theatre was born.
Almost the
moment Schwartz opened his theatre, I began to feel
little by little that, with very small exceptions, the
Schwartz theatre would be a continuation of the old
theatre with all of its faults, even with its dreadful
star system. Those others had also made attempts at
better theatre, at plays of literary merit. But so far
as the quiet frame of mind, the full-scale artistic
satisfaction and achievement for us actors was
concerned, the Schwartz theatre was not much different
from Adler's Grand Theatre, Kessler's Second Avenue
Theatre, or Thomashevsky's National Theatre. A young
actor was very often rewarded for his honest artistic
achievement with chagrin and heartache just like in
those other theatres.
The sensitive
Jacob Ben Ami was the first of our troupe in the
Schwartz theatre to speak out in the open about his
disappointment. It didn't take long for Jechiel
Goldsmith and me also to feel it with all our
senses—this didn't turn out to be what we had expected.
This was not what Schwartz had so beautifully painted in
his credo in the article that I brought to your
attention in a previous chapter. We owed Schwartz only
one thing—he deserved the credit for showing that there
was a theatre public that could digest better theatre
and was ready to pay for it.
He could
indeed have become the "high priest" of the new holy
art, the art of the theatre. But he inherited many of
the weaknesses of the Great Three and thereby weakened
the office of that priesthood. That's why those of us
who felt within us a leaning toward that type
theatre could not remain at peace. We were drawn toward
and we were ready to involve ourselves in such
possibilities. I must again here point out Jacob Ben
Ami for leading us to such a serious new possibility,
although he came by it indirectly and perhaps even
unjustifiably.
An amateur
group that went by the name of The Literary Dramatic
Club existed and played for several years. Its two
leading players were Jechiel Goldsmith and Henrietta
Schapiro. A young man, Louis Schnitzer, was also among
the members of that club. He had no thespian
aspirations. He was an ambitious and successful
businessman. Although limited in intelligence and
knowledge, he had a natural desire for better and
lovelier theatre and an innate respect for intelligence
and education. As a young man, he was strongly smitten
with the beautiful and shining Henrietta Schapiro. He
succeeded in time in having her become Mrs. Schnitzer,
thanks to his financial strength that towered above
that of all the other young men in the club.
It's
understandable that he would try very hard to fructify
her ambition to become a star performer in the Yiddish
theatre. Her two biggest virtues were her beautiful
face and magnificent figure. Evidently, these were by
themselves insufficient to attain a high place in the
existing Yiddish theatre, even though Schnitzer didn't
spare effort and money.
Maurice
Schwartz's successful beginning at the Irving Place
Theatre ripened the thought in Schnitzer's mind to
invest in a new attempt at a better theatre, where his
wife would have the opportunity to fulfill her dream, to
make a leap to the very top of the Yiddish theatre. He
put his plan before Jacob Ben Ami with the main accent,
understandably, on better theatre. After seriously
thinking it over, Ben Ami grasped this opportunity. He
got Gershon Rubin, Jechiel Goldsmith and me to
thinking about and working up the plan, as well as making
sure of every detail, so that the theatre should really
become the better theatre about which we all dreamed,
the longed-for permanent home for all the better in the
Yiddish theatre.
Schnitzer
showed very quickly that he was serious about
shouldering the financial responsibility of such a
theatre. He surprised us with the good news that he had
succeeded in getting the Garden Theatre, a part of the
old Madison Square Garden between Twenty-Sixth and
Twenty-Seventh Streets on Madison Avenue. It was a
magnificent, intimate theatre with a more than usually
large and spacious stage, which was as if ordered for a
theatre with artistic ambitions.
At Schnitzer's
announcement that he had leased the Garden Theatre as
the home of our "new theatre," we seriously tackled the
work of preparing to bring our dream to life....
I find it
necessary to state here some of the conditions and
by-laws that we then first nailed down for our theatre:
1.There would
be no stars. Every actor would have the opportunity to
which his talent entitled him.
2. The roles
in a play would be passed out by the director according
to the actor's appropriateness and ability.
3. No one would
refuse a role allocated to him. But he would also have
the right to study whatever role pleased him and would
have the opportunity to show at one or more rehearsals
what he could do with the role. The director would
decide who was better. He would also decide if the role
in question would be played by two or more actors in
a row.
4. The director
would not act in the play he directed.
5. The leading
actor in one play would play only a subordinate role in
another play.
6. Each member
of the troupe who had no role in a play would, if
necessary, participate in the mass scenes, if there were
any.
7. The actors'
names would appear in the newspapers and on billboards
according to the alphabet and would be of the same
size.
8. For the
many-faceted completeness of the theatres' artistic and
cultured elevation, a Literary-Artistic Council would be
appointed that would consist of two literary persons,
two painters, and two actors. The director would consult
this committee about plays and about artistic matters of
the productions.
We took a look
at and discussed another rather important point at
length and from all sides, to wit, the idea of
instituting a uniform type of speech. All sorts of
Jewish dialects should not be heard from our stage. For
example, it ought not to happen that, in one family on
the stage, the father spoke a Polish dialect, and his
son or daughter, who grew up in his home, spoke Litwack,
Galician, or Woliner Jewish.
I still enjoy
the happiness, the pleasure, the deep satisfaction that
we all felt in devoting ourselves to the planning of all
these precepts. Our hopes and expectations reached their
highest pinnacle in the course of these serious
preparations.
I am again
living through the indescribable joy and excitement we
all felt when we succeeded in attracting the
world-famous German-Jewish director and actor, Immanuel
Reicher, to be the director of our theatre. He was
considered to be the father of naturalistic theatre in
Germany. Indeed, he occupied a very high place on the
German stage during the years when the German theatre was considered
the finest in the world. Thus we were practically in
seventh heaven from feeling that, for the first time in
the history of the Yiddish theatre, a noted director of
great reputation would direct us, show us, teach us.
Aside from his
great artistic achievements, Immanuel Reicher was an
uncommonly great personality with a warm, heartfelt
attitude toward us actors. His intimate talks about the
theatre and theatrical art were comradely, without his
playing the Big Man or casting supercilious looks. They
were truly from the heart to the heart. He joyfully
accepted our proposal to have the Literary-Artistic
Advisory Council for the artistic modus operandi of the
theatre.
It very often
happens that the sincerity, the strong impulse, and the
honest development of an idea capture and overwhelm
those who started it. That's what then happened to
Schnitzer. He was so overcome by the serious scope and
artistic atmosphere that he practically forgot the
personal interest that originally moved him to plan the
theatre.
And so, these
were indeed the honeymoon months of our new beginning
for all of us.
For a long
time both the Literary Council and all of the actors
discussed what the name of the theatre should be. And,
in keeping with all the preparations, the name Jewish
Art Theatre lay in everyone's mind. But both Ben Ami's
modesty and that of the group of leading actors didn't
permit them to crown themselves the artistic head
priests. True, that was the goal; but it was too soon,
too brash for us young ones to call ourselves an art
theatre. But Immanuel Reicher requested it. After long
deliberation, a compromise was reached. To please Immanuel
Reicher, the name remained the Jewish Art Theatre, in
English; but it was the New Yiddish Theatre in Yiddish.
"There are
really many, many things in the way a drama is prepared
for the public that need to be improved. The fact is
that all the actors in the troupe are willing to earn
less than they would in other theatres just so their
dreams and plans for a truly artistic theatre be achieved
in the dramas, in the performances, and in all the
details of such a theatre. One point—and it is the most
important in the new theatre company—is that there be
no male or female star. All are equal and all must
follow the director. Every actor is and yet is not a
star. He or she is a star when an actor or actress
distinguishes himself or herself in a performance. The
following day, another one distinguishes himself—so
he's the star. Thus, the star system is left to the
critics."
It was
unanimously decided by both the Literary Council and the
leading players that the opening play for our theatre
must come from our own Yiddish dramatic literature. And
Peretz Hirshbein's "The Abandoned Inn" was selected, a
strongly dramatic folk play with something of a mystic
background. It was also decided at the same time that
the second play must come from the world
repertory—Gerhart Hauptmann's "Lonesome People." We
also decided then that both plays should be studied
simultaneously. "The Abandoned Inn" should be put on
weekends, "Lonesome People" during the week.
In large
measure, this was also something new in the opening of a
new theatre. Thus, this decision also led to a still
greater departure in the usual course of the Yiddish
theatre: the troupe took on daily rehearsals of both
plays for two full months before the theatre opened. A
special hall near the ocean in Coney Island was rented
to ease the actors' rehearsing routine in the summer
heat in New York.
I thus recall
a very queer episode during those rehearsals in Coney
Island. All my life I remember I've taken great pleasure
in observing the outdoors while a storm was on. I was
overwhelmingly impressed by the thundering and
lightning, and I would stand dumbfounded at the window
admiring every stroke of lightning and every clap of
thunder. To this day I bear in mind that, as a
nine-ten-year-old little girl on our farm in Rosenheim,
New Jersey, while I stood at the window during such a
storm, my little sister Lillie clung scared and
trembling to me, and hiding her little head in my dress
she urgently whispered to me at every lightning stroke
and thunder clap: "Quick, Celia, say the prayer; quick,
say the prayer," and I, in admiration would utter a
prayer at each lightning and thunder: "The Hebrew prayer
especially for lightning and thunder."
And so, there
was a terrible storm during one of the rehearsals in
Coney Island. Now you all know that a storm at the sea
in Coney Island is much worse than one in the city. A
black gloom covered the seas and the sky, and thunder
and lightning virtually split the skies, confining
everybody unwillingly to his place. At that moment,
there were two exceptions in the troupe: I, standing
marveling at the big window, in wonder at stormy nature
and mechanically whispering prayers after every
lightning stroke and thunder clap; and that great
personage, Anna Appel. She was crouching in a corner,
hiding herself behind a large chair and whispering, her
hands folded: "With your mercy and your charity, dear
heavenly Father, with your mercy and your charity, dear
God."
When the storm
was over , and La Appel got out of her hiding place
somewhat ashamed, she fell upon me with arguments as to
how come that I, such a mite against her, was standing
fearless at the window. So everybody took on her
arguments with laughter that also at the same time
expressed sympathy for the great Anna Appel.... Immanuel
Reicher, our director, the great wonder, explained to
her with a smile: "The secret is quite explainable. That
little Celia—she's so full of electricity."
La Appel
remained standing with her bright eyes, looked at her
own size, and with her extraordinary gift for humor,
spoke up shamefacedly: "If that's the case, then I am
evidently full of gas."
Incidentally,
I recall that during those rehearsals there was another
incident in which I was mixed up. Three actors were
tried out for the role of Itzik in "The Abandoned
Inn"—Jacob Ben Ami, Jechiel Goldsmith, and Joseph
Shoengold. I wish to have you recall that a strong,
passionate love scene between the hero, Itzik, and the
bride, Meite, which I tried out for, occurs in the third
act.
They had to
decide, after several tryouts among us, who was to get
the role of Itzik. Reicher, the director, had already
made up his mind, even though he hadn't revealed it yet.
But we all joked good-naturedly about the three Itziks,
and each one spoke his mind in his own way.
First the
elderly Abramowitz spoke up suddenly: "Listen, folks,
I think the only one who should decide it is Celia. She
endured the love scenes with all three Itziks, so she
should say which Itzik she likes best."
All consented:
"What do you say, Celia?"
I caught
everybody's joke and spoke my opinion my own way: "I
don't know who plays better; I'm occupied with my own
role; but I know who makes love, hugs and kisses best.
But I won't reveal it to you."
I still relish
the warm-heartedness and the almost complete contentment
that all of us actors felt during those weeks of
rehearsals in Coney Island. We were impressed with the
assurance and conscientious authority that we felt in Reicher's direction. He could explain so wonderfully
well to an actor what he wanted of the role.
I don't recall
even one time that Reicher showed an actor how to speak
or act in his role. He would only interpret the role in
a quiet conversation with the actor involved and say
what he thought this or that scene should bring out.
Despite his completely justified authority, he didn't
even tell the actor what to do in his quiet conversation
with him. He only proposed to him what way to try to
bring out what he wanted.
In general, it
is the director's task to make an effort at getting the
actor to understand what the director wants.
Understanding it, he will have to have enough talent and
artistic intuition to bring it out in his way and with
his means. Only then can it come out naturally. Talent
and intuition are the actor's stock-in-trade. No
director can give it to an actor.
The actors'
devotion, their sincere, honest attitude showed up at
every opportunity. Right there, at the rehearsals in
Coney Island, you could feel and understand the soul of
the honest and sincere actor-artist. Even those who lost
out in their tryout to play the role of Itzik, the
leading men's role in "The Abandoned Inn," which had
been tried out by three actors, did not show any sign of
jealousy, of envy toward him who won the role. That's
the spirit that prevailed and mastered everyone in our
troupe.
When I think
of that time, a resentment very often entered my mind
during those weeks as it does now over the fact that
those who took it upon themselves to be directors in our
Yiddish theatre, as well as those whose lot it was to
write about the theatre did not show up at the
rehearsals. They would first then have been able to
understand the actor's true soul and his attitude toward
his vocation. I can only think of it as being among the
sweetest honeymoon weeks in my entire career as an
actress on the Yiddish stage. Regrettably, they were
short weeks because something of a later poison was
already then beginning to pour into our sweet honey.
But I still
want to hold back my telling about that poison I've
mentioned. I still want to hold on to this respite, to
prolong the time a little more when we all were like
floating on clouds and living with the hope that our
great dream was about to be realized. I still recall the
joy and the deep satisfaction which each of us felt when
one of our colleagues showed artistic achievement and
received high compliments at rehearsals from our
director, Immanuel Reicher.
We were truly
happy in our hearts at the joy of that particular
colleague; and—I wish to underscore this—it was all
without a sign, without a shadow of jealousy or envy.
I recall how
much pleasure and real reverence I busied myself with
dressing up my private dressing room that had been
allocated to me in our Garden Theatre—the wardrobe that I hoped and believed I would be able to keep in my
second home for many long years, perhaps until the end
of my acting career.
I have no
doubts that our theatre would have lived and lasted
long, and that it would have reached real artistic
achievements, and would perhaps have led our Yiddish
theatre in America along far, far different roads. But
the drops of venom began working bit by bit. I cannot
recall a deeper tragedy in my career that could equal
what I went through—and live through now—when I
narrate for you this chapter from our new theatre.
I've said
earlier that Louis Schnitzer was so dominated by our
earnest approach and honest scope that he forgot that
the main driving force that pushed him into becoming an
impresario of better Yiddish theatre was his wife's
ambition. And although he was very stubborn by nature,
there was evidently a hidden power in his life that
broke his stubbornness and the honesty with which he was
mastered by us. Thus I shall reveal here more vividly
this tragedy that brought so much chagrin, heartache,
and disappointment to nearly our entire troupe.
So that no one
will suspect that our troupe or the leading performers
acted unjustifiably toward the ambition of a young
actress because of jealousy or envy, I shall forestall
it by bringing to your attention a few lines from an
article written by Ab. Cahan five months later on
December twenty-fourth, 1919:
"....It isn't
pleasant to say all this when it concerns a theatre
which one wants to support with all his heart. But how
can one help that theatre if the fundamental thing has
to be concealed? Madame Schnitzer is playing the main
role. She has a lovely woman's figure and that's very
important in the play. Thus, she fits the role bodily,
but as an actress .... She's the owner of the theatre
and she should be complimented on her theatre's seeking
to produce good plays. But, really now, does she
honestly believe that her powers are sufficiently strong
for her to play leading dramatic roles?.... A suitable
figure does not necessarily mean a successful actress in
important roles. If one has to be thankful to her for
the fact that her theatre seeks to produce good plays,
it doesn't mean that one has to pay such a big price for
it as to see an actress in roles in which she's
absolutely too weak....
Others did not
write so sharply and directly about the lady who owned
the theatre. But I must say that that was only part of
what led to the tragedy, to the downfall of our
beautiful dream. The dissonant inharmoniousness, the
break in discipline, the curtailing of the fair
proportions of our theatre's beautiful face did much
more harm ....
Here's how it
started: When the roles in the first two plays, "The
Abandoned Inn" and "Lonesome People," were handed out,
the very important role of Anna Mehr in "Lonesome
People" was given to the lady owner of the theatre. But
it did not satisfy her. When "The Abandoned Inn" was
decided upon as the opening play for Saturday and
Sunday, she demanded the leading part in this play, too,
the role of Meite, which was allocated to me.
But we had a
fixed point of policy that every member of the troupe
had the right to ask for and show what he could do in a
role he wanted; and he would have to be given the chance
to tryout for the role. But she didn't want to risk a
comparison with me in the role of Meite. She demanded
that the role be given to her and only to her. But this
neither Reicher nor Ben Ami nor the entire
Literary-Artistic Council could or would subscribe to.
This was the
first hindrance to the household peace between the
impresario and the artistic leadership of the theatre.
The friendship that Schnitzer felt for Ben Ami,
Goldsmith, and Tickman was transformed almost into hate
practically in a few days. He could very easily have
shunted off Tickman, his personal friend and
representative from the theatre. But he couldn't
alienate Jacob Ben Ami and Immanuel Reicher—even if he
had wanted to.
So—there was
backstage politics, so to speak, about all this, and it
was known to very few of the troupe.
We pulled up
stakes from Coney Island at the end of August and began
to rehearse on the stage of our theatre. And here is
where the poison began to make itself felt, which quietly
polluted and little by little poisoned the good spirit,
the colleague feelings, and the artistic entity of the
troupe.
What did the
poison consist of that so mercilessly ruined that most
beautiful and most honest attempt of ours to create a
truly better theatre, an artistic home for all the
better forces that were then in the Yiddish theatre?
Immanuel
Reicher, the master director, placed a lot of hope on
the mass scenes in "The Abandoned Inn," especially in
the wedding scene in the second act. He liked very much
indeed the point in our actors' program that every
member of our troupe who had no role in a certain play
must take part in the mass scenes, if there were any. He
praised us very highly several times for this point when
he came to know our program.
No matter how
capable the director may be and how dedicated the group
of extras that are used in mass scenes may be, you have
to have several responsible, experienced actors to lead
the masses. As has been said, Reicher was considered the
father of the realistic theatre. Thus, such a scene as a
Jewish wedding in a small township or village is
tremendous material for a director. So he worked out his
directing plan for that act, segmenting the masses into
groups, and put each group under the leadership of an
actor who wasn't performing in the play.
But when he
sought to implement his plan, he ran into a very
unpleasant situation. He called together on the stage
all the actors in the troupe, both those who had roles
in the play, and those who had no roles. When he
explained his directing plan for the second act and
appointed the leaders of the various mass groups, Mrs.
Schnitzer openly and firmly declined to participate.
And yet her
absence would not really have made any great difference.
But watching her, others too declined, rightly or
wrongly, with the contention that such a point made
sense only when everybody was equal, without exception.
But the breach in discipline had a depressing effect on
the troupe. This tore the troupe's fraternal spirit
apart in large measure and weakened the director's
authority.
Thus the
troupe was split down the middle: on one side, those
devoted to the thought of better theatre stubbornly held
to the principles that the theatre had postulated for
itself; on the other side, those who thought it would be
better for them to play up to the owner, especially to
the lady owner, justified her false ambitions, not
sensing that they were thereby undermining the very
existence of the theatre.
I'm not
completely sure that I've succeed in clearly bringing
out the unavoidable end which that breach in discipline
foisted on the theatre. Perhaps it is so deeply bound up
with an honest actor's complicated soul that it is
difficult to interpret it and to make it clear.
It could be
that my embitterment was the result of two such
disappointments one season right after another, namely,
my dissolved dreams of Schwartz's Irving Place Theatre
and immediately after that the still greater shock, the
feeling of being fooled anew, the doubt and fear that
perhaps our last attempt was being lost to us. Our
shaken faith would remove from us every bit of energy
for making another try like it. This very embitterment,
which I now live over again in my narrative, may perhaps
be bringing me to a state in which I cannot objectively
dissect the happenings that led to my "second debacle."
So—I'm going
to leave it to those, if such there be—who will one day
write the history of the Yiddish theatre. Let them draw
a conclusion; let them judge....
And so I
needn't tell you that the breach in discipline made it
much harder for Reicher to prepare the mass scenes for
"The Abandoned Inn." It was lucky for us that we had
founded a dramatic studio around the theatre, actually
under the very fine direction of Immanuel Reicher. Luck
favored him with a talented group of youngsters who came
along.
I wish to
mention here with pleasure that the Yiddish stage drew
considerable benefits from that studio.
A special
standout among the girls was one very charming young
lady with lively, sparkling eyes and a slender miniature
figure who literally livened up the stage with her joy
and laughter. She was such an active creature that had
no other name for her but "mercury."
Her love of
and her healthy flair for the theatre had simmered in
her from childhood on, it would seem. So she really very
quickly created for herself a noted place in the better
Yiddish theatres. Our press also gave her warm
attention, often imparting to her earned compliments for
her fine theatrical achievements. Thus, the very fine
actress Helen Blay emerged from the young little June
Blay.
You can
readily understand that the joy, the happiness that we
imagined we would have at the opening of our new theatre
came to nothing....
And yet we
entertained a hidden hope that perhaps the opening, the
unveiling of our theatre out in the open, the artistic
presentation, the magnificent direction, the acting
achievements—perhaps all these would give the theatre
the needed swing, the elevation, to conquer the dark
forces that had brought us the embitterment. It could
happen that the theatre would hew to its path despite
their petty ambitions and that it would, in time, be
strong enough to shake off these very evil forces.
But the hidden
hope didn't materialize. Yet I don't wish to undertake
judging whether the critics were correct in almost
unanimously receiving our first two productions, "The
Abandoned Inn" and "Lonesome People," with little
excitement, even though they perhaps set too strict
demands with the best of goodwill and the highest
sincerity, and so dissected the production, the
direction, and the playing that the overall conclusion,
the final word, was not very favorable.
So I want to
cite here from an article by Dr. H. Zolotarov, our very
prominent, sincere journalist. I'm doing this because he
also has arguments with our critics in his long article
over their strict approach:
"A group of
talented, young, ambitious Jewish actors, without
shining stars, not hoping to make mountains of money but
striving to produce literary dramas and also to produce
them artistically under experienced direction.... this
new, artistic association appeared before the greatest
audience and the Jewish intelligentsia in Peretz
Hirshbein's 'Abandoned Inn.'
"We attended
that performance. We saw all of its good sides and all
of its faults. We were not fooled either by previous
expectations, or by what we saw in the theatre. But we
are all suffering from a great misfortune. Our critics
approach Yiddish literature, Yiddish dramatic art, even
the newest appearance of an artistic theatre with such a
scale of measurement and gauge of demands as it is fit
to approach the greatest in the world with. Either they
praise excessively or they condemn excessively. And
instead of doing the little bit of good the critics
could do—interpret and innervate the good, help it to
develop—they discourage it and often throw a shovel of
earth over the young little tree. We've read theatrical
criticism in various languages by the greatest European
theatre critics for many years, and we don't recall that
so many immediate demands for completeness had been made
upon the great European stage. For heaven's sake, how is
it even thus possible to ask for completeness in
artistic playing? A colleague has called the New Yiddish
Theatre 'the theatre of pity'. We confess that the name
sounds a bit bombastic to us. Director Immanuel Reicher
himself characterized it from the stage much more
quietly: He knows, he said, that technically the
production was not as yet complete.... but, taken as a
whole, he stated, we have given you the best we have.
"And that's
the truth of the matter. The New Yiddish Theatre is 'the
best we have' in the artistic sense. And the duty of
even the honest reviewer and critic ought to be to point
out the faults that could be improved, and to interpret
the thing as a whole to the public, so that it will be
able to appraise the artistic better. It is in this
manner that he makes a sincere and honest attempt to
elevate the Yiddish stage and the Yiddish theatre."
I've purposely
cited Dr. Zolotarov's arguments with the theatre critics
because this gives me the opportunity of speaking my own
mind about the matter, so as to acquaint you at least a
little with what the better and more sincere actor feels
at a premiere performance when the critics sit in the
theatre.
Thus I first
wish to indicate here an accepted opinion among actors
and theatre buffs all over the world that the worst
audience before which you can appear is the one
consisting of critics, writers, and high intelligentsia,
in general. They're a cold audience. The usual actors'
expression at such a performance is: "There's a cold
blast from the theatre." We on the stage don't feel any
expression of warmth, of excitement—elements without
which the actor virtually can't breathe, can't fully
express his talent, his artistic intuition.
It is
understandable that those who go to the theatre with the
special duty of having to write a criticism would have
to guard against openly showing their feelings and
impressions in order to hide their opinion from the
public and from their fellow critics. But it's hard to
understand why writers in general and the so-called high
intelligentsia are so stingy in expressing their
satisfaction at a performance. In order for you to spare
yourself wondering how we know this, I shall reveal a
secret, something not many of the public know about.
At every
premiere performance, what with the frightful
nervousness that reigns both on the stage and in the
actors' hearts, we all look during intermission through
all sorts of openings in and around the curtain and
study both the faces of the critics and mast of the most
prominent and noted personalities from the
literary-artistic world sitting in the theatre; and
they, as if they knew about our clandestine looks.... we
can hardly ever read a mien, an expression in their
faces that would give us the least surmise of what
their opinion of the performance is. It's really
terribly difficult to give everything we have to such a
performance....
Let's reveal
to you another secret. I believe that hardly anyone
knows about it except us actors and those close to us.
The highest degree of nervousness gripped us when we
were told that Cahan was sitting in the theatre. Nearly
everyone in our theatrical world was most afraid of his
opinion. His influence was enormously great because of
his position as editor of the most-read Jewish newspaper
in the world. The readers of "The Forward" greatly
respected his opinion and were influenced by his
appraisal.
Cahan's
opinion was weighty, almost holy to a great number of
his readers. The working masses comprised the big
majority of his readers of "The Forward." They had great
respect for Cahan's honesty, for his readiness to take
up for the aggrieved.
It would seem
that our New Yiddish Theatre was not born in a lucky
hour. The theatre wasn't even lucky for me—I who had
put into it so much heart and soul.
When I thought
of telling you about the first and only season that the
theatre existed for me, I was sure that it would take no
less space than the first season in Schwartz's Irving
Place Theatre. But now, when I have to express my
thoughts, I want to get it over with as fast as
possible; my thinking about it becomes distasteful for
me.
But since I'm
telling about myself, I shall permit myself to boast by
citing only a few opinions that were written about me.
Here's what
Hillel Rogoff wrote about "Lonesome People" in
"The Forward":
"Celia Adler
raises herself with her playing to a high state of pure
art. The role is big and difficult, yet you don't sense
a single shortcoming in all of the five acts. We don't
recall a case when this rare artist enchanted the
audience as much as in this role. Her overall stance and
the expression of her face in the critical moments hover
before the viewer's eyes long, long after he has left
the theatre."
I take out
this short expression from the review in "The Day" about
the same role:
"People are
broken up over the suffering of the twenty-two-year-old
woman, Katie—long may she live, this touching, human,
natural Celia Adler...."
And here's
another expression by a reviewer of the same play:
"Only for one
Celia Adler were there no temptations lying in the road
here. But, good people, where will you find a temptation
for an actress who at some twenty-odd years has become
our Sarah Bernhardt and Komisarzhevskaya rolled into
one?" ( I practically blushed when I read this.)
Among the
plays performed that season in the Garden Theatre was
Ibsen's world-famous play, "Nora." It was performed on
Tuesday, February third, 1920, at my "Evening-of-Honor."
So I can't
complain that the public didn't make itself seen at my
evening. The theatre was crowded. The audience received
me warmly. A number of my colleagues were delighted with
me. But overall, my holiday was distasteful. If it
hadn't been for the several hundred dollars that I
needed, I would gladly have said to the owner of the
theatre, "Thank you—I'll do without it."
Perhaps I
wouldn't have mentioned the matter at all. I was
impressed, however, by the fact that, without my knowing
it, there sat in the theatre that evening as an
onlooker, that famous Zionist leader, Louis Lipsky, who,
to my greatest surprise, wrote a very warm review about
my Evening in "The Morning Journal" of February ninth,
1920. I don't wish to attempt to say that that was the
only time Louis Lipsky wrote about the theatre. But I'm
happy to have had the good fortune to be a theme for one
of the select few theatrical criticisms that he ever
wrote in his life.
I cannot cite
the long article wherein he shows much understanding of
the theatre and a fine attitude toward the actor. I
shall give you only a few of his positions:
"Celia Adler,
the young, gifted, Jewish actress, played 'Nora' last
Tuesday evening at the New Yiddish Theatre and thereby
sought to put herself against the other first-class
actresses in a role which makes great demands on an
actress' powers. A house filled with friends—and real,
personal friends—greeted the love-deserving artist and
manifested not only a deep interest in her playing on
'Nora' but also a true personal love for her. One can
say right at the start that Celia Adler acquitted
herself creditably in the role. She showed uncommon
intelligence, made a deep impression with her sincere
intuition and much understanding of the difficult role.
It would be foolish to make comparisons. Madame Komisazhevskaya's 'Nora' was a piece of calculated
performing in which fire and warmth were missing, but it
had its own beauties. Nazimowa was much better in some
respects , however, she lacked sincerity in the serious
moments. Mrs. Fiske's 'Nora" was a piece of mature
performing that was conceived in an entirely different
spirit. The outstanding virtues of Celia Adler's 'Nora'
right at her first performance are her girlishness and
her thoroughness, and it was a very interesting piece of
art as such.... She deserves the praise of lovers of
good playing."
I was very
much pleased when he came into my dressing room after
the performance and said to me, among other things:
"Celia Adler, I should very much like to see you in the
role after you've played it at least another ten times."
(How truly necessary!)
And so my
playing "Nora" reminds me of a very curious episode at a
performance of the play in Brazil on my later tour
there. A group of women came to my dressing room after
the performance. They introduced themselves as
representatives of a woman's organization and leveled an
argument at me: How come I appeared in a role that shows
a woman leaving husband and child and going away. "You
ought not show such a bad example to our women."
Understandably, I remained dumbfounded at this curious
argument. And in order to rescue myself from their
wrath, I answered spontaneously: "Nora returns the next
day in the morning—she only wanted to teach her husband
a lesson and to frighten him. But you can be at peace;
Nora will return the following morning."
They left my
dressing room content.
The season
concluded with Hirshbein's "The Green Fields," which
Ben Ami had produced at the Irving Place Theatre during
the summer season of the previous year. Since the role
of Tzine in the play is my favorite role, I feel a
strong urge to dwell on it. Besides, this was really the
official end of our vanished dream.
I don't wish
to torture you in this case also with excerpts from a
lot of reviews which were written about the play. But I
do wish to indicate two moments at that performance—one
that has nothing to do in general with press critiques, but which gave us actors tremendous satisfaction.
None of the
recognized stars came to see a performance of ours
either the previous season at the Irving Place Theatre
or at our new theatre. The fact that my father came to
my Evening at the Irving Place Theatre—that was only
because of his recognition of me as his daughter. That's
why it was a pleasant surprise for us actors when David
Kessler came to one of our performances of "Green
Fields." He was generally so devoted in his entire
approach to the theatre that he took pleasure in new
accomplishments and new attempts.
If it hadn't
been for the family mix-up between him and Wilner,
Kessler would no doubt have taken time off and shown
interest in coming to see the beginning of better
theatre in Irving Place. He not only showed his
enjoyment by applauding as he sat in the theatre at the
performance of "Green Fields," but he also came
backstage and personally expressed to us his recognition
and praise. I especially derived much happiness and
satisfaction from it, something of which I had very
little that season.
The second
moment at the performance of "Green Fields," which was
already a mixture of joy and grief, was Cahan's critique
of the play and of the playing.
Peretz Hirshbein and the cast of characters of "Green
Fields"
It seems to me
there really cannot be two opinions about the fact that
"Green Fields" is the loveliest idyll of Jewish life
that ever appeared on the Yiddish stage and perhaps in
Yiddish literature in general. And, according to my
view, there can also be no doubt that Ben Ami brought
out the poor but spiritually rich Yeshiva scholar
wonderfully well in the role of Levi-Yitzchok.
Tsine in
"Green Fields"
Ben Ami and me
in "The Abandoned
Inn"
Tsirl in "A Faraway
Corner"
Cahan has, for
example, such expressions as these in his critique: "The
play is very beautiful, very interesting, very
impressive. You could go for months on end to the
English theatres and you won't find the genteel and the
ennobling pleasure from their plays that you'll get from
this play. Just as a magnificent building permeates your
soul with a feeling which is similar to a musical
feeling and to the elevation born in your soul when you
read poetry—so such a spirit is born and grows in you
as you look at 'Green Fields'. I feel just that was
about 'Green Fields' as I write this article a day after
I witnessed the performance."
Can there be a
better opinion by such an important journalist and
personality as Cahan? That's a very great victory for a
theatre. But he gives the following opinion at the very
beginning:
"Each actor
and actress had something to enact; each actor and
actress chimed in with the others, so that the whole
thing was like an orchestra in which the instruments
flowed together in one harmonious entity." Well, now
that's good, isn't it? But he subsequently begins to
dissect each one separately, and again there are more
faults than virtues. Thus, for example, he begins with
me and says:
"Celia Adler
enacted the role outstandingly, but..." And now so many
of my faults are recited that it couldn't very well be
"outstanding".... It couldn't even be fair to middling.
About Ben Ami
he says: "When Ben Ami appears on the stage in 'Green
Fields', draws in his breath kind of spiritually, that's
exactly what is needed here... This spirituality was
evident throughout the three acts." And again a "but"
comes along that negates everything.
Although I
don't want to, still I must compare my two
disappointments. I never left Schwartz with a
feeling of hatred. I never felt any enmity from Schwartz
toward me. Schwartz's weakness, Schwartz's trying to
rise higher than anyone else, were within the framework
of justified human weakness—temptations that not
everyone can avoid. But here, in this theatre, I began
to feel the owners' hatred toward me, and I must
confess, I also sensed a definite enmity toward them.
The lady owner's unjustified ambitions at any rate had
no basis, no reason for being, no possibly of ever being
realized.
When I told
about the birth of my child, I gave an indication of
incomplete domestic harmony between my husband, Lazar
Freed, and me. That lack of harmony became much worse
during the time elapsing between then and the season I
am writing about now.
I felt that
our ripping each other apart was having a bad effect on
the health of both of us. and I was still more afraid
that our growing son would begin to feel our severance;
that a home without love, without fellowship, without a
warm atmosphere could have a deleterious effect on our
child. Although the thought of one day having to give an
answer to my child's questions scared me, I decided to
take the step and put an end to this thing.
I needn't tell
you that one doesn't take the responsibility of making
such a final decision with a light heart. A separation
is generally a very painful process for all people. The
world at large harbors the opinion that this is an easy
matter among actors, and there are really cases in the
theatrical world that can be held up as an example to
justify certain people's expression: actors change
husbands or wives like people change clothing on their
bodies. Well, as has been said, there are such cases in
the profession.
It's also
true, however, that such cases also occur among people
outside the profession. I'm convinced, on the other
hand, that in the theatrical world, the matter is tied
up with greater unpleasantness than in ordinary life,
especially in the Jewish theatrical world, where the
field is so tight and limited.
I can bring
you exact examples from me and my family. My mother had
to be together with my father in the same theatre only months
after the divorce. The same thing happened that I had to
play in the same theatre with my husband, Lazar Freed.
You will surely understand that, being engaged in a
theatre, I couldn't possibly think of not permitting
Freed be engaged by the same theatre. Even knowing
beforehand that Freed was engaged by a certain theatre,
I couldn't avoid playing in that theatre, as really
happened in the only better theatre in which we all
desired to play—I mean in Schwartz's theatre. Whether
pleasant or not, I had to play with Freed for a number
of seasons.
So I accepted
a proposal of a summer season at the Brooklyn Lyric
Theatre in a cheap melodrama with self-styled stars—a
terrible exchange for a tour of "Green Fields." My
sparse financial situation, however, didn't allow me to
be choosy. Meanwhile, I made my home with my child and
Feige with my good, heartfelt pal of my school days, the
former Dora Hurwitz, whom I've mentioned many times in
the first part of my book.
I left the
greatest part of my household goods where our home was
during the few years that Freed and I lived together in
New York. I wanted him to have a home when he returned
from the tour. I obtained a home in Philadelphia at the
end of the summer and really started divorce proceedings
there.
I wish to
conclude here the chapter about Lazar Freed in my life
with a letter which I received from him all the way back
in April, 1943, about a year before his death. He was
then in a sanatorium in Duarte, California, not far from
Los Angeles. His letter is a reply to my letter that I had
written him after our son's graduation from the Medical
Division of New York University. The letter speaks for
itself.
"April 6, Los
Angeles
Dear Celia:
I have just
received your heart-warming letter. May God bless you
for your comforting words and for the good news.
And how nicely
and vividly you've described the ceremony of our son's
graduation.
That's how I
pictured it in my fantasy. I see very clearly what you
lived through and thought through at the moment of the
ceremony.... Even now, as I write to you, tears flow
from my eyes because of both of joy and chagrin. Joy
because it happened at last, and our brilliant child
stands on his own feet with an intelligent profession
and will not have to wait until someone will engage
him and do him a favor and not pay for his hard work.
Self-sufficient and free and independent as he is, may
God give him strength and health and, above all, may the
war be over quickly.
And a great
deal of chagrin that my eyes and I myself couldn't see
it, although I know that you represented me well. I know
that both of you thought of me at that moment. And
chagrin that I'm not able to send him the gift I wanted
to send him.
Actually, you
deserve double thanks. You were the one to tell me the
good news when the telegram came that he would be
accepted by N. Y. U. (New York University) and now for
the lovely letter, and a third and super-thanks is due
you—I've contemplated saying or writing it to you for a
long time—for your good work in helping to raise such a
fine person as our son, such as person from near and far
can't stop praising.
May you also
be rewarded with happiness and especially with good
health for the rest of the days you are destined to be
with us.
When you see the little fellow, embrace him and tether him to
your heart as I would do it.
Thanking you,
again for your lovely letter and, if you're not lazy,
write again sometime.
Say hello to
Mr. Cone.
Your Lazar"
Evidently he
didn't expect that his end would come so quickly.... I
even made time for sending our son to him in Duarte,
California, to see him. The end came shortly thereafter.
I don't want
to go into describing the various feelings and the
countless sentiments that have now come to the surface
as I've been reading and rewriting his letter. It might
perhaps border on what people call melodrama. I'd better
let it be. But I must dwell on the line in which Freed
tries to thank me for the good news I gave him: "When
the telegram came that they were accepting our son to
New York University." I am doing it because a curious
scene of joy and happiness is bound up with it ..... At
the same time I feel that I must tender here my thanks
to three important personalities in the Jewish-American
political world who helped a great deal in the
possibility that telegram's being sent by N. Y. U.
It wasn't so
easy for a Jewish fellow to be accepted by the Medical
Division of that university in those years; it was just
like in Sholem Aleichem's "It's Hard to Be A Jew," where
high marks and even a gold medal were not enough
guarantee for a Jew to be accepted by such an important
institution of learning. You had to seek help, "pull
strings," as the saying goes. I ran around seeking help
and knocking on countless doors. I was advised to turn
to Dr. Sh. Margoshes and his lovely wife who had, as
they say, an "in" with personalities whose word counted
in that university. They received me in a friendly
fashion, assured me of doing everything they could. But
they also advised me to turn to our B. Vladeck, who was
then President of the New York City Council. His letter
on official stationery might have a great effect.
I can't forget
to this day the warmth with which Vladeck received me,
listened to my request, and said: "A letter by itself is
not enough. I'll consult the Dean of the university
personally." I was virtually dumbfounded at such a
hearty approach. I admired our great B. Vladeck who,
busy and occupied in such an interlocking activity as be
conducted, harnessed as he was to many social duties,
would take time to help me and my son—not, as I had
asked him to, only with a letter, but himself proposing
to make the effort and take the time for a personal
contact with the Dean. Thus, he certainly was not to
blame that his effort didn't reach its goal .....
And so I was
counseled in those circles to try my luck and interview
our great Man of the People, who, by his own strength,
reached such high pinnacles in our workers' movement and
in American political life in general—the outstandingly
successful and yet plain David Dubinsky, the President
of the International—that I ought to try to persuade
him to become interested. Perhaps he could help.
I made the
effort and prevailed. The "perhaps" was superfluous—he
could and did help. I shall thus be forever thankful to
him for his humanitarian friendship which he showed me,
for giving me his time, his effort, and certainly for
the achievement of the denied goal.
Rivers of ink
and whole mountains of paper have been employed to
describe and elucidate a mother's heart, a mother's joy,
and a mother's feeling and worry over her child's
happiness. I can add very little to it. But that moment
engraved itself very deeply in my memory when the
long-awaited telegram, which had been obtained with so
much effort, came at last from N. Y. U.
I was then all
alone at home. I now live over again the indescribable
joy that can't be put into words when these few words
sparkled from the little yellow paper: "You have been
accepted'," etc.
I should very
much like to have you feel with me now my situation
then. A mother's overflowing heart who at this moment
has no one to pour her feelings out to. I'm all alone in
the house. Tones similar to prayers tore out of my
throat—prayers that tear out of human hearts when they
feel they have something for which to thank the
familiar, inexplicable force that guides their lives.
Without consciously feeling it myself, I danced and
jumped, laughed hysterically, and tears of happiness
welled from my eyes. All kinds of phrases begging God
and thanking God rang in my ears.
Tired out by
the outburst, I grabbed the phone, called Freed's hotel.
I felt that he deserved being the first to be in on the
good news. But he wasn't in. So I called the Cafe
Royale—not there. Where else could I look for him? ...
In the Actors' Club— Freed wasn't there either. I left
my request everywhere: Let him call me.
So I began to
look for my husband, Jack Cone. But I couldn't get him
either.
My son Zelik'l
had left to have a good time somewhere with his pals. I
didn't know where to look for him.
Modern
theatrical art holds that people don't talk to
themselves. So I evidently became an ex-modern actress
.... My overflowing mother's heart sought to pour itself
out... I confess that I talked to myself in a very loud
voice. All this evidently didn't calm me.... I got out
into the corridor, rang the little bell for the
elevator. When the colored man opened the door, and his
mild, friendly, and smiling eyes looked at me, I poured
out my heart. He also had children—he too was hoping
one day to experience such happiness and joy. He
understood me; he wished me luck....
I got back
into the house somewhat calmer. The telephone was
ringing—Freed was calling. He thanked me, his voice
choked with tears, that I didn't forget him at that
joyous moment. All arguments and grievances, all angry
feelings vanished. Two hearts beat in time, parental
hearts that rejoiced over the hope of their child's
happy future.
It didn't take
long for my Jack to come running breathlessly. My
overflowing heart had someone to pour itself out too.
It wasn't
until late after midnight that my son came home. Seeing
the bedroom lit up, he came in. Neither Jack nor I said
anything to him about what had happened. My theatrical
instinct urged me to prepare a scene of a mother's own
fantasy. Zelik'l told us how he had spent the day, and
although we should have heard boyish joy over a happily
spent day in his narrative, we could feel worry and
sadness in his words that constantly filled his brain
over the uncertainty of being accepted by a medical
school.
But suddenly
his eyes fell at my feet where he saw the telegram
pinned to the covers. My theatrical instinct didn't
disappoint me. The play of my motherly fantasy had the
climax I foresaw. I'm sure that his outcry and almost
hysterical outburst scared many of the neighbors at that
quiet nocturnal hour....
Perhaps you
will wonder why I've lingered over that telegram which
is practically an ordinary occurrence in many American
homes. The reason for it is not only the fact that, as
is true of all people, your own home is not the same as
all other homes—your own child is not the same as all
other children. It's also because it was so hard for me
to see my son's studying and attainment through. It will
no doubt sound unbelievable to many of you that I, Celia
Adler, an actress of repute, was so depressed
financially that seeing an only child through to the
status of becoming a doctor should have been so
difficult to do. But that's how it was. Circumstances so
conspired that just during those years when his studies
required great expenditures—just exactly then my
earnings were very low.
Those were the
crisis years in America, and such years have a bad
effect on the theatre. Mildly speaking, our Yiddish
theatre was in deep trouble. Freed generally earned very
little; he couldn't help at all, although I never
demanded any help from him. Jack Cone also earned little
then, although he forced himself in every way possible
to carry the financial responsibility both for our
living and my son's studying.
It was an
overall very wonderful relationship that existed between
my second husband and my son. Zelik'l used to consult him
more than me. And Cone would very often say to Zelik'l in
joke: "Don't you think we should also take 'stepmother'
into our decisions? ...."
Cone's care
was two-fold. Under no circumstances did he permit that
my status, my reputation as an actress, should be
lessened by my climbing down for the sake of an income.
He also took care that Zelik'l should not have to work
nights, as other students did, to earn the expenses for
his studying.
Knowing our
financial hardships, relatives and those close to us
very often reprimanded us for taking on such a heavy
yoke. I constantly defended myself against this advice
with this argument: "If I've been blessed with an only
son who wants to study, I'm ready to do anything to help
him."
Zelik'l himself
often spoke to Jack about it, told him how much he
suffers seeing how hard it was for us. He was ready to
give it up. Jack's answer always was: "You must concern
yourself only with your studies, and leave the rest to
me, to us."
I remember the
times when we sat in our small residence during a
student's critical weeks when he was preparing for an
important examination. We would sit and guard against
speaking a word out loud so as not to disturb Zelik'l, in
his studying. We would often go down for a walk in the
street, even when it was snowing or raining, in order
to leave Zelik'l by himself. (We begrudged ourselves
spending money on a movie....)
Believe me,
I'm not telling it to you in order to evoke sentiment
....I'm only concerned about showing that even an
actress like me could very seldom lead a life of luxury
and not infrequently live in need. And since it happened
that my time of need was just when my son required my
help, I so deeply appreciated my being successful in
seeing things through from the moment the telegram came
and the years of his medical studies until he graduated
as a doctor, which I've described in my letter to Freed
and his answer that you read at the
beginning of the chapter.
I wish to add
two more moments about this matter. The first moment was
when Zelik went to be interviewed by the Dean in
accordance with that telegram. The dean, Currier McEwen,
a young Irishman, asked him in the course of the
interview who his parents were. When he mentioned his
mother's name, the Dean paused a moment and remarked:
"Adler?—Are
you in any way connected with the great Jacob Adler?"
Zelik looked
wonderingly at him and answered: "Yes, he was my
grandfather .... "
To Zelik's
wonderment, the Dean told him that he still remembered
when he admired Jacob Adler in "Shylock" on Broadway, and
that he had read much about him: "He was a great
artist."
He also
wondered why Zelik had pursued a career on the stage.
Zelik told him that his mother insisted that he go to
college first, then he could decide his own future.
"Before I finished college, I had already firmly decided
to take up medicine."
The second
moment again has to do with a mother's foolish heart. It
was with no little effort that Zelik and I got to the
point of his being accepted as an intern at Beth Israel
Hospital. Thus I recall how I purposely used to go to
the hospital often—sit in one of the corridors and
enjoy hearing the loud-speaker keep repeating
constantly: "Calling Dr. Selwyn Freed!—Calling Dr.
Selwyn Freed!"
You already
know that I was engaged by Anshel Schorr's Arch Street
Theatre for the 1920-1921 season. So it no doubt would
be difficult for me to relocate myself back again that
season in the old theatre after two seasons of new
attempts and beautiful dreams. But things went doubly my
way this time. The city of Philadelphia always awakened
in me certain pleasant sentiments. The Philadelphia
public received me very warmly and in addition, my
mother, Dina Feinman, was also in that theatre's troupe.
Secondly, even
before I had fully established myself for that season in
Philadelphia, I received a pleasant surprise. I got a
letter from the Artistic Council of the Theatre Guild.
They wrote that they were preparing to open their
current season with a production of David Pinski's "The
Treasure." They wanted me to play the feminine lead,
Tillie. They wanted to talk things over with me. Being
in the mood I was in then, after my two great
disappointments in the Irving Place and Garden Theatres,
this letter took me out of the apathy that had befallen
me.
I've already
tried to explain in the first part of my story why it
didn't occur to me in my youthful years to seek a career
on the English stage. Now I was again standing at a
moment when I sought an answer in my heart as to whether
I'd be satisfied to dedicate the remainder of my life,
my theatrical life, to the English stage. I cannot say
definitely with assurance that I would decline a career
on the English stage. But I can say openheartedly and
conscientiously that at that moment I wasn't attracted
and I didn't feel within myself any great ambition to
become an English actress.
Of course,
it's possible that if I then had the power of
divination to see ahead as to what would happen to the
Yiddish theatre, I would perhaps have looked at such an
opportunity differently. But not having such
farsightedness, I had the feeling then as usual that my
spending my theatrical life career was tightly bound up
with the Yiddish stage.
Heaven forbid
that I should fool anybody. I never refused and never
would refuse roles on the English stage. That's human
nature, the actor's urge, the financial necessity. But I
never felt myself trembling over or had the great desire
to play out my career on the English stage. On the
contrary, I was always afraid of the thought of having
to part finally with the Yiddish stage despite my
disappointments, my heartache, my embitterment that my
career on the Yiddish stage had dealt me in such large
measure. That's why I made an appointment to go see and
negotiate with the Theatre Guild with a considerable
amount of quiescence.
I received a
very warm reception. There was an attitude of curiosity
if I'd meet their demands and a pleasant artistic
atmosphere in general. I had a rather pleasant surprise
when I found out that Immanuel Reicher would direct the
play. It was then the Theatre Guild's policy to produce
a definite number of plays each season, allocating a
definite number of weeks for each production. "The
Treasure" got between five and six weeks. So the
proposal pleased me very much—both as to the role that I had once played, by the way, on the
Yiddish stage and the pleasant attitude and financial
arrangement as well. I told them that I must first talk it over with the manager of the Arch Street
Theatre to prevail upon him to free me for these certain
five to six weeks.
And so I shall
yet return to telling about the feelings that came over
me at my first appearance on Broadway, the impression
that the production and my playing made on the press,
on the most important actors in the troupe, and on the
leading powers of the Theatre Guild on the English
theatrical public and, in general, on the Broadway
theatrical profession.
I must again
here mention with gratitude Anshel Schorr's extremely
fine attitude toward me in general whenever I happened
to have him as my boss during my career and his
indulgence in accommodating me by giving me the chance
to play in such a theatre as the Theatre Guild on
Broadway. When I told him all the particulars about my
negotiations with them, he said to me, without thinking
a great deal about the matter, that I should immediately
inform them that I would accept their proposal. He only
asked me to talk them into releasing me for the opening
play in Philadelphia, which was to take place a few weeks
before the rehearsals of "The Treasure" were to begin.
And again
Schorr showed his expertise in the craft of the theatre.
He wanted the Philadelphia public to know and believe
that I would return to his theatre after the appointed
time. He asked me to immediately make public a letter in
the daily Philadelphia "Jewish World" and tell them how
the matter stood. Understandably, I went along with him
in this, and the following letter from me appeared in
the "Jewish World" at the very beginning of September:
"A Letter From
Celia Adler."
"Very
Honorable Editor of the 'Jewish World' :
"Allow me
through your worthy newspaper to express my warm thanks
to my managers of the Arch Street Theatre for giving me
their friendly permission to play several weeks on the
English stage as guest of the Theatre Guild in New York.
I shall appear in English at the Garrick Theatre in New
York in the leading lady's role in David Pinski's "The
Treasure" under Immanuel Reicher's direction. I would
never have allowed myself to leave a theatre in which I
was engaged, even if only for a few brief weeks. But
since, by coincidence, I am free from the operetta which
will be produced as the second play at the Arch Street
Theatre, the friendly management of the theatre has
permitted me to play a role I love very much for a
period of four weeks. Only then did I accept the Theatre
Guild's invitation.
"I shall
definitely return to Philadelphia after those
performances. It seems that my first appearance in
Philadelphia after coming back to the Arch Street
Theatre will be in Peretz Hirshbein's famous play. 'The
Abandoned Inn.'
"Very
respectfully,
Celia Adler"
Schorr was
right. The Philadelphia theatre public attested its
faith in the veracity of my letter in various ways.
Also Schorr assured me that the intake at the opening
play in which I appeared was beyond his expectations,
and the reception at every one of my appearances on the
stage was unusually surcharged and warm. I also received
a considerable number of letters from Philadelphia
theatregoers wishing me success on Broadway. Others
came backstage to do the same. But all wished me a safe
return.
The premier of
David Pinski's "Der oytser," under the English name of
"The Treasure," was announced by the Theatre Guild for
October third, 1920.
I needn't say
that, in order to have a premiere on October third, the
Theatre Guild began rehearsals at the beginning of
September.
Indeed, I can
only speak very favorably of the rehearsals of "The
Treasure" at the Theatre Guild. I was certainly pleased
to work again under Reicher's direction. I was also very
much impressed by the unusually warm attitude both by
the theatre's management and actors, among whom were
such famous Guild actors with great reputations as
Dudley Digges and Helen Westley. They played my parents,
a Jewish gravedigger and his wife, plain, small-town,
orthodox Jews—roles that were hard for them to master.
So they often
beleaguered me and overwhelmed me with countless
questions that troubled them about their roles.
As a literary
work, Pinski's "Treasure" certainly fitted into the
Guild's standard of domestic literature. The comic
situations in the play are to some degree of universal
scope. People's avarice for money, their headlong
pursuit of hidden jewels are universal weaknesses; but
the environment in which the situation is enacted is so
angularly Jewish, so wrapped in a foreign, old-fashioned
Jewishness, that the broad American public couldn't
digest it.
I don't want
to take up too much space bringing you the compliments
given me for my role of Tillie. I'll bring you only two
excerpts. Thus, for example, the famous Burns Mantle
wrote:
"Celia Adler
brings much color and life into the Guild's production,
'The Treasure,' with her magnificent penchant for
comedy, her rich talent and wonderful intuition and
acting enthusiasm .... The high point of the evening was
the playing of Celia Adler, the first lady of the
Yiddish stage. Our English theatre is not always able to
show such playing. It's pleasant to sit and enjoy her
wonderful playing."
Robert Garland
in "The World-Telegram":
"Celia Adler's
art can be better appreciated in English than in Jewish.
It's a more disciplined art. She can do nothing else but
give an artistic performance throughout."
My personal
female press agent, Bella Spivack, occupied herself with
this; the woman who years later became very famous as
one of the most successful dramatists of the pair, Bella
and Samuel Spivack. In general, the institution of
personal publicity agents is practically a must for a
noted actor on the American stage. Most of them are
blessed with a special genius for sensational news about
those they serve in order constantly to keep them before
the eyes and ears of the Broadway theatre world.
Thus I recall,
for example, how worried I was when a friend brought me
the unpleasant news that a member of my mixed-up family
life was getting ready to initiate an open scandal about
me in the theatre at a performance of "The Treasure."
You can imagine the fear that grabbed me when I imagined
what a scandal would mean for me. I tremblingly
entrusted myself to Bella Spivack. Her face fairly
beamed, her eyes virtually got on fire, and, as if she
were already manifestly seeing the scandal in the
theatre right before her eyes, she called out:
"Oh, God, let
it happen. May he not regret it! Do you know, Celia,
what I can do with such a scandal? This would indeed be
front-page news in big letters in all the newspapers.
Such publicity has tremendous value for you and your
career ...."
I looked at
her with scary eyes and wondered about what lies hidden
in the minds of publicity agents to enable them so
easily to make big publicity out of intimate and
personal heartache. First then did I truly understand
the curse of what they call "yellow journalism."
So I'm
fortunate that her hope didn't materialize. She more
than once later pitied me in our conversations:
"Celia, you
have no luck. Your career would have been endlessly
benefitted if that scandal had happened."
I'm indeed
grateful to her with all my heart for not getting me the
benefits I could have gotten.
If you'll
pardon my lack of modesty, I shall tell you in full
consciousness and with a clear conscience that I didn't
shame my name and my profession, heaven forbid, with my
fist appearance on the English stage. This was attested
to not only by the compliments of the most important
theatre critics of the press; the American theatrical
profession, in general, received me with great
enthusiasm.
I still
remember how the great David Belasco, who was then one
of the most important and recognized theatrical
personalities in the Broadway theatrical world, came
into my dressing room after a performance with
overwhelming enthusiasm over my playing and kissing me,
asked me several times to come and see him at the first
opportunity. I shall also not forget the unusual joy and
true warmth of heart that my beloved Bertha Kalich
expressed to me in that same dressing room for playing
that role. She predicted with certainty that my future
was on Broadway. Other important theatrical
personalities from the Broadway theatrical world asked
me to come and see them. I can't understand clearly to
this day how I practically ignored all these wonderful
promises and invitations. Perhaps it was my innate pride,
doubtlessly one of my weaknesses, that I constantly have
the feeling that those that really need me know where to
find me.
I think that
if the role of Tillie had not been thoroughly
characteristically Jewish and if it had not been of the
comic genre, there would perhaps have been Broadway
theatrical managers who would have wanted me and sought
me.
The Theatre
Guild directors very much wanted me for their next
production of Bernard Shaw's "Heartbreak House." So I
also can't explain why my loyalty to Anshel Schorr
didn't let me accept the Theatre Guild's proposal.
I came back to
Philadelphia, keeping my word that I had openly given
to the Philadelphia theatrical public in the "Jewish
World."
Evidently
Anshel Schorr was sure that I'd keep my word and return
to his theatre as soon as "The Treasure" performances
were over. He fed the Philadelphia theatrical public on
my successes on Broadway and on the great compliments
that were lavished on me there.
It again
became evident how well he understood the theatrical
public. When he announced my first appearance at the
Arch Street Theatre, the Philadelphia public made for
the box office. The play with which I again began in
Philadelphia was Isidore Solotorefsky's "The Poor Rich
Little Orphan," an overwhelmingly melodramatic thing,
with a strongly dramatic youngster's role for me.
Celia in "Kleine oreme reykhe yesoyme'le" (Poor-Rich
Little Orphan)
But then, in
Philadelphia after my performances in the outstanding
role of Tillie in Pinski's "Treasure," I became more and
more tired of both the prose and the situations in that
play. It seems to me that I'll better bring out what I
now wish to express by means of the words spoken about
me by a theatrical reviewer in a South American Jewish
paper. Unfortunately, I can't find his name on the
excerpt. I cite from his review after a performance of
one of the melodramas such as "The Poor-Rich Little
Orphan" that I happened to play on one of my tours
years later in South America:
"No one doubts
that Celia Adler is an artist of this endowment and is
capable to stir her hearers on fire and enthuse them.
She came to us with the aura of her artistic
achievements in the New York Art Theatre, where she was
the leading figure among the women. But it seems to me
that she has first now undergone the great artistic
temptation with us and has emerged the same Celia Adler,
the great artist. Don't consider it a paradox. It was
surely easier for Celia Adler, the person with the fine
nerve-meshing, to take on the natural tremulousness of
women naturally delineated by Peretz Hirshbein, Sholem
Aleichem, and Sholem Asch, which she brought to life on
the stage of the Art Theatre, rather than to infuse the
breath of life—and, it must be said, real
life—artistically created, into the unnatural, unreal,
and just plain lifeless personages jerry-built by
American writers of trash."
I can't omit a
very funny incident that happened at the first
performance of the "Abandoned Inn" at the Arch Street
Theatre.
As Meite, the
bride, I was dressed up in a village wedding dress at
the wedding ceremony in the second act. In order that
the little dress should look wider, the wardrobe
mistress dressed me in several little petticoats. But
she evidently forgot to secure one of the little
petticoats properly. You're already guessing what
happened. As I was dancing with my pals, the neglected
little petticoat slowly slipped slowly down more and
more, until I began to feel that it was tangling between
my legs. Even before someone on the stage noticed the
catastrophe, the audience could be heard issuing waves
of laughter. Madame Waxman, who was playing my mother,
was the first one on the stage to notice it. I felt I
must do something here to undo the catastrophe. And
instead of stealthily putting the little petticoat
aside, I openly stepped out of it during the dance.
Madame Waxman succeeded in making good use of this and
helped transform the incident into part of the dance.
She boldly lifted with both hands the lovely little
petticoat before the audience and, while dancing, shoved
a little chair out to the front of the stage and happily
spread it out on the little chair with great aplomb. The
audience took this scene in a joyful manner to be a
natural part of the play.
Understandably, the next day, both the wardrobe mistress
and I made quite sure that the little petticoat should
not drop. But Gruber, one of the managers, ran on the
stage with a terrible argument: "Holy smoke, what
happened to the lovely scene with the petticoat? Why did
you leave it out? It was really a wonderful scene."
The petticoat
dropped just at the right time at all subsequent
performances.....
Instead of
telling about it myself, I wish to cite here a portion
of what our beloved A. Frumkin wrote: "Aside from the
great success that Celia Adler, together with the other
actors, had last week in the "Abandoned Inn," she also
appeared last Monday night in the leading role of
Hauptmann's 'Lonesome People,' in which she was
unsurpassed. She performed the play at her
'Evening-of-Honor,' and it's no exaggeration to say that
the Arch Street Theatre has seldom seen such an
outstandingly large audience that not only filled every
seat up to the very top of the last balcony, but a
great, very great many stood in thick rows in the back."
I can't say
for sure on which day or even which month it was in the
spring of 1921 that Schwartz again remembered me. But it
must have been a considerable number of weeks before my
season at the Philadelphia Arch Street Theatre was over.
As the saying goes, it was on a lovely day that Maurice
Schwartz announced to me that he was in Philadelphia and
would like to see me; he would like to engage me for the
following season at the Yiddish Art Theatre.
Unfortunately,
I can't say that the news cheered me up very much, that
I felt elevated. My clear head didn't permit me to
devote myself to new dreams, joyful hopes, shining
ideals as concerned my future in Schwartz's Art Theatre.
I won't deny that I had the urge to live and create
again in better plays, in the better theatre. But my
feeling didn't expunge for one moment my memory of the
bitter experiences Schwartz made me pass through at the
Irving Place Theatre.
I went to meet
Schwartz with sure, firm steps, not borne by wings of
fantasy. As we had done some ten pr eleven years before, we
again ate lunch in Philadelphia. The only difference
between that lunch and the lunches of yesteryear was
that we were both older by some eleven years and already
knew each other better....
Instead of
looking at each other with eyes of love and carrying on
a conversation in the manner of girlhood and boyhood
romance, we both observed each other with wiser eyes;
and our talk was a sort of wrangling at trying to get
the better business deals from each other. On the one
hand a strong willingness, a yearning for better theatre
was being fought out; on the other hand, there was the
businessman, who, in addition to being a star performer
was also blessed with a glib tongue and an understanding
of how to excite my strong desire, my great yearning. I
must admit that, if one of us had to be declared the
winner in that talk, it was Schwartz. But I can clearly
say that I lost, being fully aware nevertheless of what
was going on.
Somehow it
almost became a rigid law that the better theatre could
not pay actors such wages as the so-called trash
theatres could, so that I was ready to lower the salary
I had received from Anshel Schorr. I was not impressed
by the other beautifully portrayed theatrical dreams
with which Schwartz tried to enthuse me about the new
home of his Yiddish Art Theatre in the Garden Theatre,
which he had taken over. How does one say it: "I took it
with a grain of salt."
Schwartz also
tried very strongly to prevail upon me at that
conversation to accept his proposal to go with him on
his prolonged tour over the provinces. He was leaving
with Sholem Aleichem's "It's Hard to Be A Jew" and,
since he hadn't engaged Bertha Gerstin for the coming
season, he would like it better that I, his leading lady
for the new season, should get the publicity that was
wrapped up with the Art Theatre's tour over the
provinces: "True, the role isn't so boilingly hot, but
I'm sure that you'll appear to advantage in the role."
And so, it
would seem that I allowed myself to be prevailed upon,
but in this case it wasn't entirely Schwartz's
strength that mastered me, but the financial gains the
prospect offered. As a province-city, Philadelphia has
no summer tour. Taking on Schwartz's proposition meant
my earning about a thousand dollars—so that, all in
all, I came away almost satisfied from that rendezvous
with Schwartz....
I was happy
over the prospect of a season of better theatre the
chance to dig deep into roles of artistically conceived
personages. And, in addition, the tour over the
provinces that would give me the opportunity of being
able to go with my child and Feige on a more comfortable
summer vacation with a lighter heart. But evidently the
little maxim, "There's a great gap between promising and
giving," is a true little maxim, and the theatrical
profession is certainly no exception.
Schwartz again
met me in Philadelphia some two or three weeks before
the departure for the tour over the provinces. Nothing
had changed, heaven forbid, concerning my being with him
the next season. What did change was the matter of the
tour. That is, the tour had not changed but my going on
it had. Just then, Muni Weisenfreund (Paul Muni), who
had had such enormous success in "It's Hard To Be A
Jew," married Emma Finkel's younger daughter, Bella, a
very fine young actress. So Muni wanted to go on the
tour with Schwartz only if Bella took part in it. There
is no other women's role in "It's Hard To Be A Jew."
Since the role is not so A-1, he has to take on Bella
for the role—that's what Schwartz assured me.
Well now, who
could argue with a pair of newlyweds who don't want to
part during their honeymoon? I was a little shocked at
the ease with which Schwartz dealt with the Yes and No,
not even thinking about the fact that I had lost other
opportunities, being sure of his tour. His only
expression to quiet me was: "After all, Celia, that's
really no role for you. The role is too small for you...."
He didn't know
that he would have to meet up with those two phrases
during the season because, when he was performing "It's
Hard To Be A Jew" later in the season and gave me the
role as a matter of course, I rejected it. I just
repeated his words: "You yourself said that the role was
not for me—the role was too small for me ...."
I decided not
to break up my little home in Philadelphia. I went to
New York and stayed with Lillie and Ludwig, my sister
and brother-in-law, in their lovely and comfortable home
on 110th Street, opposite Central Park. There was a
many-sided reason for my not breaking up my home in
Philadelphia. First, my residence had to remain in
Philadelphia because of legal reasons anent my divorce
from Lazar. That was the main reason. Second, my
subconscious somehow told me that I would no doubt not
stay with Schwartz more than one season at a time.
Third, I didn't want my child to suffer from the actor's
fate—peripatetics. Since my mother was engaged in
Philadelphia the following season, she remained in my
home with Feige and my child.
My motherly
weakness urges me to tell you about one of my Zelik'l's
little witticisms. He was then about five years old. I'm
counting on the fact that everybody knows that
everything his own child says is a witticism. Thus, I
recall that, while playing with his little buddies, he
boasted that three women took care of him: "My mother,
my grandmother, and my Feige. My grandmother is the
'fixer'—if my toy gets broken, she's always ready to
fix it. My Feige is the cooker—she's always cooking
meals I like. My mother is the reader—she always reads
the most beautiful stories to me; sometimes she even
reads them without a book. But all three are working for
me.... " So, that season, he often missed the third
one, the reader—poor fellow.
The first play
that season in Schwartz's Art Theatre was "The Dybbuk"
by Sh. Ansky, a play that proved to be epoch-making for
the Yiddish theatre all over the world. It seems to me
that no play was performed so much; it can be said that
it played in practically every nook and
cranny where Jews can be found. I believe there isn't
another play in Jewish dramatic literature that has been
played in so many languages as "The Dybbuk."
Those most
important and noted productions of the plays by the
magnificent Habima Players, under their young, masterful
director, I. B. Vachtangov, were considered as being in
the first tier of greatness. And David Herman's finely
wrought direction of the Vilna Troupe is to be placed in
practically the same rank of importance. David Herman's
production at the Elysium Theatre in Warsaw on December
19th, 1920, was the first performance of "The Dybbuk."
The public and the great interest it showed in the play
practically forced many theatres to produce it.
I've already
mentioned that Schwartz took over the Garden Theatre on
Twenty-Seventh Street for that season. The theatre
needed
considerable renovation; the stage was also occupied
with "The Dybbuk" sets being built on it; so that we
started rehearsals in the hall of the Manhattan Lyceum
on Fourth Street. I recall how wonderfully Maurice
Schwartz read "The Dybbuk" to the troupe. One could see
that he had spent much time studying the play.
I recall very
clearly the impression I had at my first reunion with
Schwartz during a time period of two whole years.
One could feel
a strong certainty in his approach to his work. In like
manner, the authority with which he faced the troupe
stood out stronger. After his magnificent reading, I
awaited with longer curiosity a explanation, a lecture
if you wish to call it that, about what the play
purports to say in "The Dybbuk," about the mysticism
lying hidden in the play, about the various implications
that are in practically every role. Schwartz had surely
gone into deep study, deep thought of all these things.
He had weaved it all into a definite directorial plan,
and he would hold the lecture any moment now so that
every actor would feel what the direction expected him
to bring out. Listening to his reading, I felt that this
was very important for my role, for the roles of the
others. The lecture didn't materialize. Perhaps at the
rehearsals, I thought.
When "The
Dybbuk" rehearsals started, most of us meandered around
in a quandary. I rambled around, very much lost in my
role. The role of Leah is extraordinarily complex: A
young woman is smitten with love for a young man whom
she hardly knows but who is destined for her by Divine
Providence. There isn't one love scene, practically no
single word with which to express her deep love for him.
Leah and Chonon are seen together on the stage in only
one scene in the synagogue. Hardly a word passes between
them. She must show only with her eyes, with glances
veiled from her grandmother and the others present in
the synagogue, that her soul is tethered to the soul of
her pre-destined Chonon. To effectuate this requires
one's own deepening in the role and the director's
indication and explanation of the right line of
procedure.
Having been
born in the United States, I seldom heard and certainly
never saw a person who harbored a dybbuk. Leah receives
her dybbuk from her prematurely dead, predestined
Chonon. He must speak through her. I scarcely knew how
to ingest the thing. So I missed not hearing the
director's awaited lecture perhaps more than anyone else
did. I tried to find an answer in the role, in the play,
in the little dots that the author had so frequently
put into the play.
I spoke to a
number of people seeking the enlightenment I was
missing. Ludwig, my brother-in-law, was brought up and
spent his early youth in Galicia. Many stories and
legends about dybbuks made the rounds there. Talking it
over with me, he told me several stories. He also told
me about a scene that he himself had witnessed in which
a young fellow, who used to stay in the anteroom of
a synagogue, thrashed around in all sorts of convulsions
and that something like a strange voice seemed to crow
out of him. People used to say that a dybbuk had entered
him.
In my
rambling, I shaped the role from all these words and
conversations. I remember how physically difficult it
was for me to bring forth my created fantasy voice when
the dybbuk had to speak through me. I even recall that I
once fainted from the physical strain and had to be
carried off the stage. I wasn't sure of the correctness
of my interpretation in those scenes in which the dybbuk
spoke out of me. When I later saw the Habima do "The
Dybbuk" with the wonderfully talented Hanna Rowina, who
was blessed with so many virtues, in the role of Leah
and heard her dybbuk tones of voice, I had strong
arguments with myself.... I even envied her very much
for part of her movements in the role while she
struggles with the dybbuk. In Leah's scene, in which the
Miropole Rabbi tries to hound the dybbuk out of her, and
the dybbuk cries out of her in great spiritual pain:
"She's my destined betrothed; I won't leave her.... "
Leah (Rowina) saying these words clasped herself with her
own hands and wound her arms around her neck.
I was very
much impressed by her scene. Knowing the role, I began
to feel how accurately that expressed the feelings Leah
was then experiencing. I was told about how much vision
and understanding the young director Vachtangov expended
in working on that scene and others similar to it.
Everyone knows
that "The Dybbuk" has many mass scenes. So Schwartz got
involved with the Art Circle, an amateur group with an
ambition to make its own new attempts in the domain of
the Yiddish theatre. Part of the group got on the
professional Yiddish stage during the course of the
years. Some of them dug roots in the Yiddish
theatre with a considerable amount of success, among
them being Jehuda Bleich, Zvi Scooler, Moishe
Strassberg, Jacob Bergreen, Boris Weiner, the painter
Jack Sobel, Sherman and others.
An unfortunate
mistake, which became famous in the entire
American-Yiddish theatrical profession, is worthy of
mention here. The actor, who didn't satisfy Schwartz in
the role of the Messenger, at last lived to see the day
when he was later allowed to play it on our tour over
the provinces. At the end of the second act, when the
peculiar tones of voice of the so-called dybbuk begin to
emanate from the bride, my role Leah, the Messenger
concludes the act with the following phrase which he
utters clearly, distinctly, practically counting each
word: "Into the bride has entered a dybbuk! .... "
Before we left
on tour, Schwartz sent the actor involved out ahead in
order to find the needed number of people for the mass
scenes in "The Dybbuk," and to study the scenes with
them; after all, you can't bring along tens of extras.
To take people on a tour is a very costly enterprise.
Most of the extras in Chicago were Gentiles whom an
agent had furnished for us. The last scene, when the dybbuk enters the bride is enacted at the marriage
ceremony at which all the extras stand holding little
candle lights in their hands. And when the Messenger
utters his drawn-out last words, they must all express
fear with the little lights in their hands, and call
out—"Oh-h-h!.. .. " And since the stage is very dark—the
wedding ceremony takes place in the street—an
impressive effect is created when, together with their
drawn-out "Oh," all the shining little lights make a
move in a certain direction.
Knowing that
they didn't know Yiddish, and that they wouldn't know
when to enact their scene, he arranged with them to look
at him constantly and he would give them the signal when
to utter "Oh" and sway the little lights. It was
evidently very much in his mind that the effect of the
little lights come out as well as it should. And so it
was that the distinct, clear, drawn-out phrase came
through as: "Into the bride has entered a candle
light...."
It's hard for
me to relate how we all felt when the curtain fell on
these unfortunate words. Ordinarily, in such cases, a
sort of sympathy awakens among the actors for the one
who has the misfortune of making such a terrible mistake
on the stage. We were somewhat happy when he didn't want
to believe by any manner or means that he had made the
mistake. But this little story became a renowned byword
in our theatrical profession ....
We rehearsed
"The Dybbuk" at the Manhattan Lyceum for several weeks
until we switched to the theatre—but not yet onto the
stage. There was a rather spacious place behind the rows
of seats in the balcony of the theatre—so we continued
our rehearsals there. The stage was still occupied with
the sets that were being built there.
It wasn't
until the very last day before the premiere that we held
the first and last rehearsal on the stage. We began the
rehearsals at eight o'clock in the evening and,
understandably went over many scenes. There were also
long stops during which the various lighting effects
were firmed up and punctiliously effectuated. The new
sets were also set up then for the first time for the
actors' use. And it is very often necessary in such
cases to change something, to fit something here and
there. This also took a lot of time. "The Dybbuk" has
four acts and each one of the first three has a
different set. You will thus first now understand when I
tell you that we barely got through with the first three
acts by six o'clock in the morning.
I won't try to
tell you about how we all felt after going through such
a difficult night vigil right on the eve of the premiere
when that very evening. We had to be ready and full of
energy to perform such a difficult play as "The Dybbuk"
for the first time. Even Schwartz, who was famous in the
profession for his unusual strength and endurance, even
he was empty of energy and exhausted. So it was agreed
among all of us that the few hours of rest were more
worthwhile than to spend them in rehearsing the last
act. So, as the saying goes, we left it to Heaven and to
our long-time experience that we would somehow or other
make it without rehearsing the last act.
Obviously,
because Ansky's "Dybbuk" had held top place in the
theatrical writing in the Jewish press all over the
world and no less in the
foreign-language newspapers all over the world, we were
all filled with a lot of nervousness and trembling
expectation over our first performance of the play. When
we were already in our dressing rooms, getting makeup on
and, in general getting ready for the performance, each
of us was chockfull of nervous tension. There were some
fifty or sixty people on the stage, counting actors and
extras. You could almost slice the collective
nervousness with a knife.
The first
performance was not before the public at large, so to
speak. There existed in those days in Jewish New York
an organization with the very curious name of "The
Mockers." A group of intelligent young men and women,
they were very much interested in Jewish culture,
literature, and better Yiddish theatre.
Generally
speaking, they awakened Jewish New York to all sorts of
cultural happenings, and mixed into and helped bring out
in the open, so to speak, matters that bore on Jewish
culture and literature.
The chairman
or president, as the office is usually known in Jewish
organizations, called himself "King of the Mockers," a
title he borrowed from one of Zangwill's famous books.
Al Harris, the noted public reader of Sholem Aleichem's
works and an artist, came out of "The Mockers"
organization. And who doesn't remember the famous
"Meier" of "The Mockers"? Artists, performers, everybody
alike who had any relationship with Yiddish literature
and culture often had to answer Meier-of-Mockers'
"Arguments and Opinions."
And it was
"The Mockers" who brought up the first performance of
"The Dybbuk" from Schwartz.
It was not
only a favor and an encouragement to Schwartz on the
financial side of his theatre, but also a great favor to
us actors to have such a fine audience on which to
try out our research, our inchoate wandering, and before
which to cover up our exhaustion from the previous night
of vigil.
I sense the
desire to utter my admiration here for Ansky's wonderful
understanding of how to affect a theatre audience
mystically. In his comments in the printed text of "The
Dybbuk," he requests that, before the curtain goes up in
total darkness, there shall be heard a quiet, mystical
song from afar. I cannot forget how I trembled when I
felt the song being intoned in the darkness: "Wherefore,
wherefore, has the soul fallen from its exalted height
into the lowest depths? In Falling lies the power for
the Ascent ...." And I had no doubt that the theatre
audience was deeply affected by the words and the
melody; and this created the proper atmosphere in which
to receive the tender mystical performance of "The
Dybbuk."
It doubtless
happens to many people that the memory of certain
impressions remains engraved in their consciousness for
many long years. My impression of how "The Dybbuk" play
began is still in my memory to this day both as to the
singing of "Wherefore, wherefore" before the curtain
rose and the chant with which the Jewish civil and
religious law (Talmud) is sung by the idlers attached to
the synagogue (batlonim) the moment the curtain rose.
My friends
have often told me that, at the rising of the curtain
after the mystic intonations of the "wherefore,
wherefore," the faint lighting of only parts of the
synagogue called forth a feeling of holiness in the
theatre's audience. The first scene, the conversation of
the three batlonim of the synagogue, helped strengthen
this very feeling.
The people in
the Art Circle possessed considerable intelligence, were
knowledgeable of Yiddish literature, knew "The Dybbuk"
as a play, and executed with much love all the mass
scenes and the more minor roles that a number of them
were given.
The bridegroom
with whom I was to be brought to the wedding ceremony in
"The Dybbuk" was also a young fellow from the Art
Circle. I say "I had to be brought to the wedding
ceremony" because it was never to take place. Just when
they bring him over to me for my veiling prior to the
wedding ceremony, I suddenly jump up, tear the kerchief
from his hands, and push him away, yelling: "You're not
my bridegroom...." I remember that, sitting on the chair
in that scene when the handsome young fellow who played
the bridegroom comes near me with the kerchief, I said
quietly to Bina Abramowitz who stood at my side, "What
a sweet young fellow; it's a pity I have to treat him so
badly...."
That was his
first role on the stage. But he has created quite a
notable spot for himself in the better Yiddish theatre
since then. He has also created a great name for himself
on radio station WEVD.
He's my
beloved colleague and friend, whom everybody how knows,
the truly talented Zvi Scooler, "the master of the
poetic rhyme."
Curiously
enough, as I was talking with Zvi Scooler only a few
weeks ago about that "Dybbuk" time, and he confided a secret
to me: He had heard my remark to Bina Abramowitz about
him at the time and it remained in his memory to this
day.
I've
previously enumerated here a number of the young fellows
from the Art Circle who, in time, created a name for
themselves on the professional Yiddish stage. I do not
wish to slight the young ladies of the Art Circle who
then participated in "The Dybbuk." Several of them later
also created a name for themselves in this or that
manner, among them being: Clara Langsner, Malka
Kornstein, Brontcha Bernstein, Miriam Goldberg who, in
later years, also derived satisfaction at times on the
Yiddish and the English stage. Among them was also the
extremely fine present-day storyteller, Sarah
Hammer-Jacklin. You can see for yourself that those
young fellows and girls of the Art Circle possessed
intelligence and fine talent.
Anna Spector
was also among them. She later became famous as one of
the first and best women-personalities on the Yiddish
radio. She not only created for herself a great name
with her activities on WEVD, but she also inspired and
awakened many woman to devote themselves to
organizational work; and a rather large women's
organization shaped up around her that did a great deal
to rescue Jewish orphans from devastated Europe through
the Histadrut Campaign.
They all
attached themselves to me, so to speak, and they used to
spend most of their free time from a performance in my
dressing room. I became close friends with a number of
them, and I would often frequent their homes, especially
Anna Spector, who later became the wife of Oscar Gorin,
who held an important position in the Jewish radio
world. Their home truly became in time a place where the
most noted personalities of the artistic and literary
world would meet.
I feel deep
pain remembering them and their home that has as if
been wiped off the earth, not leaving anybody to
represent the virtue of hospitality to guests. Oscar Gorin and Anna Spector left the world prematurely. My
pain deepens when I recall that three of the four have
already been taken from us. Also gone are Malka
Kornstein and Brontcha Bernstein. We were such close
friends, and I now think I owe them gratitude.... They
sweetened for me many a difficult, bitter day and night
that I had to live through that season both in my life
in the theatre and in my personal life. They lightened
my burden a great deal with their joyfulness, with their
devotion and love for their work and for me.
The arguments
and questions that I, in my role as Leah in "The
Dybbuk," pose for my grandmother now surface unwillingly
to my memory: "Tell me, dearest grandma, doesn't a
person get born for a big, long life? And, if he dies
before his time, what happens to his life not lived, his
happiness and his suffering—his thoughts that he
didn't have time to think, his deeds that he didn't
have time to accomplish?.... What happens to the
children that he didn't have time to have—what happens
to it all?"
So now I think
and ruminate just as Leah does in "The Dybbuk": What
really happens to foreshortened lives? These people
really gave me so much of their love and devotion, at
times lifting my spirits with their happiness and glee;
and I really wasn't the only one in their circle. Anna
Spector's and Oscar Gorin's lovely warm home received me
with warmth so many times in difficult moments in the
course of my life and consoled me and caressed
me—really, now, why has this warm home, which was so
filled with meaningfulness, been so brutally swept away,
not leaving a stick or stone behind to mark its
existence? Even a home has a soul—to where has that soul
vanished?
Forgive me for
my sad and perhaps foolish memories and ruminations. I
felt like ventilating my yearning. I miss them so, those
beloved chums of mine.
There is an
accepted opinion around that certain happenings and
occurrences can be much better and more clearly
explained and appreciated the further one is removed
from them. It is evidently a true opinion. Thus I now
think that, at that time, when we were absorbed in "The
Dybbuk" and each of us was occupied with his role and
because some of the roles were very difficult, we could
not properly appreciate the worth of "The Dybbuk," a
play that was Ansky's masterful theatre piece. We also
didn't grasp why this piece satisfied so many audiences,
and called forth their enthusiasm. Now, after so many
years, when I think of my role, of the play's
personalities with whom I came in contact, when I look
into and turn the pages of "The Dybbuk" and linger over
certain scenes, it seems to me you don't have to be a
great theatre buff or one who deeply understands
literature to be able to touch and sense the power this
piece harbors and the tremendous effort it must have on
people in general and on Jews in particular.
"The Dybbuk"
has all the elements with which to involve an audience,
even if it is produced in a surface fashion, without
deep understanding. It's much clearer to me how why the
play could so enthuse and call forth so much depth in
young Vachtangov, not a Jew, a close collaborator with
the Russian Moscow Art Theatre, a student of the great
Stanislavsky. He so penetrated and fathomed the mystic
depths of "The Dybbuk" that he could create such a
magnificent performance with a group of intelligent,
ambitious, idealistic young lovers. Of course it's true
that great talent lay in many of these young lovers
which Vachtangov awakened and revealed in them. David
Herman also achieved this in large measure with the
Vilna Troupe, practically under the same circumstances.
No doubt many
of you know that "Between Two Worlds" was the feature
name of Ansky's play. "The Dybbuk" was an added name.
With Ansky, the two worlds are this world and the next
world. It could also be "Rich and Poor," "The Satisfied
and the Aggrieved."
Take, for
example, a little parable, a parable that Ansky tells
through the Messenger's mouth; he tells it to the rich
man, Reb Sender Brinitzer. It's a concealed little
parable; but everyone in the audience, even the most
simpleminded, had the satisfaction of understanding the
parable and what the Messenger wished to elucidate with
it. Here's the little parable:
"A rabbinical
devotee, a rich man but a miser, once came to the Rabbi,
The Rabbi took him by the hand, led him over to the
window and said:—Look .... So the rich man looked into
the street. The Rabbi then asked him:—What do you see?
He answered:—I see people .... The Rabbi again took him
by the hand, led him over to the mirror and said:—Look,
what do you see now? He answered:—Now I see myself ....
So the Rabbi said to him:—Understandably, there's glass
in the window and there's glass in the mirror, but the
glass in the mirror is coated with a little silver; and
no sooner is one silvered-over then he stops seeing
people and begins to see only himself...."
As I've
already previously indicated, the Messenger is a kind of
symbolic figure in the play—Justice. He always enters
just in time to fulfill his mission. It reminds me of my
citing from my role of Leah that she was dumbfounding
her grandmother with all sorts of questions about people
who died before their time.
Leah takes her
complaints even further—she releases her deeply buried
feelings for the deceased young man, her intended mate:
"Here was this young fellow, very much alive, who had a
great soul and deep thoughts. A long life stood before
him and yet, all at once, in an instant, his chain of
life broke. Strangers came along and buried him in
foreign soil. " And she calls out in despair:
"What became
of his remaining life, his silenced words, his severed
prayers? Grandmother, if a light goes out, you rekindle
it and it goes on burning until it burns to the very
end. How is it at all possible for a light of life that
hasn't burned out to be put out forever—how is this
possible?! ...."
People in the
theatre must be overawed by such inexplicable questions
that are nevertheless intelligible to nearly all of
them. They've perhaps thought the same way at certain
occurrences in their own lives.
And when the
Messenger, practically standing over her, intones the
words: "There are roaming, homeless souls that find no
peace and force themselves as dybbuks into living,
foreign bodies, thereby achieving their purification
.... it is with these words that he has prepared Leah
to receive the dybbuk, Chonon's soul, which enters her
later. Every viewer can surely approach and understand
all these clandestine, mystic professions of spiritual
things ....
I wish to
share a curious thought with you that came over me as I
was digging into Ansky's play, "The Dybbuk." Why should
the little bit of happiness destined for a person come
so late? It would surely have been such a great joy and
would perhaps have lengthened his life if he had
witnessed the phenomenal success of his labor of love,
"The Dybbuk." But the first performance of his play
first came a month after his death. Isn't this some sort
of mock-play dealt by fate? .....
I want to
mention here that there were two Art Circle people
playing the two rabbinical assistants at this religious
law trial. The first, Moishe Strassberg, made a noted
name for himself over a period of many years in the Art
Theatre as a fine character actor and stage technician.
He has lately been playing on the English stage.
But on my own
responsibility, I wish to ascribe a considerable amount
of success of "The Dybbuk" to one who in his own way
reached a very high degree of excellence in that aspect
of the Art Theatre with which he was most concerned.
Without a doubt he then showed in great manner the rich
musical talent he possessed. His wedding melodies and
the music in general which, so to speak, embellished and
lent beauty to "The Dybbuk" were transfused with Jewish
charm, with Jewish warmth of heart and depth—that truly
shining star of those years—Joseph Cherniavsky.
I cannot hold
back and, true to my policy in this story, must indicate
here that, not long after the opening of my second
season with Schwartz, a "black cat" again ran between
us. I've often wondered a great deal about the curious
way I often noticed Schwartz behaving in his theatre
that season. Right then and there, when his Art Theatre
was very successful financially, right under those
circumstances, he constantly walked around incensed and
unfriendly. And, per contra, when the finances were not
so good, he was pretty nearly always very friendly and
even intimate with us. I puzzle over it to this day.
Perhaps there are psychologists who could interpret it
....
It was only in
"The Dancer" that Schwartz ever played with me on any of
my "Evenings-of-Honor." It was he who actually
recommended the play and gave it to me....
"The black
cat" had already been whitened by that time.
I evidently
can't avoid my feeling for boasting, which is part of
everybody's nature in smaller or larger measure. So I
want to cull for you some short citations which Ab.
Cahan wrote about that evening under the heading of
"Celia Adler's Talent": "....She evinced a great deal of
imaginative power and artistic feeling and understanding
in the role which confirmed the name she has achieved
for herself on the Yiddish stage as one of our most
important artists.... I followed her with the deepest
attention in this particular role. In this role too she
thoroughly passed the examination.... There can be no
question but that she is a born artist with real talent
and, in addition, with brains.... Her playing in 'The
Dancer,' by H. Hengyel, has firmed up her name as an
artist even more."
Meanwhile,
they rehearsed apace a play that almost had a forced
success that season; I mean "Rags," the famous play by
our most noted and greatest poet, H. Leivick, a play
that treats a corner of American productivity, to
wit, rags. The employees of "Rags," the characters
Leivick portrayed, could also be classified as rags.
Since I
previously used the expression "a forced success," I
wish to underscore here that what then came to be
recognized by nearly everybody as the relatively
considerable success of that play must be attributed to
the stubbornness of Ab. Cahan in his conviction and deep
faith that Leivick's "Rags" was a work of art and, as
such merited being properly appreciated. Thus, the
newspaper columns in "The Forward" were open to Leivick's "Rags." The play was printed in installments,
and again and again articles with favorable opinions
about "Rags" appeared very often. Certainly Leivick's
"Rags" did indeed honestly deserve its success.
Schwartz took
on as a challenge another part of theatrical art in his
Art Theatre that season. With the help of his highly
talented musician. Joseph Cherniavsky, and scripts
which, it seems to me were written by our humorist, the
magnificent, glowing writer, poet, raconteur, dramatist
and what have you—Moishe Nadir—Schwartz executed two
little art evenings under the name of "The Crooked
Mirror." Understandably this was a broad field.
Jewish life—the American Jewish street, American
political life, our own Bohemia, the world of the
writer, the world of the theatre, organizational people
in general—these were wonderful themes for a "Crooked
Mirror."
Moishe Nadir
was certainly the proper person for this domain. He got
out some "very charming pranks." Thus, for example, many
people know that our "famous romantic actor," Samuel
Goldinburg, liked to play the piano. Blessed with
musical leanings, he played the piano on the stage every
chance he had. There was a scene in a cemetery on "The
Crooked Mirror," where the person playing
Goldinburg
came to pay his respects to his dead parents. A piano
was standing amid the graves, and Goldinburg relieved
his feelings in music on it. I've already mentioned many
times Schwartz's adeptness at imitating The Great Three.
So there was a scene there, a parody on the last acts of
all melodramas—masterpieces on the Yiddish trash stage,
Maurice Schwartz played the leading role, impersonating
the play's hero whose name was "Tammug-Shefski"....These
and other such artistic exaggerations and satires filled
the program. But the Jewish public remained cold to it;
they didn't take to it. So the attempt ended with a few
evenings.
At that time,
Jonah Rosenfeld was still a newcomer to our literature
in Russia. Here, among us in America, the story was
snapped up by "The Forward." Ab. Cahan printed the story
for his "Forward" readers with an enthusiastic
introduction, and he wrote a rather long literary
appreciation in which he expressed his highest
admiration and recognition of the writer's talent. When
Jonah Rosenfeld came to America, he made a three-act
drama from his story and Schwartz produced it. There
isn't the least doubt that, as drama, "Competitors" had
some wonderfully portrayed characters.... In it, a
corner of life was revealed and human weaknesses were
brought out that were of an unusual and singular kind.
It seems to me
that a big part of the success of "Competitors" also has
to be ascribed to Ab. Cahan's enthusiastic critique. And
writing as if he sensed that, he said in his critique
among other things: "A short time ago, I had the
pleasure of greeting Leivick's marvelous drama of life,
'Rags'; today I have the similar pleasure of greeting
Rosenfeld's drama of life, 'The Competitors'."
Understandably, added to the strong drama and to Cahan's
praise were also the magnificent performances of the
actors. Maurice Schwartz, Anna Appel, Jechiel Goldsmith—and may I count myself among them as
well—brought out the play's deeply psychological
characters in a very successful way. The performance of
an eight-year-old little boy was a great sensation in
"The Competitors." The role is far from an ordinary
children's role, and Motele Brand saw the role through
very successfully. His playing almost made the
impression on the Jewish theatrical world that the
playing of little Jackie Coogan once did in a movie with
Charlie Chaplin.
That season,
for Passover, Schwartz wrestled with the production of a
drama called "Oaks" by Fishel Bimko, another young
dramatist. I say "wrestled" because Schwartz ran into
two difficulties. The first difficulty was his own, that
is, he wrestled with himself. There are two strong men's
roles in it, the father's and the son's. So it was hard
for Schwartz to decide which role to play.
And I also was
mixed up in the second hassle. The leading women's role
in the play is that of a young servant girl whom the
father marries after becoming a widower. But his grown
son falls in love with the young girl and is ready to
take her away from his father. Schwartz had decided that
I, with my slim figure, couldn't manifest the female
temptation, which my father and son pursued. He engaged
especially for the role a famous, very talented
soubrette who had a few more pounds on her body.
I can't say
with a clear conscience that this didn't displease
(worry) me. But I consoled myself with the fact that I
could spend all of Passover with my child at home in
Philadelphia. You will recall that I hadn't given up my
home in Philadelphia that season.
The premiere
of "Oaks" was on Friday night. And so I left for
Philadelphia that very Friday morning; but my happiness
didn't last very long. I had barely had time to delight
in my child a little when I received a telegram on
Sunday morning that I must appear for rehearsal at
eleven o'clock Monday morning.
I was
virtually flabbergasted. What was the meaning of this?
"Oaks" was supposed to be on through all of Passover.
When I came to rehearsal on Monday, I discovered that
the play had been taken off the boards, and the "The
Treasure" by David Pinski had to be put on right then
and there on the following Friday during the Second
Group of Days of the Passover holiday. When I got on the
stage, the very first person I met straight off was none
other than Maurice Schwartz. I evidently couldn't avoid
the temptation of having such a caustic question as this
sort of roll off my tongue by itself: "What's the
matter, weren't the soubrette's few extra pounds any
help at all?"
Without
speaking, with a hidden, guilty smile and with his
characteristic little charm, Schwartz tightened his
lips, stuck his tongue in his left cheek, and made a
helpless gesture with his hands.
It seems,
however, that the "little poison" in me still hadn't
been satisfied. It didn't take long for a second
opportunity to arise whereby to use something with which
to fire off my chagrin again.
"The Treasure"
is not an easy play to master. And although most of us
actors were experienced in the play from the first
season at the Irving Place Theatre, there were, however,
many mass scenes in it. Continuous rehearsals were
necessary during the few days until Friday. We had to
rehearse for entire days. We only interrupted things to
catch a bite of food brought in to us. Thus, we were
once sitting and talking during recess about the banquet
which Max Gabel's troupe was preparing for him. Schwartz
was sitting with a bottle of milk in one hand and a
sandwich in the other, and he spoke up: "Gabel is
lucky—they make a banquet for him. Now I ask, would
anyone make a banquet for me?...."
I was sitting
with my back to him. As soon as he had spoken the last
words, I spontaneously turned around to him quickly and,
wagging a finger right in his face, yelled at him with
laughing eyes backed up by my whole fiery temperament:
"Wait, Schwartz, just you wait, I'll fix a banquet for
you!"
Schwartz
gagged so badly drinking from his bottle that he poured
milk all over himself and splattered everybody, not being
able to control his laughter. The entire troupe
virtually laughed hysterically.
I needn't tell
you that Schwartz didn't propose an engagement for me
for the following season and—why deny it, I didn't
expect it nor did I feel worried over it.
Philadelphia
wanted me. Anshel Schorr made me an attractive
proposition. I wanted to be in Philadelphia anyway, on
account of my divorce.
I was pleased
to get to my home in Philadelphia. Understandably, some
not very pleasant meetings at the divorce hearings
awaited me. My lawyer was the famous Morris Speiser, who
was considered in Philadelphia to be one of the really
great advocates. He was a personality in Jewish
organizational life. He saw to it that I was to have as
few of such unpleasant encounters as possible. Thus, I
really obtained my divorce during the time of that
season.
So far as my
theatrical career was concerned , Philadelphia was
almost always a restful haven for me; not, heaven
forbid, a rest from work. In a city in the
provinces—although Philadelphia is a big city, it is a
city in the provinces, so far as the theatre is
concerned—you have to change plays more often; thus,
the work is not all easy. The rest was more of the
spiritual kind— I rested from worry, from heartache,
from disappointment.
The management
of the theatre always treated me very nicely. The
atmosphere around me was generally very pleasant. The
Philadelphia public most assuredly surrounded me with
warmth of heart and a generous attitude. And although I
often had to appear in plays designated as trash, I very
often had my thespian satisfaction even in such roles as
were described by that fine journalist, M. Melamed, in
the Philadelphia "Jewish World": "It's not only that
better plays are put on at the Arch Street Theatre from
time to time on account of Celia Adler, but what's
important is mainly the presence of her own person among
the local actors. She is not only blessed with great
talent, with a special charm, but she also has the
virtue of being able to get herself loved by her
colleagues."
One who was a
newcomer to me in the field of theatrical music sprouted
at the time—a new talent as conductor and composer. He
has since then risen to the highest rung in this field
and remains to this day one of the few serious composers
in our theatrical world. He's our own Sholem Secunda.
I must single
out one production of that season because it was a
curious achievement both for Sholem Secunda and me.
William Siegel's and Sholem Secunda's operetta, "The
American Rabbi's Wife," was produced. Understandably,
there's nothing curious about that in itself. But an
operetta built on Celia Adler as soubrette, with
singing—a great deal of singing—and dancing, that was
the curious thing.
Sholem Secunda
had to brave the writing of such music as I could sing
with my "enormous voice," really like a "regular
songstress" singing with orchestral accompaniment.
For the first
time that season I was recognized as a star attraction
on tours over the provinces. No doubt many of you recall
the name of Edwin A. Relkin, who was actually the
inventor and organizer of regular tours over the
provinces. Without him no Yiddish star could go on tour.
That season Relkin put me also on his roster of stars, stars who
were getting a salary that comprised a considerable
percentage of the total intake. He sent me to Boston for
Passover that season. I thus appeared there in my
success of that season, "The American Rabbi's Wife."
I thus
consider it a happy coincidence that, right now, I'm in
the process of telling about my experience in Boston,
I'm in receipt of a personal letter from a man in
Boston. In addition to being very charming, the letter
has a certain reverence that reminds me of those happy
days when the Yiddish theatre was part of the lives of
many Jews. I shall bring you several citations from the
letter:
"I want to
reveal a secret to you that, when I hold out till Friday
to see your article in 'The Forward,' my eyes light up.
I'm enveloped in happiness as I read your true story
which you paint so vividly just exactly as if it
happened yesterday and as I, an old Jew, witnessed it.
And here I want to reveal another secret to you. I'm a
man already eighty-two years old. I've seen a lot of
Yiddish theatre in my day. And do you know when I first
fell in love with you? It was when you portrayed Zine in
'The Green Fields.' I can't forget your shyness in the
second act as you looked through the window while the
rabbi was studying. I shall never forget those two
beautiful eyes.
I'm sure you
don't remember me. But here's how I got to know you. I
was brought along to prompt at one of your performances
in Boston. I recall that you came out in a mink coat and
came right over to me and said:
" 'Tell me,
please, can you read Yiddish?'
" 'Yes,' I
said. 'I can read Yiddish.'
"So you told
them to give me the play. You wanted to hear me read it.
Well, I did prompt the play that night. You paid me and
even tipped me a dollar, which I've kept to this day. I
ask God to let me have a few more years of health to be
able to hear from you, my dearest Celia Adler. I greet
you from the utmost depth of my heart.
"From me,
Nathan
Goldman"
So I'm so
foolish of heart that, reading that sweet little letter
from that eighty-two-year-old little man. I wiped away
more than one tear. My heartfelt thanks, my dear Nathan
Goldman.....
About that
time, my mother wrote to me from London, where she was
playing with Joseph Kessler in his Pavilion Theatre, to
the effect that he wanted me to come to London for guest
appearances. She also thought that it was time for me to
make a general tour of Europe. Perhaps she would go
along with me. My current independent success in Boston
let me accept that proposal.
You know from
my narrative that this was already my third visit to
Europe. Germany was then still suffering considerably
from the aftermath of the First World War, especially as
regards the realm of economics. The German mark was very
low at the time. I'm sure you've already heard countless
stories, anecdotes, and jokes concerning this matter.
So, I'll tell you still one more which I myself
witnessed—or let's say rather my mother and I did.
There was then
a group of actors in Berlin who were in trouble, poor
things. When they discovered that my mother and I were
in Berlin, they asked us to play several performances
with them. This would assure them of a little money on
which to get along. We couldn't refuse them.
I left all the
arrangements to my mother.
I remember
that when the performances were over, when we
so-to-speak packed up and left the theatre, I noticed an
endless amount of baggage. I knew that both our
wardrobes for the performances could fit into one small
suitcase. When we got home, I asked mother what was
going on with all those suitcases. Instead of answering,
she opened the suitcases. My breath almost failed. They
were all packed with banknotes (money):
"What's the
matter, mother; is it stage money?"
"No, daughter;
those are German marks. It all amounts to more than
twelve million."
"Is that how
much we've earned?"
"Yes,
daughter; but we must already spend it tomorrow morning;
otherwise, it may drop to half its value."
"Well, what
are we going to buy?"
"Don't worry
so much, daughter. It may be enough to buy a pair of
stockings if we add a few American pennies to it."
Just so you
won't think this is an exaggeration, I'm going to tell
you about a coat I saw in Berlin that I liked very
much. The price read: two hundred million marks. Just as
a matter of curiosity, I went in to ask how many
American dollars I would have to give for the coat. I
didn't believe my ears when she told me I'd be able to
get it for thirty-five American dollars if I bought it
right then. And so I had the pleasure of becoming a
manifold millionairess for those few dollars.
That tour
caused us much happiness then, as well as much trouble.
Let's get rid of the trouble first.
Our first
appearance in Romania was in Belz, the little city that
Jews know well and love very much. I should like to
believe that it was only during the time after the war
that such dishonest theatrical impresarios as the one we
happened to be associated with in Belz were to be found.
Understandably, we gave performances on the basis of
percentage of intake. The theatre was packed to the
rafters night after night. But when the "impresarios"
brought our percentage after a performance, it was,
according to all calculations, a very trivial sum. When
we remonstrated with him, he showed us the calculation
that was a copy of the one the city government was to
get for tax purposes.
Graft was very
prevalent then in Romania. Thus, for example, the Belz
city government demanded all the passports of
expatriates. They retained my passport as the leader of
the troupe, and they informed me a few days later that I
must leave Belz, that I wasn't allowed to stay there.
But they wouldn't return the passport to me. Their
"reason" has remained inexplicable to me to this day.
There was only one thing back of it all—graft. But they
didn't ask you for it. They only hinted that you should
offer it.
But I lived
through some terrible weeks until I found out that it
was a question of "paw-money." I sensed myself becoming
frightfully helpless. I, the free American, suddenly
found myself in a vise of police intrigues. I panicked.
All sorts of stories about police persecution surfaced
in my imagination. I was fortunate to at last find out
that a few ten-dollar bills would free me from the vise
and I could get my passport returned.
Until then,
however, I made a vow in desperation that, if I ever got
back to America alive, I would grab the first telephone
pole and kiss it. So let me reveal my secret to you—I
fulfilled my vow....
Before I
finish with my troubles, I must still detain you awhile
to acquaint you with my hotel in Belz. It was known no
less than the Hotel Paris. But I very much doubt if
there's a similar thrown-aside, abandoned corner
anywhere in the world that could compare in its lack of
comfort and dirtiness to the things we found in that
so-called hotel. Even now, when I think of it, I almost
shudder over and feel great pity for the Celia Adler of
those few weeks.
These things
are just plain unpleasant to talk about. Incidentally, I
don't want to take away from you the pleasure you have
when you hear the famous, hearty little song, "My Little
City of Belz ".
But even
troubles have their end. We at last got out of Belz and
got to the magnificent, real European, beautiful city of
Bucharest.
I recall a
scene on the train as we were going from Belz to
Bucharest. I won't try to picture for you the
"luxurious" coaches. That scene took place between the
conductor and our new manager, whose name was Ettinger.
It was a very
hot debate in Romanian that we didn't understand at all
but which sounded very war-like. It wasn't until later
that the manager explained to us what was involved. The
conductor argued with him and bawled him out about
buying train tickets at the office of the train station.
The conductor would have let us ride for much less money
because we were so many people—money which would have
remained in his pocket.
"I really
can't get enough from my poor salary to live on," the
conductor complained. "All you're concerned about is
your comforts. Why don't you concern yourself with our
plight...."
I really
sympathized with him and had pity on him.
Ettinger, the
new impresario, advertised my guest appearances in
Bucharest on a very large scale indeed. Thus, for
example, my first and second names, which consist of
nine letters (in Yiddish), appeared in huge print on
billboards that took up very large walls. The city was
virtually flooded with such billboards. Without
exaggeration, each letter was almost as big as I was. I
must truthfully say here that the advertising impressed
me very much.
I was also
excited over two articles about me and my career in
"Rampa," a Romanian theatrical daily newspaper, which
were written by A. Scheinfeld, a member of its writing
staff. The articles were translated for me, and I liked
the approach and manner of his writing.
A few days
later, a young man announced himself to me in my hotel.
He introduced himself as the writer of the Romanian
articles in "Rampa." I was virtually astounded at his
magnificent, hearty Yiddish speech. We got acquainted. I
discovered that he had already been involved in the
Yiddish theatre in Romania for a number of years. He was
the business manager for the guest appearances of Molly
Picon and Jacob Kalich, as well as for the Vilna Troupe.
He generally showed himself to be a fine, heartwarming
person; he gained my confidence. I offered and he gladly
accepted becoming my business representative to protect
my interests in my guest appearances in Romania. He
became conscious of his duty in a very profession al and
honest fashion. He was practically a jewel of a
functionary for me, and I really called him such during
the rest of my Romanian tour.
The Vilna
Troupe was then concluding its last guest appearances in
Bucharest. Understandably, I saw a few of their
performances and they impressed me considerably. I was
pleasantly surprised by a number of talented young
actors. It was at one of those performances—I believe
it was Andreyev's "The Days of Our Lives"—that the
young Joseph Buloff shone forth with charming talent. He
engraved himself in my memory. When I returned to
America and was again engaged by Schwartz at his new
theatrical home on Second Avenue and Twelfth Street,
which he opened with his famous modernized production of
Goldfaden's "Thou Shalt Not Covet." I praised Buloff very
much to Schwartz, talking him into bringing him to
America and engaging him for the role of Peretz.
Schwartz
followed my advice. But I remember being a little
troubled over it for awhile. At the rehearsals of the
play, Buloff showed no signs of his talent. That's one
of his characteristics, they say—to be reticent during
the course of rehearsals. But Schwartz was desperate and
threw it up to me for persuading him to take on Buloff.
Understandably, Buloff showed later at the performances
what he could do, and Schwartz had no further arguments
with me.
At that time,
I also got to know a young actor, a lover-singer in
Romania. His slim figure and very expressive face were
commanding. I was pleased when he told me that he was
practically on his way to America. I had the feeling
that he could benefit our theatre greatly. I'm glad my
feeling didn't disappoint me. That very fine actor occupies an important place on the English
stage as Muni Serebrov.
My
performances in Bucharest created a sensation. And so,
just as I've previously told you about my troubles, you
will now permit me to share joy and happiness with you.
I've read a
great many times just as you have of great, beloved
personalities in all kinds of areas of endeavor who were
given the outstanding honor in various parts of Europe
of having people harness themselves to carriages and
trundle them, their beloved, through the streets. I was
fated to experience this in Bucharest. As I was leaving
the theatre after the premiere, I ran into a group of
young fellows who caught me up in their hands and placed
me in a carriage. I was momentarily frightened. But my
"treasured" Scheinfeld calmed me down, sat down with me
in the carriage, and explained to me that these were
students who wanted to express their enthusiasm at my
playing in their own way.... I first noticed then that
the carriage had no horse, but that the students
harnessed themselves and pulled me all the way from the
theatre to my hotel, a considerable stretch over the
main streets of Bucharest—pulled and continuously
yelled: "Se Traouske Celia Adler." It sounded to me like
they were yelling: "See us trouncing Celia Adler!" So I
protested to Scheinfeld: "What's going on? I don't like
it!" He smiled and interpreted it for me from the
Romanian. "Long live Celia Adler!"
One of the
famous theatre critics on the greatest Romanian
newspaper saw my premiere. It is customary in Romania
for a review not to appear until the third day after the
performance. The day after my premiere, critic Victor
Eptima wrote a critique of the premiere at the National
Theatre. He added the following observation after the
critique:
"I cannot hold
myself back—even though I shall not write my critique
of the American actress, Celia Adler, until tomorrow, I
wish to say right here and now that Celia Adler is a
wonder of an artist—her playing, her facial
expressions, her makeup, her every movement incorporate
and implement truly great art. Her talent has no limit.
I'm grateful for the great enjoyment she provided for
me."
Scheinfeld
expressed much surprise and happiness over this remark:
"See those few
lines? They're more important than whole pages of
advertisements. No artist from the greatest Romanian
theatre—none—has
ever had the good fortune of having Victor Eptima write
that about him."
All the
Romanian newspapers came out very enthusiastically for
my playing and advised their readers to go see Celia
Adler. That brought a large number of Gentiles into the
theatre. Among those often present at the performances
were cabinet members, government delegates, civil
service officials, as well as the greatest actors on the
Romanian stage.
Then I
suddenly received an invitation from Tony Bulandro, the
director of the great theatre Regina Maria (Queen Mary),
asking if it were possible for me to come to his theatre
at six o'clock in the evening. He wanted to talk to me
about a very important matter. I accepted the invitation
and, accompanied by Scheinfeld, I went to the Romanian
director. I found him to be a very aristocratic and
elegant man. He received us in a very friendly fashion
and, after a considerable number of compliments, made me
a very attractive offer. He wanted me to play the
leading role with his troupe in his production of
Ibsen's famous play "Nora." Of course I would play my
role in Yiddish and the troupe in Romanian. It would be
a sensational enterprise for the Romanian theatre, and a
great honor for his own theatre.
It reminded me
of my father's "Shylock" on the English stage. I was
indeed greatly tempted to follow my great father in his
achievement. But I had to refuse. I already had a
contract to appear in Paris and Belgium. He was very
sorry about that and, still hoping to talk me into it,
took me back to my hotel continuously tempting me with
his offer—perhaps, perhaps I could find a possibility
of changing my itinerary. Several days later, I gave him
my definite answer that I had to refuse this great honor
in my behalf.
So, as you can
see, my guest appearances in Bucharest paid me back
with enough happiness and joy for my troubles in Belz.
Our income rose a good deal thanks to Scheinfeld's
professional control of things. My guest appearances in
Galatz were no less successful.
After my tour
of Romania, I stopped over in Paris to play at the
Lankri Theatre for several weeks. I don't wish to dwell
too long on my guest appearances there, although I had a
colossal success both morally and financially. I just
want to give you a summary few sentences from what N.
Frank wrote about me in Paris under the heading: "How
Celia Adler Laughs": "Celia Adler is very economical
with tears. On the contrary, she seeks to make the
heavy, dark drama lighter with her fine, warm tone of
voice, with her truly artistic intonation, with her
touching, simple, naturalness that goes so far, so very
far with her.... Those who'll miss seeing Celia Adler
will be forever sorry."
I wish to tell you of
another piece of happy news that happened to me while I
was in Europe. Ludwig, my brother-in-law, wrote to me
that he had bought a house in Sea Gate for himself, and
that there was another one near his house that he advised me to buy. My mother talked me into
taking Satz's advice. She even offered to become my
partner. We sent Satz a telegram to see the transaction
through, so that when I returned to New York around
October, I would have my own home in Sea Gate. I had my
lovely home for about ten years, in which I lived
through many joyous and pleasant moments and also not a
few sad ones. My earnings from the tour came in very
handy for me both in the buying of the house and the
proper furnishing of it.
Celia Adler and Ludwig Satz in
"Tree of Life"
Celia Adler and Samuel Goldinburg
in
"The Power of the Law" by the Shomer Sisters
The Yiddish
theatrical season was then already in full swing. It so
happened that Ludwig Satz was at liberty. That season he
started in a new Yiddish theatre on Broadway, in which
Rudolph Schildkraut, Boris Thomashevsky, and he appeared
in "The Three Little Business Men," a comedy by Kartazhinsky. It didn't last more than three weeks.
Nevertheless, it's a mystery to me to this day how it
was possible for three such great actors to have had
such a failure.
At any rate,
Satz was at liberty, and when I returned from Europe,
Edwin Relkin the agent, proposed that Satz and I go on a
tour of the provinces. I wasn't too anxious to travel
with the repertory Ludwig had at the time. But we didn't
want to and couldn't spend much time looking for a play
with suitable roles for both of us. So we meanwhile
traveled around with two of his plays, "The Robber" and
"The Madman" especially written for Satz by Harry Kalmanowitz, the very popular, talented dramatist.
The tour was a
great financial success. We made much more in a few
months than we would have made if separately engaged by
any theatre for the entire season.
I recall
something that happened in Boston. Sitting in a Jewish
restaurant after a performance, we looked with
admiration at a group of several men who were sitting at
the next table and speaking Russian. We weren't
wondering about the conversation but at the enormous
portions of kapusta (cabbage) that one of them kept
swallowing one after the other. It was virtually hard to
believe that one human stomach could digest so much.
Understandably, the table didn't lack drinks either.
At last I had
to satisfy my curiosity, and when the owner of the
restaurant came over to our table, I asked him who that
Russian glutton was.
Instead of
answering, the owner went over to the other table. He
told him something. Smiling broadly, the Gentile raised
his face from the dish of cabbage, and the owner
introduced him to us: "That's the world-famous Russian
basso, Fyodor Ivanowitsch Chaliapin!"
We were
surprised and even felt bad at our inner laughter at
him and his eating. Our tortured "dosvidanye" when we
took our leave made him burst into laughter. He invited
us to one of his concerts. I shall never forget one of
the songs he sang about Blacha (a flea). I first then
understood why his name called forth so much admiration,
and I forgave him from the bottom of my heart for his
exceptional appetite. I also felt the enthusiasm with
which his Jewish listeners expressed their feelings.
They applauded, and yelled in the loudest voice: "For
heaven's sake, God Almighty, Chaliapin!"
We concluded
our lengthy tour over the provinces with a few weeks at
the Prospect Theatre in the Bronx. Instead of giving a
play on the last weekend, we gave a program of a variety
of acts and single numbers. Among them was a powerful
act from Siegel and Steinberg's famous melodrama, "The
Forgotten Mother." The act consisted of a scene in which
the young doctor, who was really my own son (neither of
us knew it), found me in a lunatic asylum where he was
the doctor. He became convinced that I wasn't insane,
took me out of the hospital, and brought me to his home.
I lost my fear when I got there, and told everything
that had happened to me. I also showed the blue marks on
my body from the beating with which they had punished me
at the hospital.
I had
completely forgotten that my Zelik'l, who was then a
child of seven, was sitting with my Feige in the loge.
When I got off the stage after that act, he came running
to me in a hysterical state and could barely sob out the
words: "Why did they beat you like that, mother?" He
fell on my bare chest which was covered with bruises and
started to kiss the wounds.
I was barely
able to calm him by showing him that this was part of
the theatrical makeup and performance, and that it was
easy to wipe away the painted-on marks. I'm not really
certain that I completely convinced him or that he
really grasped the meaning of its being a theatrical
performance. I only know that, to this day, when I
recall the panic and the chagrin it caused my child with
that scene, my heart aches.
After our
tour, both Satz and I quietly and with a light spirit
spent time in and enjoyed our lovely homes as each
other's neighbors in Sea Gate. We cooled off in the
magnificent ocean and let ourselves bake in the sand
under the hot sun. Many guests from the theatrical and
literary family spent their summers there. We would
often meet the joyous and always interesting great
actress Bessie Thomashevsky, who was then staying at the
Half-Moon Hotel on the boardwalk, and we spent many
magnificent evenings together.
Right there on
the island at Sea Gate that summer began a new
theatrical partnership in the form of a firm that
occupied a noted place in the theatrical provinces for
several years, a partnership that was transformed into
an intimate friendship for a number of years. That was
the firm of Samuel Goldinburg and Celia Adler.
I had hardly
known Samuel Goldinburg until that summer. We met each
other and first got to know each other better at Sea
Gate where he was spending that summer.
Right at the
beginning of the summer, he told me about a theatrical
business proposed to him by Mike Thomashevsky. Mike had
a lease on the Garden Theatre in Philadelphia. He wanted
him as partner. He proposed that I join up as a third
partner. He very firmly believed that Philadelphia had
possibilities. The business would gain greater strength
if I, being so popular in Philadelphia, were to join the
business. The firm of "Goldinburg and Celia Adler" was a
"natural," as American slang would have it.
The following
year, the Augenblick brothers rented a theatre on
Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg—the Amphion Theatre—and
were looking for a theatrical combine which might
possibly be financially successful in that region. They
were impressed by the Samuel Goldinburg-Celia Adler
combine. Our success in Philadelphia convinced them that
we would be a good force of attraction for their
theatre.
That was a
difficult season for us at the Amphion Theatre. The
theatre was located at the very beginning of
Williamsburg, near the East River. I lived in faraway
Sea Gate. Thus, it is known to everybody, especially
Brooklyn inhabitants, that traveling from Brooklyn to
certain other areas in Brooklyn is more difficult than
going to New York. You really first have to go to New
York and from there first drag yourself to Williamsburg,
unless you go in your own car or in a taxi. I didn't own
a car, and I wasn't financially strong enough to spend
thirty-five dollars a week on taxis. Thus, dragging
myself from Sea Gate to the theatre and back home late
at night was a hardship.
There were
then about twelve or thirteen theatres playing in Greater
New York. Three theatres were operating in Brooklyn
alone. So the competition was strong. We had to change
plays very often. I've counted more than twenty plays
that we performed in the some thirty-odd weeks that
season.
I am tempted
to tell you that, for my "Evening-of-Honor" at the
Amphion Theatre in Williamsburg, I chose one of the most
famous plays and roles in world literature, to wit
Dumas' "The Lady of the Camellias," a role that every
actress who had risen to a noted position in her career
wished and sought to master. Sad to say I haven't
succeeded in finding even one of the fine reviews that
were written about my "Evening-of-Honor." So you and I
will have to be satisfied with my assuring you that I
gave "The Lady of the Camellias" as much of myself as I
had in me to give.
As a general
summary of my season's work at the Amphion Theatre I
wish to put in here only an excerpt from one of the very
noted current journalists in "The Forward," namely my
beloved friend Leon Chrystal who once sinned by his closer
affiliation with the better Yiddish theatre. In October,
1925, under the heading, "Mostly About Actors," he wrote
about a line of actors who were at certain times
associated with the Art Theatre and better theatres in
general and who are now dispersed far and wide over all
sorts of theatres in New York and Brooklyn. He wrote
about a stroll he took through these theatres and this
is how he gave his impressions about the various plays
in those theatres:
"Shadows,
empty space, and pools of light—these fan out across
your memory when you recall the performances in those
theatres. The emptiness remains a dark void where the
actor hasn't filled it in with his own personality, with
his own art. But if an actor appears on the stage
bringing some individuality, which is in itself and for
itself alone something of a substantially artistic
entity, it's as if a circled of light were radiating and
beaming out across the atmosphere."
"Following
Celia Adler's artistic career and sometimes thinking of
that marvelous actress, I immediately recall her little
Rebecca in Sholem Asch's 'A String of Pearls'. As
tragedienne, Celia Adler engraved and pushed herself
into my memory with fiery letters. Her masterful playing
in Dymow's 'Eternal Wanderer,' in Hirshbein's 'Village
Girls,' her Katie in Hauptmann's 'Lonesome People,'
wherein she showed that she can be one of the most
profound and finest dramatic actresses even on the best
of stages—if you come across her at the Amphion Theatre
you experience resentment at the fact that she and other
comrades of hers roll around in such theatres where
their main task is that they might as well observe the
'what's to be done if there's nothing to play'."
I would,
generally speaking, have no quarrel with that season at
the Amphion Theatre. Hard work in the theatre never
frightened me.
I lovingly
accepted the work and even the fatigue, if only there
was no chagrin and no heartache. At times, when I came
home late at night, I also missed my beloved Feige
looking out for me and her waiting on me, because she
was ailing very frequently during that season. I was
barely able to prevail upon her not to wait up for me
coming home, that she not get off the bed to wait on me.
Neither the doctor who treated her nor I had the
slightest notion that Feige would leave us so soon.
I recall my
Zelik waking me up very early one morning:—"I'm hungry,
mother."
—"Where's
Feige?"
—"Feige is
sick...."
I went to her.
She tried to get up; I didn't permit her. I called the
doctor. The doctor came. He calmed me down a little. I
called my sister Lillie over to take care of Feige while
I ran to rehearsal.
Feige never
got off that sick bed. Looking quietly at Zelik'l and me
with her loving, tender eyes, she said a permanent
farewell to the world that had treated her so like a
stepchild and to us who were her only possessions. Her
death on March ninth, 1926, upset me very much. In the
web of my family mix-up, I don't know what Feige really
was to me. I only felt that with her death, something
died within me also. She had no majestic funeral. But
she was buried as being of the theatrical family in the
cemetery of the Yiddish Theatrical Alliance.
I shall always
think gratefully of Sholem Perlmutter, that wonderful
theatre buff. He showed his love for and his interest in
the Yiddish theatre in his many years of association
with it as prompter and playwright. But his crowning
work is the theatre archive he left behind; it is a
veritable jewel of our theatrical history and was
selected by him with effort. His archive is now in YIVO.
He sympathized
with me in such heartfelt fashion. He too was a resident
of Sea Gate. He often talked to me about Feige,
consoling me and, as if reading my sentiments, he wrote
an epitaph for her gravestone. And now, when I visit the
cemetery where I already have a considerable family, I
very often cry anew over Feige's death reading the
engraved lines by the empathic Sholem Perlmutter:
"You died in
solitude—your life passed like the wind—On your grave
rain pours—not the tears of a child—This stone with
your name—on your grave now I place—I shall also
observe the anniversary of your death, as if I were your
child." Celia.
Schwartz was
getting ready to open the new home of his Art Theatre on
Second Avenue and Twelfth Street for the following
season, a new theatre especially built for him. So he
again longed for me. I again yearned for definitively
better theatre. As Chrystal had put it:
"You also
yearned to have something to play in."
Neither
Goldinburg nor I wanted to go out over the provinces
somewhere for a season. We both sensed that our
partnership would have to be dissolved for the time
being.
And so I
weighed the grief and chagrin that were my constant lot
when I was with Schwartz against the desire to again
create roles in plays written by playwrights with
artistic vision and beautiful literary language. The
latter won.
That was
really the bitter fate of the better-type actor; he had
to resort to Schwartz if he longed for better theatre.
I undertook
with everything in my power not to allow grief and
chagrin to get the upper hand or, as far as possible,
not to take them too seriously or too deeply. I never
convinced myself that things between Schwartz and me
would suddenly take a turn for the better and keep up
appearances, so to speak.
But, as I've
said, I longed for a season in New York under the sharp
eyes of the New York press. And so it happened that
before our tour over the provinces began at the
conclusion of the season at the Amphion Theatre, both
Goldinburg and I were already engaged by different
theatres.
We had also
decided at the end of that season that it would benefit
us more financially if Relkin gave us separate tours
over the provinces.
My tour
consisted mostly of Detroit and several other cities
around that area. The city of Detroit received me
wonderfully well. I had a significant financial and
acting success in Littman's theatre in Detroit. To that
period I can credit my acquisition of several heartfelt
and loyal friends, especially those two lovely people,
Joshua Weinberg and his wife Rosa. I generally consider
myself very fortunate in the realm of friendship. I
actually seem to hit on the kind of people who have a
talent for giving and returning true friendship. If you
won't consider it immodest of me, I must come to the
conclusion that I too possess something of that talent.
And so, I can count on a considerable number of
long-standing, devoted friends. Joshua Weinberg was the
city editor of "The Forward" for Detroit and adjacent
areas.
Well, now,
here I was in Detroit and had come to the beautiful
Booke-Cadillac Hotel. I had no sooner tried to get
myself settled in my room than someone knocked on the
door. A charming, beautiful lady entered.
She introduced
herself to me: Rosa Weinberg. She reminded me of having
seen me in London some seventeen to eighteen years before.
She was then a young lady living in London. She dearly
loved my mother. Dina Feinman was and forever remained
her goddess. When I played at that Pavilion Theatre that
season, she saw me and now remembered me. In addition,
she had received a letter from Sioma (Goldinburg) in
which he requested them to show me as much friendship as
they possibly could. So she had come to take me to her
home.
I thanked her
very kindly and assured her as much as I could that I
deeply valued her proffered hospitality, but that I
didn't want to burden them at all by becoming their
guest during my stay in Detroit. But under no
circumstances did she want to accept my refusal. She
immediately called in the bellboy and told him to take
my luggage down and to order a cab. My arguments were of
no avail. She took me to her beautiful, comfortable
house.
I don't know
if a mother could take better care of her beloved child
than Rosa Weinberg did of me. She pampered me and nursed
me. To this day, I marvel at her receiving me with such
devotion—for she was then practically a stranger, an
unknown to me and I to her. And this was just as true of
her husband, Joshua, who, unfortunately, most
unfortunately, was torn from her very early in their
life together. She passed away recently.
That spring I
was destined to go through another very difficult
experience. On Friday, April thirtieth, 1926, I was
deeply moved by the announcement that Jacob Adler had
died. Although I knew that his state of health during
the previous two years was not good at all, the
announcement made a strong impression on me.
Actually, only
a few months before, my brother, Abe Adler, had brought
my father to the Amphion Theatre for one of his yearly
benefit performances, the only source of income he had
the last few years of his life. He played the last act
of Gordin's "The Stranger." My father's state of being
at that time didn't shock me any less than the immediate
announcement of his death.
Perhaps many
of you know that Naftalie Hertz dies in the last act of
"The Stranger." So it goes without saying that my
father's imposing appearance in that role on the stage
had always made a tremendous impression on the public.
The public had
that satisfaction this time also. But it didn't know
that it wasn't at all easy for us to show that imposing
figure to the public. Before the curtain rose, he was
put in front of his chair and so propped up that his
made-up face and head should proudly remain raised.
When it came
to the scene in which he had to collapse on the chair
and die, he didn't do it. The prompter whispered to him:
"Mr. Adler, you must die." But he remained standing and,
as if crying in a somewhat childlike tone of voice,
repeated several times: If I don't want to die. I don't
want to die...."
That's why I
say that the announcement greatly surprised me. But
tears automatically started to run from my eyes. My
first natural impulse was to go to New York for the
funeral. But an actor is not always in his own hands.
This is how a
newspaper gave the announcement:
"It looked
pretty nearly as if Celia Adler would suddenly leave us
on account of the death of her great father, Jacob
Adler. You will read a statement by Celia Adler in
today's 'Forward'."
Here is part
of that statement.
"I first
sensed today how an actor's situation should be
deplored. I found out about my father's death while I
was on guest appearances in Detroit. I can't see him any
more. The theatre cannot be closed. It's a question of
bread for thirty to forty families. So, at their request, I
went to Reb Joseph Toomim, the noted rabbi, who told me
that, since it was a holiday and one wasn't allowed to
sit shiva (seven days of mourning over a close
relative), and since it was a question of the livelihood
of so many people, I had to go on with my performances.
I was to tear my clothes in mourning on the following
Wednesday, the day after Passover.
"Sad is the
fate of an actor in case of such a misfortune. The
magnificent image of my great father will always live in
my heart.
"With respect,
Celia Adler."
I want to
begin my story about Schwartz's Art Theatre during the
1926- 1927 season with an expression that that season
left in my memory—"Lightning did not strike." It seems
to me that that phrase truly expresses the overall
summary of that season. It was supposed to have been a
renewal, a spiritual uplifting, a broader scope of
festive mien. But it somehow slipped through our
fingers.
First, the
moving into a building that was built especially for
Schwartz's Art Theatre in the very heart of Jewish New
York. But the building wasn't ready for the opening of
the season. So we, the so-called Art Theatre troupe
rolled around for several weeks all the way out in the
Amphion Theatre in Williamsburg. That in itself somehow
darkened the glitter of the season's gala opening.
Also, the
curiosity, the impatience of at last moving into the new
home led to the fact that, even though the opening first
took place on November eighteenth, more than two months
later than the usual opening of the theatrical season,
the theatre still wasn't completely ready. Thus, the
long-awaited, much-publicized premiere of Goldfaden's
modernized operetta, "Thou Shalt Not Covet" (the Tenth
Commandment) dragged along and went on until nearly two
o'clock at night, thereby spoiling both the lofty
holiday of opening the new home and the production
itself. Both the audience and the critics were greatly
fatigued. The reviewer from "The Dkunous" very
successfully described it under the heading, "Butchery
Without A Knife," in which he argued that the critics
had been invited to a raw performance.
In addition,
Schwartz wanted to play around with futuristic
direction- lopsided furniture, green beards, clumsy
noses.
So one of the
critics summed it all up in the following manner: "The
production is a forest; you can get lost in it; you
can't accept it as a complete presentation; as of now,
you have to look upon it as a collection of
presentations."
Thus, heaven
forbid that I take a chance on expressing an opinion
about his type of theatre. I only know that I incline
toward and find greater appeal in what is called
realistic theatre. I imagine that Schwartz seriously
took on the challenge of fructifying some new
"out-of-the-way" approaches that were sprouting at the
time. But it was a labyrinth. Our audiences didn't take
to it. And so, this also added its part to the
lackluster season.
In addition to
the troupe, the very cream of our theatrical family, the
production of "Thou Shalt Not Covet," was enriched by
Joseph Achron's wonderful music under Lazar Weiner's
fine direction.
Despite the
big effort, despite the costly, colossal production,
"Thou Shalt Not Covet" barely survived for about five
weeks. After that, until the end of the season, there
was a long period of up-and-down plays, among them:
"Mendel Spivack" by Yuskevich, "Yekaterina Ivanovna"
by Andreyev, "Her Crime" by M. Olgin, "Yoshke, the
Musician" by Dymow, "The Chalk Circle" by Klabund, "God
of Vengeance" by Sholem Asch, and "Human Dust" by Dymow.
My weakness
urges me to do some boasting here, to pass along two
opinions by reviewers about my role in "Thou Shalt Not
Covet":
"Celia Adler
as the pious woman.... I've never seen such a beautiful,
deeply realized, and tenderly executed performance of a
chaste Jewish daughter. It's something that can only be
appreciated with the purest feelings. She was truly what
is called ingenious, She hovered on the stage, the
portrait of a chaste Jewish woman of long ago, like an
incarnation of Heine's 'Princess Sabbath'."
Another one
wrote:
"Celia Adler
brings out the sharpest grotesque of exaggerated piety
and orthodoxy in her role of 'Frume.'" Jewish women's
piety with its great sanctity that spills over into
risibility has received realistic portraiture from her.
With what finesse of whittling she carves this
grotesque! Celia Adler has shown the finest flair for
the art of acting.
And so, you'll
have to forgive me some more for my boasting over Ab.
Cahan's opinion about my playing in "Mendel Spivack,"
the second play: "As the woman in childbirth, Celia
Adler actually had little dialogue. But it's the sort of
role wherein many words are unnecessary, It can be
played without words. And she played it wonderfully,
played well. Her mimicry as she lay in bed, her sickly
smile, her tenderness, hysterical joy and hysterical
tears, her exhausted look, her eavesdropping on the
dances and the music with a turned head and closed
eyes—tired out, languid—everything was art projected by
a born artist. I kept thinking again and again, no
wonder she's Jacob Adler's daughter."
Before leaving
for the tour over the provinces, I made up with Schwartz
in Guskin's presence that my name had to be announced in
all the advertisements.
When we got to
Philadelphia, a city where I was known, a city in which
for a number of years I had been considered the leading
actress in the theatre, no other name appeared on the
billboards except Schwartz's. Everyone felt aggrieved.
But I was the only one who voiced my grievance aloud.
Just by coincidence, Mr. Guskin happened to be in the
theatre in Philadelphia when I sounded my arguments.
I overlooked
all the other answers Schwartz gave, for example: "That
's the way I want it. I'm the little horse. I myself
draw the crowds. From this day forward I want to be a
Max Gabel and a Molly Picon," and other such answers
that harmonize very well with the principles of the Art
Theatre.... So, as I've said, I reacted in my own way to
all the answers. But when he finally said: "Whoever
doesn't like it, can go," I didn't want to swallow that,
even though Guskin then answered him: "Mr. Schwartz, I
take you at your word. I can dissolve the entire troupe
for you right now."
It was agreed
that, when we got to New York, we would deal with this
thing. I broke my engagement with Schwartz for the
following season.
Max Wilner had
Max Rosenthal for his star at the Irving Place Theatre
that season. Wilner engaged me as Max Rosenthal's
leading lady.
I was pleased
to find that my youngest sister, Stella, was with the
troupe at the Irving Place Theatre.
I recall
several happy performances which included, "The
Blacksmith's Daughters" with my sister, Stella, as my
twin sister. I also recall a moment that season that
brought back to my mind a shock of years before.
That season
another Adler daughter had to go through the
not-very-pleasant procedure of trying out before the
Actors' Union so she could acquire the right to play in
the theatre. It was my sister Stella. As I was sitting
at that tryout, the time when I was in her boots struck
my mind.
Much has been
written about the union's procedure. I just want to
record here some short excerpts from Chaim Ehrenreich's
article of March, 1927, under the heading, "Laughter,
Tears and Jokes From Examinations at the Actors' Union."
I very much liked his approach and the deep, penetrating
look with which he reacted to this matter.
"The female
candidate is transfixed by one hundred and fifty pairs
of eyes that pierce her. There are all kinds of eyes
here—eyes that look on with contempt, with sympathy,
with indifference, with irony, with a smile, with
interest. You notice eyes that look sideways, as if
laden with guilt. Those are the eyes of the honest
stars. They know beforehand that the female candidate
will not be accepted, and their conscience hurts a
little over her having to endure the heartache in
vain—the indignity of a failure. Thus, for example, a
manager stands and listens to a tryout of a young
actress who is now playing in his theatre on a point of
privileged favor granted by him. She executes a strong
dramatic scene. He sheds tears. Kasten suddenly pours
into my ear: 'Know why he's crying? Next week, he'll
already have to pay her union wages, a considerable
number of dollars over what he does now."
At her tryout,
my sister Stella did Ophelia's Mad Scene from
Shakespeare's "Hamlet." Her slender figure that was so
graceful in her white dress, her blonde head of hair,
her lovely pale face virtually flabbergasted
(distracted) the audience. Evidently the whole procedure
had a difficult effect on her. She really fainted at the
end of the tryout. It's hard to ascertain to this very
day what counted more toward her being accepted as a
member by such a large majority, almost unanimously—her
looks, her name, her playing, or her fainting....
That season I
relinquished the opportunity of going on a tour of the
provinces. That ridiculous season with its still more
ridiculous plays and roles called forth a strong
repugnance, a spiritual and physical fatigue in me. I
decided to be good to myself, to spend time in my
beautiful home in Sea Gate and to rest at the ocean.
I was suddenly
surprised one summer day by a phone call from Rubin
Guskin, the manager of our theatre union.
"Miss Adler,
Maurice Schwartz wants to engage you for the coming
season. Please come to my office so we can talk it
over."
Guskin used to
finalize all engagements. I virtually didn't believe my
ears and momentarily lost my speech. But I answered him:
"Mr. Guskin,
if Schwartz wants to engage me, he'll have to talk to me
personally."
"Good. I'll
tell him."
The poor mood
I was in after that theatrical season made me really
happy at Guskin's news. I therefore decided to forget my
anger and let myself be talked into another engagement
by Schwartz.
I hadn't had
much time to think about it when my phone rang again
and—but I wish it were possible to put sound and tone
into written language for you!
A very deep
bass voice answered my hello; it was in Schwartz's
deepest chest tones:
"Hello,
Schwartz speaking.... I want to talk to you about
something."
And I in my
highest soprano tone:
"Oh, with the
greatest pleasure...."
BASS—"When
and where can we meet?"
SOP.—"Whenever and wherever you want—perhaps here in
my house?"
BASS—"No,
I'll come over in my car and we'll talk things over on
the way."
Schwartz also
lived in Sea Gate. So, a few minutes later, I saw his
car drive in. I went down. The door of the car stood
open for me. But he didn't greet or look at me. Smiling,
I got into the car, sat down without a hello, and closed
the door. The car drove off.
And so, we
rode along street after street. We had already left Sea
Gate and ridden all through Coney Island. Not a word had
been spoken. So we turned into street after street. He
was evidently waiting for me to say something. I also
waited, he got tired. When we had gotten to the very end
of Brighton, all the way to Manhattan Beach, he drove
the car over to the edge of the ocean and stopped. He
slowly turned his head to me, and his first words were:
"Oh, I sure
would like to give you a beating! Why do you write
letters in the newspapers? Why do you write them?"
"What letters
are you talking about?"
"Your letter
in 'The Forward' about Philadelphia. You can argue with
me all right, but if you write to a newspaper, everybody
reads it."
It was as if a
(stone had rolled off) our hearts and we burst into
hearty laughter.
"Now then,
there will be no more such arguments. I now feel more
secure. I feel strongly rooted in my position. I now
want to engage a more-or-less steady troupe to stay with
me year-in, year-out. Everybody will get the place he's
entitled to. In short, things won't be what they once
were," he said.
I looked at
him, holding myself in check with all my strength so as
not to show a smile on my face. My, oh my, how I wanted
to believe him!
Schwartz's
logic always dictated good things to him and he could
give them such beautiful utterances. The only trouble
was that his heart wouldn't let him do them.
Thus, I
constantly hoped and wished that the time would at last
come when his head and heart would be in harmony. What a
blessing that would be for him, for all of us and for
the better theatre in general!
I don't know
if it was Providence mixing in, or if it was only the
play of circumstance, that we opened a new home for the
theatre for each of the four seasons that I happened to
be with Schwartz in the Art Theatre. I was the first one
in his troupe—whether it was on Irving Place or at the
Garden; also on Twelfth Street and Second Avenue; and
now at the City Theatre on Fourteenth
Street. I won't attempt to interpret the Why and
Wherefore of that coincidence. But the mentioning of it
has, so to speak, sort of escaped from my pen.
That season
opened on the fifteenth of September at the City Theatre
with Sholem Asch's "Jewish Martyrdom" (Kiddush Hashem),
Schwartz's adaptation from the historical novel. But
before I get to talking about the play and that season,
I must share with you a rude awakening I now experienced
as I looked at the printed program for the drama,
"Jewish Martyrdom." The following lines were printed
right under the name: "We're constrained not to tell all
that the Cossacks and Tartars did to the Jews so as not
to shame the human species born in the image of God
(copied from an old religious volume.)"
When I read
over those cited lines, my trembling soul didn't let me
come to myself for a long time.... My brain kept boring
into what that old religious tome would have said about
what our people lived through during Europe's last
debacle. It had to consider the eternal
sorrow-filled, tear-choked Jewish question of Why,
Why.... you will thus understand from those lines what
the drama, "Jewish Martyrdom" is about.
It was an
enormous production, a mass spectacle; the play had
forty-two speaking roles; there were at least fifty
people in the mass scenes. You can imagine the enormous
scope of the production. So a huge amount of work went
into it. Besides Schwartz, those adding much to it were
Joseph Achron, the composer; S. Ostrovsky, the scenic
designer; and my brother Charles Adler, the
choreographer.
Although there
were forty-two roles in the play, as I've said, you will
understand that only those were in good hands. Thus, all
in all, "Jewish Martyrdom" was a big success both
artistically and financially.
I feel like
recording here what is perhaps a saucy, risky thought:
From my own foolish theatrical viewpoint, the success
of "Jewish Martyrdom" hurt the Art Theatre a great deal.
After that, Schwartz became a slave to spectacles and
stage sets. He overlooked the main attraction of the
theatrical art—the actor. No longer did the play
matter, or the delicately etched roles—things that gave
the actor the opportunity to create. Perhaps, to satisfy
its sweet tooth for honeybuns, the public may want to
see a spectacle or enjoy a lovely stage set from time to
time. But above all, what rivets the public to the
theatre, what calls forth in it a close familial
relationship to the theatre, what becomes part of it
is—the actor. In time, that element disappeared
completely, and with it, a big part of the public.
Heaven forbid
that I should wish to state here categorically that
Schwarz's directorial ambition drove him to it. But that
he was seduced by the pursuit of spectacles of great
scope—of that there's no doubt at all. It even reached
the point that the stage sets in certain productions
took away from the actor the stage area that should have
belonged to him. He just had no place to stand and where
to move around.
And my foolish
theatrical sense tells me something else, although many
theatrical and literary critics have said it from time
to time. You have to be an unusually great writing
artist to be able to create a piece of theatre from a
rather lengthy novel or novella. The success of "Jewish
Martyrdom" misled Schwartz in that respect, too. And so
there was a considerable number of productions that
season in which spectacle and stage sets usurped the
place of the actors.
A varied
selection of Yiddish and world plays was produced that
season: Anton Chekov's "The Cherry Orchard," directed by
Leo Bulgakov, according to Stanislavsky's Moscow Art
Theatre production; Jacob Gordin's "God, Man, and
Devil," adapted and directed by Maurice Schwartz; Mark
Schweid's translation of Shakespeare's "Othello,"
directed by Boris Glagolin, with the assistance of
Anatol Winogradoff; H. Sackler's Yiddish-American
comedy, "Major Noah," directed by Maurice Schwartz; and
Sholem Aleichem's wonderfully romantic novella,
"Stempeniu," adapted and directed by Maurice Schwartz.
All the
productions called forth a variety of opinions in the
Yiddish press. As usual, there were argumentative
points. But it can be said that it was generally a
fruitful season of artistic theatre.
So I want to
winnow only a selected few lines which underscore my
previously stated saucy opinions. Thus, for instance,
Ab, Cahan wrote: "Maurice Schwartz himself has talent,
and he has an outstanding troupe; but he and his actors
need roles."
I cite from
reviewer B. I. Goldstein: "It seems to me this is the
first time I have seen an ensemble on the stage that
plays as little as the Yiddish Art Theatre does in
performing Sholem Aleichem's 'Stempeniu.' Only
three or four selected actors give theatrical service. The
rest get it over with—one with a shrug of his
shoulders, another with a word or maxim, and still
another smoothly slides across the stage boards."
A. Glantz
wrote: "And so we witness a series of pleasant episodes
that roll around not unpleasantly and fill an evening
with an ethnic community of Sholem Aleichem-like
personages. No drama, not even any comedy emerged."
Some of the
reviewers even opined that the actors had no place to
move around in because of the superabundance of the
stage sets. Nevertheless, much praise was given to
individual actors.
I wish to note
here that Abraham Morevsky, the famous European actor,
made his American appearance with us that season and
called forth great recognition.
And here are a
few opinions about my playing that season:
"Celia Adler
has very deeply understood Ruchelle, has very
artistically rendered Sholem Aleichem's pious woman in
love. She is an artistically carved figure from a
Mazepevker album. She is so close to communicating the
Sholem Aleichem book to the reader that he has to feel
every word, every movement."
Another writes
about my role in Chekov's "The Cherry Orchard": "The
unfortunate, homeless, confused old maid is an ordinary
grotesque character, and Celia Adler deftly and with a
flair for measured proportion when projecting character
has brought this piece of grotesque to life and breath."
For my
"Evening-of-Honor" that season, I allowed myself a big
luxury. I resurrected for myself the sweet memories of
the actual beginnings of the better Yiddish theatre. I
put on Peretz Hirshbein's "A Secluded Corner'" with
pretty nearly the original troupe. The only one missing
was Jacob Ben Ami, who was then away from the United
States. My brother-in-law, Ludwig Satz, came along to
appear in his highly successful creation in the role of Todres. According to the public's response, it too
refreshed itself though the recollection of that
miracle.
It is entirely
possible that that performance of "A Secluded Corner" at
which the glorious beginnings sort of came to life
again, called forth a recollection in me that I'm now
going to tell about.
In February of
that year, a few remarks of mine appeared in "The Day,"
which I now wish to cite here:
"When I think
of myself and the public, my thoughts unwittingly must
go back to the beginnings of the better Yiddish theatre
It was a time for achievement, and the public took just
as much part in it as we actors did; it was a creative
public; love was projected from the viewers to us, not
necessarily to this or that actor. The public loved the
theatre as a whole. It was truly an artistic public."
In view of the
present sad reality surrounding the Yiddish theatre, one
still somehow wants to believe that all this can be
brought to life again.... A dream!.... A dream!....
The season I'm
now in the process of describing was my last one in
Schwartz's Art Theatre and, somewhere deep in my
subconscious, there is now running around something like
an admission that it was practically the end of my
career. Perhaps this admission will clarify for you why
the biggest part of my story about my career since 1918,
when that hopeful beginning came to life, why since then
the biggest part of my story is taken up with the
seasons during that I played in Schwartz's Art Theatre.
Certainly my
name, my status in the Yiddish theatrical world were
established even before 1918 when I had my successes in
Thomashevsky's theatres, in plays by Libin, Dymow, and
others, when such great and famous talents as Rudolph
Schildkraut and David Kessler recognized me as leading
actress.
But I
instinctively feel with all my senses that my career
reached its very highest point during those few seasons
at the Art Theatre because, in addition to the
satisfaction from some artistic achievements, there was
the joy, the hope that our Yiddish theatre as a whole
was being purified, was being raised to the top rung of
worldwide theatrical scope. That's why I'm putting so
much emphasis in my story on those four seasons. That's
why I find it necessary to cite the smallest details of
those years. That's why I have such a smarting pain within
me over those disappointments, those evaporated hopes.
You can see
for yourself that the thought that my career sort of
ended during that season was not a mere phrase. When I
now think of the years in my career since that season in
1929, I can obviously see that with my decision never to
play with Schwartz also unconsciously came a definite
change in my attitude toward the theatre. The future
path of my career changed as if by itself into a "trade"
for making a living. This doesn't mean that my attitude
toward playing in the theatre changed. I gave my all,
all that I possessed to my playing, to my roles, no
matter how foolish they were. On many occasions, I tried
to perform a better play, a well-painted character.
Overall, however, the theatre became no more than a
trade for me. That's why at the end of the 1928-29
season I very gladly accepted the offer by Jacob Cone,
the representative of the Arch Street Theatre in
Philadelphia, to become the star of that theatre.
Neither he nor I had the slightest inkling that that
theatrical liaison between us would metamorphose into
our life together for twenty-five years as husband and
wife.
It is
doubtless a sheer coincidence that the city of
Philadelphia directly and indirectly played an important
role both in my theatrical life and in my personal
life.... I not only had great success there as a leading
actress for a number of years under the direction of
Anshel Schorr, carrying a theatre on my shoulders, so
to speak, but also several love tangles and even a
marriage match which, as you can see, Philadelphia
provided for me.
Understandably, Jacob Cone was no stranger to me. I had
often had the chance to play with him ever since my
first steps on the stage as Celia Feinman playing
children's roles. Cone was constantly busy in the
dramatic theatres ever since the first years of the
Yiddish theatre in America. He played with Kessler,
Adler, Feinman, Mogulesco, Moskowitz, and the other
giants of that generation.
When we met in
Philadelphia during that season of 1929-1930, it was the
first time I had come in touch with Cone as an adult
actress. Cone was hardly ever connected with what I'm
labeling the Second Golden Epoch of the Yiddish Theatre.
But Cone had the theatre in his blood; he lived and
breathed Yiddish theatre. He maintained that the Yiddish
theatre had to satisfy the big, broad public because
Yiddish theatre was part of their lives.
From time to
time, in his career on the stage, he had played leading
roles with the great Yiddish women stars, such as Bertha
Kalich, Keni Lipzin, Sara Adler, and others. He always
served the women stars with whom he played loyally and
indeed with a very great measure of respect. He felt a
kind of gratitude to them for bringing their sincere
talent and lofty acting to the theatre—as if they
were serving and helping his theatre. He gathered
considerable experience both in stage and business
leadership during his long years on the stage.
He was the
actual boss of the theatre during that season in
Philadelphia.
It was really
he who engaged me. First there I got to know Jacob Cone
closely. I already sensed during the first weeks of the
season that he was devoted to me and respected me. In
time, he relieved me of all my worries. I no longer felt
alone, subject to theatrical politics and theatrical
gossip. Cone shielded me from all of it.
He was not a
romantic lover. He did not have a love affair with me.
But I suddenly sensed that, in my situation as a lone
woman, he was the most suitable person to whom I could
entrust my life. It was only toward the end of that
season that, without any protestations of love, we were
hit practically simultaneously by the consciousness that
we wanted each other.
So, it is
rather curious and interesting how it happened that our
match was tied.
At then end of
that season, I suddenly received a telegram from Buenos
Aires making me an offer to come there as guest artist
at the Excelsior Theatre during the winter season. The
terms were very good but, since I am a poor traveler, I
was not enthusiastic over it. I consulted Cone and he
again proved the meaning of theatrical business:
"It wouldn't
look good for you to refuse. We'll try to do it in such
a way that they'll lose their desire."
A telegram was
dispatched that I wanted twenty-five instead of the
twenty per cent of the gross intake they offered. They
would never go along with that, he said. But really on
the following morning there was a return telegram of one
word: "Agreed...."
I was in an
immediate quandary: "Well, smarty, what do we do now?
How do I get out of it? I won't go under any
circumstances!"
Cone said:
"Don't worry. They've offered one-way traveling
expenses; so you'll ask for round-trip expenses. They'll
surely not give in to that."
The next day
came the answer: "Paying for both ways. But I must be on
board ship on the appointed day."
I asked
dejectedly: "What's going to happen now? How will you
extricate yourself from this now?"
So he looked
at me:
"Do you really
mean to refuse such an offer? Nobody ever got such
terms. You dare not refuse it. But listen here
now—since you're such a poor traveler and I don't want
you to go by yourself—well, let's get married, and
we'll go together...."
Although this
was far from a romantic proposal, I liked it. We got
married.
My Zelik'l was
then thirteen years old. I knew that he often stated to
my sister Lillie's children that when he got older, when
he'd gotten to be sixteen years of age, he would make an
effort to get his parents together again. That's why it
was with a trembling heart that I was preparing to tell
him about my marrying Jacob Cone.
I recall it
was on a Friday, after we had just left the marriage
ceremony. Coming home I found myself alone in the house
with Zelik. I said to him with some perplexity:
"Zelik'l, I
want you to be the first to know that I've married Jacob
Cone."
I could read
surprise, astonishment, and even signs of disappointment
in his eyes. He looked at me a long time without saying
a word. I understood what went on in his young brain.
Nevertheless, I took courage to ask him:
"Haven't you
anything to say to me?"
Jacob Cone and I
He warmly
embraced me, kissed me. I felt his little heart beating,
and at last he said:
"Mother, I
hope you'll be very happy. You deserve to be happy."
Right after
our wedding, we took a tour through the South American
countries. Our plan was to return to New York at the
beginning of the theatrical season, about twelve to
fifteen months later. So we partially kept our word.
We returned to
New York at the beginning of the theatrical season—but
it was two whole years later. We got so locked in
tie-ups that, after a considerably long tour in South
America, we left for Europe, where we spent nearly two
years in Central Europe, Romania, and Poland.
I want to
relate to you an episode on board ship as our first
experience as travelers in Spanish-American countries.
My Jack
couldn't stomach the meals aboard ship. He practically
lived on fruit and bread for three weeks. At the end of
the trip, we happened to stop at the port city of
Santos. They were loading and unloading certain freight.
My hungering Jack was very anxious to have a good Jewish
meal. So, together with a Jewish couple that shared the
table with us in the ship's dining room, we got going as
a foursome over the city to look for a good Jewish
restaurant.
We went along
until we got to the heart of the business center of the
city. We were looking for a Jewish name on one of the
businesses—looking but not finding. The people's
appearance there is very similar to that of Jews. So we
made several attempts to inquire. They looked at
us—gestured with their hands—we surmised that they
didn't understand us. So Jack tried another expedient.
Seeing a man near a business, he spoke up:
"And still no
Jews?!"
This didn't
help either. Evidently, there were really no Jews there.
And so, wandering around broadly at random, we sort of
chanced on a beautiful blonde young lady who looked
completely Aryan. So Cone spoke up: "If she were only
Jewish!"
To the
astonishment of us all, the woman suddenly turned around
to us and said:
"I am Jewish.
Well now, is there anything you want?"
We all
embraced her warmly, as if she were close kin. We almost
wanted to kiss her. She told us she came from London and
lovingly recalled Dina Feinman. When we told her what we
were looking for, she told us where we could get a good
meal. She called a taxi and told the driver where to
take us.
We stopped at
a magnificently beautiful, very modern hotel. Going
inside, we were virtually overcome by the luxurious
appearance and the colorful uniforms of the staff.
Besides being tasty, the meal was very lavish,
splendidly served, and abundant. When we had finished,
Cone said:
"This meal
will cost plenty, but whatever they charge, it's worth
it."
When he got
the bill for the two parties, he wasn't able to figure
out how much it was in American money. He took a chance
and gave the waiter a ten-dollar bill, hiding two more
ten-spots in his hand, if needed. His mind was eased when
the waiter asked him in his mixed English if he wanted
the change in American dollars.
We were
virtually flabbergasted when he brought us back all of
seven dollars and a considerable amount of their small
change. When he had given the waiter the small change,
the waiter virtually doubled up with gratitude.
I can't
understand to this day how they could have charged so
little for so much luxury.
We played for
more than four whole months in South America, mostly of
course in Buenos Aires, the capital city of Argentina.
We also didn't overlook a considerable number of the
provincial cities—Rosario, Cordova, Mosesville, Bassa
vile Bassa, Capizhu, and others.
Lying before
me now are, without exaggeration, tens of columns from
all sorts of newspapers from those areas—columns taken
up altogether with me and my playing. In all those
reviews and treatments there's really nothing new that's
different from the opinions given in the New York
newspapers. I think I've already boasted enough with
praise written about me.
And so, out of
the entire mass of reviews, I shall dwell on and bring
to light only selected citations wherein what was said
had a curious approach, something that greatly pleased
me.
Thus, for
example, Samuel Rozhansky wrote in "The Jewish
Newspaper":
"We are used
to having stars make a strong impression in their first
appearance on the stage. They concentrate on the moment.
This is of the greatest significance for them. Celia
Adler doesn't belong to that type. Let's even confess
and say that Celia Adler's appearance last night almost
didn't disappoint. Somehow she came on so simply,
without special pretense, without indulging in
theatrical pomp. And it was really this simplicity of
hers that grew so high through her workaday naturalness
in the not-very-lofty prose of the melodrama that you
completely forgot it was Celia Adler speaking from the
stage. You imagined that, walking among us, was a woman
named Mascha whose whole life passed by us in a matter
of three acts. What marvelous naturalness; such
wonderful realism; emotion from the most crystal-clear
sources that moved to tears with artistic joy. She is
doubtless among the select few in the Yiddish theatre of
all the countries that have Jewish artists."
Another one,
signing himself "Z." wrote: "Celia Adler can justly
repeat Julius Caesar's words: 'I came, I saw, I
conquered." Only one small change— her words should be:
'I came, they saw me, and I conquered." She can say it
proudly. But Celia Adler is not proud. She is the
simplest and most heart-warming woman you can ever
imagine. But Celia Adler, the artist, is of the
greatest. Her art is so delicate, so honest, that she
has virtually raised a melodrama to a higher state of
art."
I also wish to
record a reception given me by the "Naumberg Writers'
Association." That evening, an ordinary Monday, has
perpetually engraved itself in my memory. First, the
large audience that didn't get tired sitting up until
half past three in the morning and—no less—the hearty
warmth of the greetings that deeply moved me. For
example, this is how one of the greeters expressed
himself: "We are welcoming Celia Adler in such an
intimate way—just as if we had known her and seen her
play for a long time. Her name has gone before her,
because the name of Celia Adler has been connected at
various times with the best artistic activities on the
Yiddish stage in North America."
Another said:
"Celia Adler bears the credit for artistic achievement
she has earned over a varied number of years. May this
reception serve to stimulate her to keep up both her
lofty playing and the lofty word, as the real inheritor
of her great father, Jacob Adler and her great mother
Dina Feinman."
Itzchok
Deitsch, the famous theatrical director, charmingly and
wittily expressed himself: "I've never seen Celia Adler
play. I believe in her big name, just as I'm convinced
that New York is a big city, although I've never seen
it."
And so, I want to end my tour over those areas with some curious
episodes. It happened in faraway Montevideo, Uruguay and always comes back to my mind with a smile. A group of
Jewish young men and women from one of the surrounding
Jewish colonies came to one of my performances. After
the performance, we remained sitting in the half-lit
theatre. They simply refused to leave. They were eager
to hear more and still more about the far-flung Jewish
world, about the Yiddish theatre in the United States,
about me: "God knows if we shall ever have the good
fortune of seeing a Celia Adler and spend time with her
and talk to her in such intimacy.
"I looked into
their bright faces, into the burning eyes that sort of
lit up the half-dark theatrical hall for me and said to
them: "If you will teach your children Yiddish, they
will never be ashamed of you, nor will you have to hide
your Jewishness from them; so I'll still have a Jewish
audience here to come to twenty years from now."
I was rather
greatly impressed by the scattered settlements,
colonies, and small villages that are strewn around
miles away from the big cities. There are countless such
points over an area of hundreds of miles. The Jews there
are ravenous for a Yiddish word, for Yiddish theatre.
Several tens of settlements consult with one another
from time to time and make an effort to bring down a
Yiddish performance; And so such special hutches in
central points were built up and a Yiddish performance
was brought there.
A recognized
proprietor is the chief provider of such types of
performances for the village. So he considers it his
duty to provide sleeping quarters for the troupe. Our
troupe consisted of about ten actors as well as two
stage technicians. It was thus not an easy thing to
accommodate twelve new people in such a small village.
The house
there consisted of three or at the most four rooms. The
provider gave me, as the leading actress, his bedroom.
When Jack and I got up in the manning, we saw the whole
family, consisting of husband and wife and five or six
children of various ages, stretched out on the ground.
There were
also several centers that you could already consider a
small township and, in one or two of them, there was
even something you could call a hotel.
I must ask
that you believe that what I'm telling you now is the
unequivocal truth. The provider asked the owner of one
such hotel for his best room for Jack and me. The owner
said he had one room with a bath. We insisted he give us
that room. We had got there late in the afternoon. Jack
had gone to the theatre to see that everything was
shipshape. I decided to take a bath. I was looking for
but couldn't find a faucet that released water. I called
the owner and said to him somewhat shamefacedly that I
couldn't find the water faucet.
"What you mean
water?" he said. "There's no faucets and no water."
"l fell. how
do you take a bath?"
"It's not for
taking a bath. But you insisted you wanted a room with a
bath."
"Well, what's
a bath without water?"
He kept on
going in his own vein: "But you wanted a room with a
bath."
"But why are
you charging double?"
His answer was
still the same: "But you wanted.... "
The crowning
episode of that tour in South America occurred at a
performance in a settlement called Kapiszha. There was a
big metal building standing there that was used for
theatrical performances for all the settlements in that
area. I'm going to omit the particulars of our trip in a
big, open wagon. You can understand that shaking over
soft, unpaved dirt roads for a couple of hours in such a
wagon was not a pleasant trip. But we got to Kapiszha
safely. Here I was at last sitting in my dressing room,
if you'll pardon the expression, and getting ready for
my role. Suddenly the arranger of the performance came
in—he was the most outstanding farmer in Kapiszha—and
spoke to me somewhat as follows:
"Excuse me,
Madame Adler, for disturbing you, but I must tell you
about a very curious situation we have to submit to
here. When the doors open to let the public in, a huge
dog also enters. He stretches out to his full length in
the center aisle and watches all that happens on the
stage. For heaven's sake, Madame Adler, don't be afraid,
the dog won't bother you. He lies quietly and
peacefully. There can be singing, dancing, laughing,
quarreling, even fighting on the stage; he'll be lying
peacefully and won't let out a peep. But, somehow, this
dog possesses one characteristic, to wit, he cries right
along with the main heroine when she cries."
I began to
tremble: "My dear man, what are you saying; do you know
what you're saying? I'm a dramatic actress. I'm playing
in a strong drama here today; I'm playing the role of an
unfortunate woman. At the climax of each act, I get
hysterical and cry. I'm proud of the fact that the
audience cries with me. Rivers of tears are shed in the
theatre. If the audience hears the dog cry, they'll
burst out laughing. He will do away with my best scenes;
my whole performance will be ruined. Oh , no, my dear
man, I've dragged myself eight thousand miles from New
York to get to you people, and I won't allow your cur to
decimate my whole reputation. I want to please your
audience. I want them to love me for my playing, to
remember me...."
The man stood.
there guilt-ridden. He only said: "What can I do, Madame
Adler?!"
"What do you
mean what can you do?" I yelled at him. "Don't let that
cur get into the theatre today!"
"You don't
understand, Madame Adler. We tried that too; but the cur
scratches and bangs on the walls with his huge paws. The
building is made of tin.... it's no use....It's much
worse...."
"So chase him
away somewhere—to hell with him—lock him up."
The man sighed
deeply: "That's easy to say. But you don't understand,
my dear; he's not my dog. His owner is an unfriendly
fellow, in fact a curious character who walks around
speechless, with a pipe in his mouth and a loaded gun
under his arm. Woe to him who tangles with his dog.
After all, I and my family have to go on living here. Do
you understand the situation, Madame Adler?"
I did indeed
understand. How goes the saying—"The show must go
on...." You can imagine with what kind of feeling I went
on the stage to play and what my thoughts were. I didn't
get that dog out of my mind for a minute.
I was to be
conducted to the wedding ceremony at the end of the
first act. Right there the writer of the play wanted my
beloved mother to have a heart attack and die—I pray it
does not happen to any mother. Understandably, it was
here that I had to give out with a real sharp scream and
go into a fit of crying. But I had the dog on my mind. I
must not cry; the dog would cry with me; the people
would laugh; the end of the act would be ruined. So I
had to receive my mother's death coldly and
nonchalantly....
Ordinarily, I
would have received tremendous applause when the act
ended; the curtain would rise many, many times. But here
and now the public received me just as coldly as I
received my mother's death. Barely a few hand claps....
They surely thought: "Gad, what an actress; her mother
dies at the ceremony, and she—nothing...." It certainly
worried me. But I comforted myself with the fact that I
had succeeded in not giving the cur an opportunity to
get the people laughing.
And so I
safely but tortuously got through the second act; had
the dog more in mind than the drama and the audience....
But in the last act the tragedy becomes deadly
dangerous.... I tried to utter a little bit of a cry
while I trained my ear on the dog. Psst, quiet, I didn't
hear a thing. So I allowed myself a stronger cry. Than
God, the cur kept quiet. So I took courage and gave out
with all I had in me.... I sensed the audience's
empathy; they wept with me; women were sobbing, men were
stealthily touching their white handkerchiefs to their
eyes.... This was the best sign that the performance was
going over....
But right
there another matter began to trouble me. How come the
dog wasn't crying?!.... He had cried along with other
women stars; well, now, why wasn't he crying with me?!
It may be hard to understand, but I suddenly felt myself
resenting that my crying didn't move that dog.... it
irritated me. I wasn't able to accomplish what others
had done successfully. So I stiffened up with
ambition.... I must make that dog cry.... So I let go in
the loudest tones.... went into utmost hysterics....
made good on all I ever owed the audience from the first
and second acts.
At last, when
the curtain fell, the theatre virtually shook with
thunderous applause and the stamping of feet. The people
there are very demonstrative, stormy. The cries of
Bravo, the yelling of Celia Adler! and the throwing of
hats in the air.... The ovation kept on without
cessation....
I stood bowing
to the public. But I didn't feel the deep joy that such
an ovation usually evokes in me. The stormy reception
didn't sit well with me. I felt a gnawing feeling,
chagrin deep in my heart.... My mind kept
drilling—really and honestly now?!.... That dog had
remained nonchalant! My playing had had no effect on
him! Why? Why?.... Curious—right? The tremendous
enthusiasm of the audience hadn't touched me because I
hadn't please that dog.... My playing hadn't touched
him....
I went to my
dressing room practically crestfallen. Already standing
there was the arranger of the performance with tearful
eyes, happy and contented: "Oh, Oh, Madame Adler! The
audience just went mad over your playing. They're all
beside themselves. I first now understand why you have
such a name. We've never had such a large audience
before. They've come from the farthest settlements.
We've never seen such playing here before. May God give
you the strength for many, many more years to come....
I put on an
act, to wit, that I was moved by his praise, by his
enthusiasm. But I really kept thinking about that dog.
At last, I really couldn't hold out any longer and said,
as it were nonchalantly:
"That dog
behaved well. I had no cause to be afraid."
"Oh, Madame
Adler, it almost slipped my mind. I was so busy seating
the audience that I didn't have time to tell you.... The
dog didn't come to the performance today for the first
time in the existence of this theatre....
I looked at
the man with wide-open eyes. My thespian vexation was
becalmed.... My honor, my name had been saved....
Jack had
already decided that we would not play in the
theatre that year. He wanted us to make a longer tour of
Europe. I ... on his theatrical savoir-faire.
"The
Atlantic," a magnificent, new, just-completed French
ship, was then making her first trip from France to
Argentina. So reservations were made for us on her for
our return to Europe via her itinerary of returning from
Rio de Janeiro. The Chief Rabbi of Brazil, whom we had
got to know well on our guest appearances in that
country, helped us to get reservations. He even managed
to get a magnificent first-class cabin for us, even
though we had paid only for a second-class one. And so
our trip was truly luxurious, pleasurable.
You already
know from before that I'm a bad traveler by ship. That
was the first time in my whole life that seasickness
didn't bother me at all. I didn't even miss one meal and
didn't even suffer for one minute. That magnificently
luxurious ship had pleasures and entertainment aplenty,
and I enjoyed them all.
I remember
that I virtually didn't believe my eyes when I walked
out on the first-class promenade, which almost literally
extended the entire length of the ship, and found myself
among the loveliest ships on a sort of avenue akin to
our Fifth Avenue. There were all kinds of goods,
dresses, shoes, hats, diamonds—anything and everything
you can imagine. I don't.... such a thing on a ship.
There was entertainment with a magnificent orchestra
every evening.
I want to
boast not only about dancing, about my winning first
prize at a dancing contest. Perhaps you'll want to know
that, even though I had won first prize, I had to be
satisfied with the second prize. The first prize was a
beautiful, golden, gem-studded cross.... I was happy
that the winner of the second prize wanted the cross; so
we exchanged.
The train
brought us from Cherbourg to Paris late after midnight.
We had no hotel reservation; so a young couple that had
come with us from Rio suggested we go with them to the
same hotel where they had reservations. We accepted
their offer. Thus, we got to quite a beautiful, small,
but neat, hotel—far from the center of Paris.
Evidently the
six-hour train trip to Paris so exhausted me that I fell
into a deep sleep. When I awoke about nine o'clock in
the morning, I was alone in the room. A note written by
Jack lay on the little table near the bed. He had left
to look for some tie-up with Yiddish theatre. Breakfast
had also been ordered for me; "All you have to do is
ring for it."
I needn't tell
you how comfortable I felt at my Jack's seeing to it
that I shouldn't feel lost or lonesome away from home.
Jack showered me with this and similar kinds of devotion
during all the years of [our marriage.] I first
had the chance to really recognize and appreciate ....
the business of the theatre several hours later. Being
in Paris [during this] time and without speaking the language, he
accomplished what he wanted in only a few hours. It
certainly wasn't easy for him. At last, he was barely
able to communicate his desire to a French taxi driver
to be taken to a Jewish restaurant. When the latter had
at last understood what Jack wanted, he took him to Flammenbaum's, the most renowned Jewish restaurant in
Paris.
The rest was
quite easy. From there, they took him to the famous
theatrical director Kompanietz who, together with his
considerable, many-branched family, made the Yiddish
theatre function in Paris. When Jack had told him with
whom he had come, it didn't take long for a contract to
be signed with the best terms for a few weeks at the
Lancri Theatre.
Jack now
hastily returned to the hotel because, that very day, he
had to bring back all the necessary materials so that
the billboards could be ordered and the newspaper
advertisements could be mapped out.
I virtually
didn't believe my eyes when I saw what he had succeeded
in doing in those few hours. He not only had the signed
contract in his pocket, but had also reserved a room for
us at the Boulevard Haussmann Hotel, one of the very
finest hotels in those days in the very center [of
Paris. We] had
to pack quickly; a taxi to move us over was already ...
to be back at the theatre one hour later, not only with
"cuts ..." of Kalmanowitz's very fine portrait of
life, "Be a Mother," was scheduled for the following
morning. The premiere would be as early as Friday. It's
hard to tell and even harder for people outside the
profession to understand what it means for an
experienced hand to remove the worries a leading actress
ordinarily has to go through when she begins guest
appearances in a foreign country.
Jack succeeded
in doing all these things so easily during our entire
tour of almost two years over Europe that I had no
worries whatever about the productions. I felt that I
was in sure hands for the first time; and although we
experienced many difficult and bitter times in the
twenty-five years of our life together, my confidence in
Jack's theatre expertise never diminished.
Our guest
appearances at the Lancri Theatre were enormously
successful. I don't wish to burden you with all that was
written about me in the French, as well as in the
limited Jewish press in Paris. I only want to tell you
that, during those few weeks there, we felt very
uplifted both by financial and artistic success and,
especially by the circle of intelligent, warm-hearted
people with whom we often had the occasion to spend our
time.
By the way,
it's worth mentioning here that the Parisian theatrical
modus operandi is such that you don't play in one
theatre all the time. Parisian Jews are scattered over
various areas, so that the theatre is brought to them.
Thus, the same troupe has to play two or three theatres
a week.
We were
pleasantly surprised one morning when our phone rang in
our hotel room. To my hello came the happy answer by
Ludwig Satz, followed by my sister, Lillie. They were on
their way from London to Warsaw. They had purposely
stopped in Paris to spend a few weeks with us. So I
needn't tell you what a good, pleasant time we had with
our three little nieces—Zirele, Mirele, and Feigele.
Left to right:
Mirele, Ludwig Satz, Lillie, Feigele, and Zirele.
And so, I
shall close our guest appearances in Paris with an
episode that will again remind you of Celia, the
absent-minded angel.
You've surely
heard of the Parisian "metro." In our American Yiddish
it's simply the subway—only the metro is somehow
interconnected differently from our subway. When you get
off, you find yourself in front of several descending
stairs that lead to trains to various places in the city
with labeling signs before each descent of the various
stations where the trains stop. When I saw the labeling
and the name of the station we wanted, I got off the
stairs without looking behind me to see if Jack was
following me. He had been held up for several minutes
buying the tickets. When he had finished, he couldn't
find me. Suddenly, I heard a curious outcry from below
that re-echoed in many voices all over the station. I
recognized my Jack's voice yelling: "God in heaven,
where are you?!" Laughing hysterically, I ran up the
stairs again and fell into his arms.
Our success in
Paris made my Jack's ambition soar, and he decided that
we should stop over in Berlin, Germany before we went to
Romania. So we left Paris in a very fine mood. The good
mood also prevailed during the train trip through France
and until we crossed the border into Germany. That was
in February, 1932, when the world still wasn't deeply
disturbed about the happenings in Germany, even though
here and there writings had appeared about the
beginnings of Hitler, may his named be erased, and of
his Nazi Movement with its swastika. So we were
virtually shocked when, riding past various German
cities on our way from France to Berlin, we saw swastika
flags flying from every window.
A curious,
disturbed feeling began to grow in our hearts. The
disturbances virtually changed into fear when getting
off the train and leaving the station at the city of
Berlin, we met storm troopers virtually every step of
the way who clinked alms boxes with impertinence and
bitter hate, and kept calling out: "Help us send the
Jews to Palestine." I virtually didn't believe my ears.
Just then, one of them brought his rattling alms box
right over to me and, as if recognizing me as a Jewess,
put special impertinence into his outcry. I fixed my
eyes on him; I took a cue from my acting experience and
put into my look as much contempt as I could only feel
and express. My look hit the target. I sensed what I
wanted him to feel, and to answer me he repeated his
outcry with more madness and more hatred. We understood
each other....
The hotel in
Berlin received us very cordially. Jack immediately got
in touch with the theatre manager who was to arrange our
guest appearances in Berlin. He told him candidly that,
because of the atmosphere we had met in Germany, we
didn't want to make guest appearances there. Heaven
forbid that the manager should have an argument with us.
On the
contrary, he complimented Jack very much on his decision
and told him they were afraid of the responsibilities
they were currently taking on themselves to give
strongly advertised Yiddish performances. There had
already been cases of open scandal. Hoping that their
difficult times would be over quickly, he wished us a
successful tour in Romania and Poland. He would keep in
touch with us.
The next
morning we left Berlin with a heavy heart, hoping, like
the manager did, that it would all pass like a bad
dream. But, to our great misfortune, it turned out quite
differently.
It is with
painful feelings that I now approach the telling about
our tour in Romania and Poland. Drawing on my memories
of that time for the happy occasions in the various
cities and townships where we happened to be making
guest appearances, I descend into gloom and my heart
aches as I think about what has now become of all that
now.
Cities and
townships chockfull of Jews and the Jewish manner of
living, with Jewish traditions and age-old, deeply
rooted Jewish institutions—all have been so gruesomely
wiped away.
You doubtless
remember that, at my guest appearances in Romania
several years before that, I had had not a few
unpleasantnesses from managers who had not been careful
with our earnings; that there were policemen's pursuits
of graft, that the hotels were uncomfortable. On this
tour, I didn't suffer from any of these things, due to
Jack's expertness. However, I would gladly have again
undergone all these things if only those cities and
townships and those Jews were still in their places.
Our second
tour in Romania was no less successful in every respect
than our guest appearances in France.
Jack had
planned for us to be in Warsaw for Passover. We thus
left Romania with a very fine feeling. How does the
expression go?- -We had "both honor and money" there.
But I must give here a border incident that caused us
both worry and jocularity for a time.
When we were
leaving Romania, the official at the border
custom-controls opened our luggage, and his eyes popped
open when he saw one of my dresses, a velvet black ball
dress with a lot of shiny little stones. They sparkled
like true diamonds. The dress had cost a lot of money.
The ball dress was from the wardrobe of Camille. The
little stones were a cheap ornamentation. The official
got sort of confused. He called over several more
officials. These brought still others, and before we
looked around, we were surrounded by tens of government
employees. They evidently suspected that we were diamond
smugglers, and their policemen's brain convinced them
that we were smuggling diamonds in such a simple
fashion. Jack and I had quite a time of it convincing
them that these were simple rhinestones. But, anyway, we
did succeed in removing their suspicion that we were
diamond smugglers.
We got to the
beautiful, heart-warming Jewish city of Warsaw a few
weeks before Passover. Perhaps you will recall that I
had been to Warsaw for a short visit in 1916 with my
mother and sister Lillie, when we were coming from Lodz,
after laying the gravestone on Sigmund Feinman's grave.
At that time, I saw Warsaw only from my hotel room
window. I was an American young lady on whom the
overdriven, inflated discipline of uniformed military
men left a deep impression.
But now, in
the year of 1932, I had a chance to see Jewish Warsaw,
the city that was so chockfull both of religious
Jewishness and literary, cultural and highly modern
Jewish intelligentsia. I shall all my life owe my
deepest thanks to Ida Kaminska and Sigmund Turkow, those
truly heartwarming, friendly colleagues who were an
extraordinarily talented pair.
The first
night we slept in Warsaw and, immediately on the
following morning, we were surprised by a phone call
from Ida Kaminska. She greeted us very warmly and
invited us to their home for dinner. We joyfully
accepted. They came for us a short time later. We became
close friends. Thanks to them, I had the chance to get
in on all that was worth seeing and knowing in Warsaw.
They very often drove us around the city, and I was
virtually astounded to see Jewish families en
promenade—husband, wife and children—the men and the
boys dressed in thoroughly religious, old-fashioned
garments; the men, understandably, with beards and
sideburns, the boys with long little side curls. But the
women, and the girls, too, were dressed very modern,
according to the very latest Paris fashions.
I expressed my
wonderment to Ida Kaminska and she interpreted that
phenomenon for me. Besides being intelligent, besides
being a great, gifted actress, she is very wise. In
Warsaw, she was called "Napoleon in a dress." I was also
impressed by the Warsaw Jewish Artists' Association when
we went there on one of my visits with them. Its name
was completely justified. Assembled there were all sorts
of actors and artists: literati, actors, painters,
musicians—all that Art possesses. Besides our
successful performing, it was Ida and Sigmund who made
our visit to Warsaw extremely pleasant and joyful.
I recall that
we often discussed roles that both of us had played,
both child and adult roles. Thanks to her mother,
Esther-Rachel Kaminska, who had played practically the
entire Gordin repertory, she, Ida Kaminska, enacted all
the children's roles in those plays, which pretty nearly
comprised the beginning of my career as well.
I met Sigmund
Turkow twenty-four years later, in 1956, on my short
trip to Israel, a visit I had the poor luck to select at
an inappropriate time.
He and Ida had
separated—he married again. He died a few years ago.
Ida was married to Mayer Melman in Russia (or Poland?)
As I dig
around in my memories of that visit in Warsaw, it is the
Warsaw intelligentsia circle and the literary-cultural
circles in which I often passed the time thanks to Ida
Kaminska. I am tempted to boast to you about another
virtue those circles were wont to ascribe to me. They
always praised and marveled at my pure, hearty Yiddish
speech every time we met. They couldn't believe that I
could possibly have been born in the United States. All
the American Jewish actors who made guest appearances in
Warsaw, even European Jewish actors who had played in
America for a lengthy time period and then returned,
used many Americanisms in their Yiddish. They said that
this was the first time they saw an American actress,
one born in the United States, who spoke such a
magnificently beautiful, pure Yiddish lexicon.
They told me
about many curious things occurring on the stage when
the American guest would suddenly say: "There's a chair
(benkel) missing here; see to it that the curtain
(forhang) falls thus and so.... "
So it seemed I
harbored another virtue I never knew I had. I remember
this virtue causing me embarrassment. It happened in a
restaurant where I ordered a baked potato. The waiter
looked at curiously. I first then realized that "potato"
was not a Yiddish word. I looked around to see if
anybody from those circles had heard me. I didn't want
to lose my reputation!
I remember
another odd curiosity. There were countless beggars in
the streets of Warsaw. I imagine it's the scourge of the
country. Many of them were very insistent, especially
when they sense—and they have a special talent for
it—that the passerby is an American. My Jack wore a
light topcoat. It gave a sedate, prosperous appearance,
especially to such a considerable figure as my Jack had.
So row after
row of all kinds of beggars dogged our footsteps. They
not only put out their hands, but they asked for a
specific sum—and asked not, heaven forbid, for groschen
(small coins) or for zlotes (higher denominations). But
here now is the phrase they kept repeating: "Give a Jew
a dollar. You surely won't miss it ...." But, obviously,
Jack would miss so many dollars given away day after
day. He decided he'd better not wear the topcoat
anymore; it was too rich for his pocket.
I recall
toying with the idea of not giving the wrong impression
that I acted only in plays of literary merit.
I therefore
understood only too well when Elchanon Zeitlin wrote
about my first appearance at the Skala Theatre in
Warsaw: "I must admit that I somehow felt a twinge in my
heart when I heard that 'The Eternal Bride' was the name
of the play Celia Adler was preparing to do on her first
appearance in Warsaw. Et tu Brute? Celia Adler too? 'Our
Celia' as she is known in America with so much love and
devotion—she too?"
But that's why
it was more welcome to me to have him say in his review:
"Celia Adler possesses a great talent, true theatrical
blood at her hereditary core. You can see this in her
every movement, in every word she utters on the stage.
She is tender, delicate, charming, clever, and full of
temperament and refinement. She executes in a truly
masterful manner the transitions from one situation to
another, from one mood to another."
Jacob Pat
wrote: "I watched Celia Adler for two hours straight on
the scene at Skala, and I heard and felt during that
whole time a crushing accusation by the Jewish artist
hurled against Yiddish literature. The artist stands
higher than the dramatist by a hundred heads; and the
more talented the artist and the greater his powers, the
stronger the accusation cries out against the
literature."
I must admit
that I virtually hovered in the heavens as I continued
to read his review, really his opinion of me in the
melodrama: "Celia Adler is a master, an artist head to
toe—in her every turn and twist, in the nails of her
hands, in her whole soul, her mouth and looks, hands and
body, in her weeping and laughter—all. She's like a
rare musical instrument; she's full of heart,
temperament, and wisdom—fine wisdom. She is for real.
Emanating from her is a style of acting, direction, arid
mimicry that are redolent with culture and refined
performing. And not only is her playing genuine and neat
but her speech is also. The words and sentences coming out
of her mouth are pure and rounded. The words, the
letters, even the 'throw-away' words play in the
sentences."
I had a hearty
laugh when I. Perle remarked in his review: "According
to the posters hanging in the windows, I imagined Celia
Adler as 'being big,' expansive...." Understandably,
seeing me on the stage, he changed his view of me, and
he too granted me a considerable portion of praise.
Both the
outspoken opinions about me in the Warsaw press and by
the literary-cultural circles among which we often found
ourselves inflamed my desire to appear in several of my
roles from the better Yiddish repertory. And so for the
second performance we prepared Hirshbein's "Green
Fields."
Joshua Perle
wrote (in "The Moment" or "Today"): "To make a
distinction, the ensemble plays quite differently in
'The Green Fields' than in 'The Constant Bride.' The
young Oppenheim, especially. He renders a
flesh-and-blood character. This Oppenheim is indeed a
gifted man. And to whom do we owe thanks for all this?
Peretz Hirshbein and Celia Adler."
I shall
conclude my guest appearances in Warsaw with one of my
joyful surprises. I was shown an article about me in
which had been printed almost a year before in "The
Literary Papers," edited by Nachman Maisel. The article
was an interview with my heartwarming colleague, who,
together with me, was at the very top of the better
Yiddish theatre in the course of my career—that
extremely fine artist, Bertha Gerstin, who was then
making guest appearances in Warsaw.
It happens
very seldom that an actress should treat one of her
"competitors" with such warmth and deep admiration.
Nachman Maisel began his review about me with a phrase
with which Bertha Gerstin concluded her appraisal:
''What can you say—all you have to do is see Celia
Adler play."
And, after he
asked everyone to go see Celia Adler play, he summed up
in the following phrases: "Celia Adler doesn't play a
role; she lives the role; infuses it with blood; with
vital strength; with ebullient life. Everything is alive
in her: her eyes, hands, feet—her whole body. She best
embodies the Hebrew expression—she plays with every
fiber of her being."
I could easily
write several chapters about our tour over Europe then.
As you will see later, our tour extended for an
additional year. Thus I remember that Bialystok was the
last Polish city we played in. There's a bit of a
sentimental incident connected with that. Two managers
came to us proposing terms for their cities: one from
Lemberg, with a very enticing offer; the other from
Bialystok also with good terms. Suddenly, my Jack
surprised me by leaving the decision to me.
(I obviously
want to justify the fact that many people consider me
clever, a repository of wisdom.) I surmised why Jack
behaved this way. Jack was born in Bialystok and,
although he had left his native city when still a rather
small boy, almost a child, he not infrequently spoke
longingly of the city and kept the hope alive of going
there again sometime.
He was
evidently afraid that his feelings wouldn't permit him
to view the two offers in a practical and objective way.
So he left it up to me. Understandably, I chose
Bialystok. Thus, I shall never forget how overcome Jack
was when he took me to the house where he was born and
where he spent his first years. The little street was so
narrow that two people could barely pass. And the little
house also was very small and poor. When he left
Bialystok, it was with his whole family, so there was no
one to seek out there. Nevertheless, his shoulders shook
for some time as he stood in front of the little home.
All Bialystok
people know that, outstanding among the many assets
Bialystok possesses, is the wonder of the Bialystok
clock, located in the very center of the city market.
Some sort of power has lain in that clock so that to
this day, whenever Bialystokers get together, they talk
about that city clock.
Jack even told
me that great feuds occurred in certain organizations
because someone had expressed himself disparagingly
about that clock.
So Jack took
me in a droschke (horse-pulled cab) to the market to
show me that Bialystok wonder—the great city clock. I
recall that, on our way there, he spoke of and told
about that wonder with so much reverence that I got to
thinking about the large clock atop Cooper Union; the
clocks on the towers of the Edison Gas Company on
Fourteenth Street, and the Metropolitan Life Insurance;
and the other huge clocks to be found in Greater New
York. I also thought of the famous Big Ben in London. I
imagined that it could only be that all those clocks
were like toys compared with the Bialystok city clock.
Presently, the
droschke stopped, and Jack said somewhat disappointedly:
"Well, that's it!...."
I took a look
and virtually couldn't believe my eyes. The clocks on
the subway stations in New York are, if not bigger,
certainly not smaller than that "big" Bialystok wonder.
I unwittingly
remarked: "So this is really it, Jack?!.... Is this why
I had to bounce around in the droschke?"
Jack looked at
me and at the clock as if insulted and mumbled as if he
were ashamed: "None other. The clock has shrunk through
the years...." I hope the people of Bialystok will
forgive me for making so little of their great wonder.
But all this
didn't interfere with the fact that our guest
appearances in Bialystok engraved themselves in my
memory. Even though I was so disappointed in the
Bialystok city clock, I was warmed and caressed by the
deeply heartfelt Jewishness which virtually called out
to me from every house and from the very stones in the
street.
I'm afraid to
think of what's happened to all that now. My very
arrival in Bialystok brought me endless joy in itself.
Meeting me at the depot was a large group of people who
received me with a considerable ovation. They had
created a special social committee headed by Pesach
Kaplan, the editor of the Bialystok newspaper.
Our
performances at the Palace Theatre were colossal
successes. The theatre was indeed filled with the
heartfelt warmth of the public toward us. I very much
liked this expression in one of the reviews there: "When
Celia Adler laughs, the world laughs with her; and when
she cries, it's the crying of an orphan."
I had already
begun thinking about going home around that time, but my
Jack was greatly impressed by both the healthy attitude
of the European Jewish theatre public and my great
artistic success. And he decided to spend another year
in Europe. Thus, he constantly came around with more and
more new offers and, before we knew it, we were all ready
for the second winter in Europe and playing in Kovno
and Riga.
Generally
speaking, we criss-crossed the length and breadth of
Europe, not even missing Antwerp and Brussels in
Belgium, where we played in the King's Theatre. I have
the feeling that if the disturbances in Europe had not
started, Jack might perhaps not have acquiesced so soon;
and we would have stayed in Europe longer. But I
bothered him a lot about my yearning strongly for home
especially for my son, for my chums and friends. It
wasn't until the middle of August, 1933, that we got
back to America.
We couldn't
enjoy the fact that we had been provided with a trip
home on a German ship because of the happenings in
Germany and the persecution of the Jews that had become
considerably more vicious. And although the Germans
aboard ship, the personnel, and the service staff showed
us exaggerated civility, we didn't find the trip to our
liking at all. We even tried to change ships, were ready
to forfeit several ten-dollar bills, but such a change
was impossible because all the ship lines were so
packed.
At last we
spied New York with its magnificent high buildings that
I knew and loved so much. And presently we were nearing
New York harbor where countless human heads awaited
their loved ones and dearest ones. I can't forget how I
felt myself atremble when I suddenly heard all kinds of
calls from a number that carried from the harbor to our
ship and among all the calls, I recognized my Zelik's
voice yelling "Mother"....
I remember
another thing as I got off the ship. I already saw my
Zelik, my mother, amid countless friends and people
close to us in the crowd. My mother made sure that Zelik's arms were the first to embrace me. How curious I
felt. In the joy of embracing him, I was reminded by his
growing beard: no more a small boy—already a big
fellow....
But there was
no time to talk. Much has been written about the deep
feelings involved in farewells, about saying "goodbye
and keep well." But it seems to me there's nothing to
compare with the joy of meeting again people who are
close to you and your friends. Anyway, that's the way I
felt that day in August, 1933, when, after two years of
wandering over the earth, I had come home.
It is engraved
in my memory that I truly felt refreshed and uplifted on
returning from that long tour of ours over the
South-American countries and Europe. Such great interest
on the part of the theatrical public everywhere,
especially the hearty, warm attitude the Polish Jews
showed toward the theatre and the actor. Their
enthusiasm expressed so demonstratively and openly, the
cultural environment around the theatre—all this
awakened in me a fresh desire to become involved again
in earnest attempts in important activities in our
theatre.
The Yiddish
theatres still seemed considerably well rooted and
extensive in the United States. At that time, even
though an experienced eye could already note signs of
danger that lurked and cut into the Yiddish theatrical
being and were devouring it, bit by bit, step by step.
But there weren't many experienced eyes, either in our
theatrical world or in our writers' cultural world.
Perhaps the plague could then have been arrested.... It
seems that the neglect that took root in our theatrical
world really bothered very few of us. The disdain, the
ignorance, the obscenity virtually drove away the
serious theatregoers and people with earnest designs in
every domain of the theatre.
So that's why
I was very much pleased that just then, at the end of
the summer of 1933, when we had come back from our tour,
the Second Avenue Theatre, a really declared outspoken
operetta theatre, was getting ready to produce Peretz
Hirshbein' s wonderfully beautiful folk tale, "Once
Upon a Time." The theatre advertised it everywhere as a
great musical spectacle, a combination of literature and
music, with Lazar Weiner as music director and Ossip
Dymow as director, and with an extremely fine and lofty
acting troupe. Although the troupe was already full, I
was offered the leading role, which I accepted with
pleasure and without long delay.
On my Jack's
advice, I insisted on only one thing: that my connection
with the theatre be only for Hirshbein's play. I would
have the right to withdraw when the play went off the
boards. Jack wanted to save me from worrying over what
might happen if I were forced to enter the repertory of
that theatre's stars.
As the
memories of those years keep mingling in my mind, the
thought keeps coming up that my theatrical career then
was having its ups and downs. Presently, I was again
into one of my strongest melodramatic plays, "The
Forgotten Mother." I did a film on it called, "Where's
My Child?" and I was making personal appearances in
various movie houses where it was playing.
And presently
I took part with a group of sincere actors in the
beautiful production of Nahum Stutchkoff's "At My
Parent's Table," at the Irving Place Theatre. We even
had a special director, Michael Rasumny. The play, a
fine portrait dealing with an important problem in
American Jewish life, had a very considerable success.
And so I'm
happy at this time to mention with warmth, the gifted
and charming singer and actor Seymour Rechtzeit, one of
our most popular radio stars, later the president of our
union.
Incidentally,
I wish to compliment him not only for his personal
addition to the theatre, but also for choosing the very
talented singer and actress, the heart-warming Miriam
Kressyn, as his life companion. Under appropriate
circumstances, she could become an important force in
the better Yiddish theatre with her intelligence, Jewish
charm, and all-around abilities. Her succulent Yiddish
has justly elevated her to the most important female
personality in our Yiddish radio world.
The main
income of many actors at that time was based on
appearing at banquets and similar festivities. Others
even went to work in shops. A small number had the luck
to connect with steady programs on the Yiddish radio;
others, less fortunate, became satisfied with occasional
appearances on the radio. In short, the Yiddish theatre
as a profession fell more and more in the course of
those years. The close to fifteen Yiddish theatres that
existed in New York lessened in number year by year,
until we were left with two or three professional
theatres that have been existing tortuously during the
last decade or so. The forty-week seasons of yesteryear
have shrunk to a bare ten or twelve weeks.
There were
years when the spiritual ornament of the Yiddish
theatrical season in New York consisted of the
successful productions by that group of idealistic
lovers of the theatre, the "Jewish Folksbiene," on a
little four-by-four stage, in an impoverished, dismal
theatrical hall somewhere on Stanton Street. I cannot
point with a clear conscience to any theatrical
successes whatever that I personally achieved in a
little more than the last two decades.
I also created
for myself a number of concert programs and frequently
made such appearances in various centers across the
land—from Denver to Florida to Winnipeg, in deep
Canada.
As Ossip
Dymow, speaking of my career, lately: "How many roles,
how many concerts has Celia been through! The little
lady has quietly, humbly fought for the survival of the
Yiddish theatre, never cheapening the stage."
I was
evidently not the only one who felt that way about the
Yiddish theatre's quick gallop downhill. It had
disconcerted others too.
Around 1938.
my brother-in-law Joseph Shoengold, my sister Frances'
husband, who was practically considered as an Adler in
our theatrical profession, called together the entire
family with the exception of my sister Stella, who was
then on a tour of South America. All the Adlers came. He
proposed a very wonderful plan for us. I should say it
was a brilliant inspiration, a double-play combination.
The
world-famous Rothschild family was a name that had been
on Jewish lips for years and generations, from the most
out-of-the-way cities and townships to the biggest
Jewish settlements. So many anecdotes, stories, and
legends had been created about the Rothschilds among the
people. The name became a synonym for opulence in
Yiddish literature, of which Sholem Aleichem's "If I
Were Rothschild" is the best example. A comedy called
"The Five Frankfurters" was created about this family
because the family roots were in the German city of
Frankfort.
Shoengold
emphasized that the name of Adler is no less well known
than the name of Rothschild in America. Although the
head of the Adler family, the big eagle, Jacob Adler,
the one who more than any other brought it about that the name Adler should become so famous, was no longer
with us, nevertheless we all know that there were those
among the living Adlers who continued bore the great
name of the Adler dynasty with honor. There were ten
roles in the comedy—and these should be played by ten
Adlers.
The idea
impressed us all. Even the business people in our
family, my brother Abe and my husband Jack, saw very
great possibilities in it. Shoengold told us that he
was so certain of our assent that, he had already
ordered the translation. The name in Jewish would be
"Millions."
Evidently,
time and the years straighten out a lot of awkwardness,
iron out many wrinkles—so that, in my later, middle
years—I was incorporated into the entire Adler family.
All were so overcome by that inspiration and that
accomplishment that there truly reigned a chummy and
familial atmosphere of harmony. When Shoengold placed
the comedy before us and, as director, allocated the
roles, there was no jealousy whatever that it had so
happened that the leading role of Gedullah, the famous
Rothschild mother, had been handed to me.
Another
element was added that promised all of us even more that
our attempt would be a great success. Shoengold
announced to us that George Jessel, the famous
English-Jewish comedian and singer, saw so many
possibilities in the combine that he undertook the
financing of the production. So the headlines really
shone from the English newspapers— "Ten Adlers Play
Five Frankfurters," and the program which read as
follows impressed people: Gedullah—Celia Adler;
Jacob-Luther Adler; Anshel—Adolf Adler; Karl—Irving
Adler; Charlotte—Julia Adler; Duke of Toonoose—Charles
Adler; Countess—Evelyn Pearl Adler; Duchess of
Clanston—Madame Sarah Adler; Solomon—Joseph
Shoengold.
We played in
the New Yorker Theatre on Broadway. Everyone's
achievement was praised both by the Yiddish and English
press. But I must say in sorrow that it was really the
English newspapers that underscored the combine with
more sentiment, namely, that the famous great Rothschild
family was being brought to life again on the stage by
the famous great Adler family.
It's hard for
me to decide to this day why it was that the combine in
which everyone without exception saw so many
possibilities shouldn't have had the right amount of
success. It could be that I ought to feel partly guilty
toward the Adlers. When Shoengold proposed the plan to
us, some of us were of the opinion that the performances
should be in English. It's such a broader field and of
such greater possibilities. I insisted that it be done
in Yiddish. I argued that my natural instinct told me
that both the Adlers and the Rothschilds are expressly
Jewish "possessions." Thus, the sentiments pertaining to
it could only be in the Yiddish language. It could be
that my instinct fooled me and all the rest of us. Or
perhaps the New Yorker Theatre was too far removed for
the Jewish theatregoers of that time, being all the way
up in the fifties and Eighth Avenue. Many good opinions
were given both about the feat of achievement and the
playing. I certainly received countless significant
compliments. I don't feel the urge now to boast about
them.
Another
attempt to do something to halt the decline of our
Yiddish theatre showed up again five full years later.
My husband, Jack, for whom as you already know, the
Yiddish theatre was part of his life, hit on a plan of
how to try to revive the Jewish public's interest in
Yiddish theatre. It was almost the end of the summer of
1943 when he called the following actors together: Jacob
Ben Ami, Bertha Gerstin, Frances Adler, Mischa Gehrman,
Menachem Rubin, Max Bozyk and me. He proposed a plan to
us. The very fact that, at the end of the summer, all
these actors, myself included, were at liberty, not
engaged anywhere—no theatre had any place for us or
needed such enormously talented powers as I've
enumerated above—this fact in itself, it seems to me,
is witness of the fearful gallop with which the Yiddish
theatre was running downhill.
My Jack
proposed to us that we organize ourselves as a
cooperative, study Gordin's "God, Man and Devil" and
travel all over America with it. His theatrical
instinct told him that Gordin's strong Yiddish social
drama, played by only first-class actors, practically
the very cream of the Jewish theatrical profession,
could not but awaken the public's sentiments. He
strongly believed that America still possessed a great
many Jews who were concerned about good Yiddish theatre.
The worry over
the sad state of the Yiddish theatre evidently lay deep
in the hearts of each one of that extraordinary group of
great miracle happened. All at once, two weaknesses that
plagued star performers fell away from all these leading
actors. First, the opinion that equal cooperative
earnings might, heaven forbid, wrong them financially;
then, the second, bigger fear, that they wouldn't play
the leading role. Everyone threw himself into the work
with enthusiasm.
The
Cooperative Troupe of "God, Man and Devil," with Reuben
Guskin, Manager of the Union
I needn't tell
you that each of us thoroughly knew every word, every
role, every character in the play.
We unanimously
decided with an attitude of extraordinary comradeship
and fellowship and, at the same time with a certain
respect, to name Ben Ami the director and to apportion
the roles. I have never felt such sincere accommodation
among people in my entire theatrical career.
And so we
studied the play with great eagerness and in an almost
festive mood. Every detail and every movement were
attended to with the greatest accuracy and the strictest
discipline.
I remember how
heavy our hearts were as we went from our hotel to the
theatre in Montreal. The city was buried in deep snow.
We virtually held each other's hands to plod safely
through the mountains of snow. No taxis, no street cars
were running. We were sure the theatre would be empty.
Thus, we can't
understand to this day how the public could have come.
The theatre was literally packed to the rafters. Our
entire tour of thirteen or fourteen weeks was one great
triumph. You could virtually see the revival, the
tremendous renewal the public felt in the theatre. We
scooped up honor and money with full hands.
But the old
question still remains: Why didn't anything come of this
either? We couldn't agree on the selection of a second
play either from the old repertory or from the newly
written plays. The opportune time was forfeited. How
does the appropriate American expression go? "We missed
the bus!"
I don't know
if everybody who tells his memoirs, who communicates the
story of his life, feels as I do now. Coming close to
the end of my tale, I'm overcome with painful feelings,
as if I were saying farewell to my own life. And it's
indeed a law of nature that there must herein be
entwined those lives of one's closest, one's own people,
of those most loved who have gone to their reward
before. So you will surely forgive me if a feeling of
sorrow will often penetrate into these last chapters.
After the
triumphant tour our cooperative troupe with "God, Man
and Devil" .... my small, tight family met
with a difficult, tragic happening. In ....
brother-in-law, the brilliant Ludwig Satz, died after a
....barely in the forty-ninth year of his life. His early
...s whole life, his theatrical life called forth .....s
as they passed before my eyes. Satz [had a] true spark of
brilliance, and yet he so often dissipated it.... In
playing with him, I often had the feeling that he was
playing spitefully against himself, against his own
brilliant talent, and against all of us. Somewhere, in
the very beginning of his very promising career, a
certain cynicism attached itself to him, from which he
could not and perhaps would not free himself.
Two years
later, in February, 1946, I suffered an even greater
loss. My mother, Dina Feinman, died. It is difficult to
interpret in terms of sound logic such a puzzle as this,
to wit, that the death of such close ones, even if it
comes in the later years and even if it liberates those
involved from long, hard, physical troubles and
suffering, nevertheless still upsets us. We are shocked
by death as such. Next to my child Zelik'l, my mother
was the most beloved person I had in life. Perhaps you
have already gathered as much from my life story. Her
greatness as an actress, her tamer, fine character, her
open-faced, clear view of life, her great, tragic love
for my father, Jacob—all these together deeply rooted
my mother's personality in my consciousness in my life,
in my thoughts, in my life's very breath. The last
two or three years of her life were a difficult story for
her. Her sharp brain declined; she often manifested
almost childish thoughts. I suffered so dreadfully to
see my great mother sinking into nothing, disappearing.
And yet her death as such still upset me terribly.
I partly felt
a certain consolation in the fact that my mother's death
was openly taken for granted. I saw it because my mother
hadn't shone in the American Yiddish theatre for a
number of years before her death. She reigned in London
during those years. And we know only too well how fast
an actor is forgotten. So, as I have said, I had the
great consolation that, despite that, the press here
gave much expression to her death. Coincidentally,
during those weeks, death came to two very great,
world-famous theatrical artists, the English actor,
George Arliss, and the very great Russian actor, Ivan
Moskvin. So comparisons were made in the evaluative
critiques. Underscored in the obituaries in addition to
her great deserts as an actress, were her tender
personality and forceful logic.
I shall cite
here the following episode, partly because of my
maternal weakness, and perhaps also because of
admiration for my mother:
It happened
more than a year before her death, when she had her first
heart attack. My Zelik'l was then an Intern in Beth
Israel Hospital. He took her in an ambulance from her
residence in the Bronx to his hospital. Both mother and Zelik told me about that ambulance trip.
Mother told
me: "Oh, Celia, as I was lying in the ambulance, I was
looking at Zelik'l in his white uniform as he sat near
me and held my hand, and I virtually received a good dose
of health right then and there: my grandchild was
rescuing me."
Zelik told me:
"She looked at me in the ambulance with eyes that
expressed so much happiness, so much contentment that,
if I never again attain to anything in my whole medical
career, I shall already have been paid for my work of
becoming a doctor by that moment that gave my beloved
grandmother so much gratification."
My family
mix-up has taken up considerable space in my story
and has nearly always called forth not a little sadness
and very frequently tears. So, here, at what is pretty
nearly the end of my story, let several happy moments
that are a direct result of my family mix-up also be
noted.
My son was
born, grew up, and accomplished his achievements as
Selwyn Freed. And so, very few people outside the
profession know that Dr. Selwyn Freed is my son. Thus,
there are a few curious, almost unbelievable happenings
surrounding this. He was the doctor for all the
employees of Gimbel's department store for a certain
time at the beginning of his medical career. It happened
that one of the young fellows had to have an operation.
When he told his mother, a Jewish woman in Bronxville,
she was struck with fear—how come? Was there really to
be an operation? Who had decided it? Who was the doctor?
Her son had told her that the doctor's name was Freed.
She
immediately got in touch with the head of her son's
division by telephone and beleaguered him with all sorts
of questions. It was first after a long phone
conversation that she let him know she wanted to talk
things over with him personally. She came. She wanted to
know who the doctor was, if he was big enough for her to
entrust the apple of her eye to him—what sort of
reputation did he have as a doctor. The man found
himself at a loss in trying to answer the barrage of
questions. He only knew it was a young doctor of good
reputation. But that was evidently not enough for the
scared mother. She kept on talking, arguing, and
demanding. The manager was a middle-aged man; and his
impatient answers unearthed the fact that Dr. Selwyn
Freed is the son of Celia Adler. The mother's eyes
virtually lit up and, happy and triumphant, she first
then let the manager have it: "Why didn't you tell me
that right out? You would have me dragging myself to you
all the way from Bronxville! If Celia Adler is his
mother, I can entrust my child to him."
And just so
you won't think that only a Bronxville mother can have
such a feeling, I must tell you about another
occurrence:
The famous
Professor Wilhelm was the Chief Specialist in the
Urology Department at Beth Israel Hospital. My Zelik was
his assistant and very often represented him in even
extremely complicated operations. And so it happened
that an older man lay in the hospital waiting for an
operation to be performed by Wilhelm. And, as it
happened, Wilhelm himself suddenly got sick and had to
go to Florida; Zelik was given the job of doing the
operation. Zelik found it necessary to notify the
patient of what had happened and reassured him that if
he didn't have the needed confidence in him he would
not, heaven forbid, be insulted if he wanted another
specialist in Wilhelm's place. The man got
terribly disturbed over the news. He looked at Zelik'l as
if he had been abandoned: "I don't know you, and I never
heard about you, and I'm sure desperate over the
situation."
To quiet him
Zelik told him: "You have until tomorrow. Think it over.
Talk it over
with your family, and friends. Let me have your decision
tomorrow."
When Zelik
went to the man's room early next morning, the man
smiled and looked searchingly at him:
"You're Celia
Adler's son—that's my best guarantee. I have the
highest confidence in you."
There have
been many such episodes.
When Zelik
told me about it, he said to me; "Mother, I think that
in addition to all of your artistic achievements, you
ought to feel happy that people have such unusual
confidence in you. Just imagine: your name is worth more
to certain people than all my universities, all my
experiences and achievements in the Mount Sinai and Beth
Israel Hospitals. Just being your son is enough for some
people to entrust themselves to me as their surgeon.
Mother, you must never complain about your bitter fate
as an actress. I shall consider myself fortunate if I
should be able to leave my children such a reputation,
such a name, such a legacy. In such cases, I very often
silently pray that I may never be put in the position
of, heaven forbid, embarrassing my reputation and the
confidence people have in your name."
I shall
mention here one more experience in my career.
During
1945-1946, I traveled around in American military camps,
sent there by the Jewish Welfare Board. My program
was a mixture of Jewish and English numbers. I'm not
mentioning this because I want to boast of my successes
with Jewish-American soldiers, but I do wish to record a
curious thing here.
I was to
appear at a camp not far from a big city. That camp had
a rather considerable number of Jewish soldiers. Just
before the evening of my appearance, many Jewish
soldiers received weekend furloughs and left for the
big city, so that my viewers consisted of more than
ninety percent Gentile soldiers. The chaplain advised me
to give only English numbers in my program. But I got
the urge both in justification of being an emissary of
the Jewish Welfare Board and as one who loves Yiddish to
give at least one Jewish number; and I announced Manny Leib's "The Stranger" as the last number.
I first
interpreted and explained to them the contents of the
poem and the thought of the prophet Elijah in English
(he who was the miraculous savior of Jews in distress.)
So the Gentile men made themselves very comfortable
in...
MISSING PAGES
806 TO 808.
Ben Hecht
couldn't remain still for a moment during the few
minutes I was reading. One could definitely see in his
looking at Muni that he agreed with his choice.
Rehearsals
began under the direction of my brother Luther. The
production was planned to run only four weeks. But
evidently fate decreed that the last lap of my career of
many years' standing should remain one of my most
shining chapters. The success of the production spread
out over much longer than the four weeks that Paul Muni
had time to give it. Then my brother Luther took over
Muni's role. His and Marlon Brando's time was also
limited, and Jacob Ben Ami and Sidney Lumet took over
their roles. We played it for almost thirty weeks here
in New York and on, a tour over the great Jewish centers
across the country. I had an endless amount of acting
joy and songs of praise from the most important
theatre critics in America. I'm not going to cite what
was written about me. I can only tell you that I
surfeited myself with compliments up to my head and
over. To receive so much recognition in the English
press in New York by playing opposite Paul Muni,
Broadway's most beloved figure, was extremely gratifying
for me.
I must cite
here a few phrases from a little note Ben Hecht sent
over to me during those performances:
"Purely as a
token of my great gratitude to you for your wonderful
creation, I give you the right to use anything you like
from among my writings. I shall consider it a privilege
if you should find expression for your talents in my
creations. Ben Hecht."
As a result of
that role, I took part in a famous movie of the time,
"The Naked City," in which I also greatly scored.
It often
happens that the good, like the bad, may heaven forbid
it, comes to people in big gobs. So, in that year of
1947, destiny also dealt me an extremely great personal
joy—my Zelik's wedding. I need not say that it is a
great joy for a mother to witness her only son's
wedding. Thus, I recall that many of the wedding guests,
people close to us, friends and colleagues, noticed that
Zelik had selected for his Chosen One a person who
resembled me.
I only know
that I'm extremely happy to enjoy the good luck of
having such a heartwarming, devoted daughter-in-law as
Iris.
My son, Zelik,
and his bride, Iris
.... Since my success in "A Flag Is Born" in 1947, I cannot
boast of even one more acting attainment. Thus, in my
concert appearances, I have reached up all the way to
the famous Broadway vaudeville house, the Palace....
also played in an off-Broadway theatre in Mosensohn's
famous play, "Sounds of the Negev," under the direction
of B. Rothman, the noted theatrical producer. However,
all this has been like drawing the last breath of my
long career....
Paul Muni
The course of life, the race of the
years that gather and often lie heavily on our
shoulders, teach us to [take] disappointments in
our stride in the later years. Jack and I accustomed
ourselves bit by bit to meet such unavoidable natural
phenomenon in the later years of people's lives,
especially actors.
My Jack had
been deeply rewarded.... for him his Celia Adler would
still be the very greatest, the very best, but his
illness had gradually consumed him, and in
May 1956 he said farewell to a [disturbed] world.
You already
know that I watched myself [and] my melodramatic
outbreaks, so it is really quite impossible given the feeling
of helplessness, that has me [besides myself.] Something so
unfortunate is to be alone....
I again wish
to underscore here that, despite my angry arguments and
bitter grievances that had gathered along my life's hard
road, both as they were due to my family mix-up and the
malevolent temptations on the road to my career, I was
lucky to have laid by some true and faithfully devoted
friends.
It happened
that, not long after my Jack's death, my good friend
Fanny Samuelson, got me ready for a long trip to Europe and Israel. I talked
it over with several of my friends, and they decided it
would be good for me to take the trip. My son and
daughter-in-law talked me into it and, in order to
remove from me the worry of the rather considerable
expense of children, insisted on covering all the
expenses.
I certainly
had the only notion of seeing the achieved dream of
generations be mounted and filled with tension. It was
also that just the mere thought of generations
stimulated me, indeed my actor's ambition to appear for
the public in Israel. However, I evidently was not fated
to reach it....
So I had the
great privilege survival and the extraordinary joy of
stepping on to the land Israel, and to see, to admire
with my own eyes the rebirth of a people, a nation's
strength .... the process of setting up the country that
has no equal in the history of nations.
But I had to
realize the ruined dreams of mine for an actress's
success, what triggered the miracle of the Sinai action,
which for Israel was a matter of survival. Her victory
was admired all over the world. So I'm not complaining
that my artistic success in the only performance I gave
at the Ohel Theatre in Tel Aviv came to nothing because
of my almost forced departure from Israel. So I still
hope to live to make that loss of mine in Israel with
good honor....
Some five to
six months after my return from Israel, I was getting
ready to unveil the gravestone on the grave of my
husband, Jacob. A feeling of restlessness gathered
within me and mastered me completely. It is extremely
curious, almost incomprehensible, what can weave itself
in a human brain at such moments.... I thus want to
share with you an experience of those tragic days.
It happened on
the Friday morning before the Sunday of the unveiling of
the gravestone. It was a mild day outside. I was
awakened from my restless sleep by the song of the
little birds through the open windows of my bedroom. I
imagined that I heard the chirping of a little bird
closer than ever. I began to look around. There, near
the head of my bed, stood a little bit of a bird, with
his little beak extended in my direction—tweet, tweet,
tweet. I placed my hand where he stood and began to talk
to him. "What are you doing here? Where do you come
from?...." He jumped and chirped so weakly and pitifully
right into my face as if to answer me—"What, what,
foolish little bird? What should I do with you?....
You're no doubt hungry. I really don't know what to feed
you...." I took his little beak into my mouth. The thin,
weak, peeping continued. I got off the bed with the
little bird, mashed a little piece of bread, a leaf of
salad. He wouldn't eat. I got scared. The little bird
could very well die here with me. So I put him on the
outside ledge of the window. Maybe his mother would come
for him, and maybe he would fly away. My phone began to
ring. I rushed over to answer it. When I returned, the
little bird was no longer there. A kind of sadness came
upon me—and regretfulness.
I had delved
just that very day into Ansky's "Dybbuk," which I needed
for my "Celia Adler Story." The mystic words about
"souls of the dead that return to the world through
animals and fowl" disconcerted me.... That night it took
me long to fall asleep. In my sad thinking, that weak
little bird with his little thin, chirp, chirp, chirp,
with his curious behavior, took on a somewhat unusual
meaning.... Tremblingly awaiting the coming morning, I
at last fell asleep. The festive Sabbath morning didn't
disappoint me; the little bird again stood at my bed....
I unconsciously began to talk to him, using the
tenderness and the love names with which I had spoken to
Jack.... That thin peeping sounded so intimate, so
pleasant to me.... I thus spent several hours with the
little bird. I was sorry to have to be away from the
house that afternoon and evening.
Late that
evening, I opened my door in fearful expectation. The
little bird was waiting at my bed. Not until Sunday
morning, when I was all set to go to the cemetery, did
the little bird fly out the window with a last chirp,
chirp, chirp.
I very often
recall that curious little bird with yearning.
And now, in
the twilight of my career, I occupy
myself very little with the studying of roles.
Instead of
laboring at thought-out roles created by writers and
poets, I've taken on and been refreshing myself during
the last few years with a role that life has assigned me
and that is very precious and dear to me—a role that
gives me only pleasure and joy, may its effects
increase, practically without a scintilla of
heartache—my role as Celia Adler, grandmother of two
sweet, lovely grandchildren, with which my son and his
destined partner have favored me. I fulfill this role
without effort and with my whole grandma-ish talent.
There is no
lack of endless jokes and anecdotes about grandfathers
and grandmothers and their enthusiasm for their
grandchildren. Doubtless I'm no exception. I really
can't restrain myself from telling you at least one
little witticism:—two little grandchildren—two little
witticisms....
Louisa-Dina,
the elder, already a gal of advanced age, all of nine
years, may she live to be one hundred and twenty, recently carried on the
following conversation with me:
"I want to ask
you something, Grandma: When I go to college and the
teacher speaks of the theatre and famous actors and
will no doubt mention Celia Adler, can I get up and say
that the famous Celia Adler is my grandma?" She already
sees it very clearly before her eyes....
Celia with
Louisa-Dina and Dvoirele
Louisa-Dina
and Dvoirele
The younger
one, Dvoirele (Deborah), took part in a theatrical show
at her elementary school, when it was celebrating George
Washington's birthday. She knew that Washington is very
famous and that's why we celebrate his birthday each
year. In order to encourage her playing, her teacher
told her: "I hope someday you'll be as great an actress
as your famous grandmother, Celia Adler."
Telling this
to her parents, the "big gal," almost eight years old,
got very interested: "Is Grandma really so famous?" And
she asked with sparkling little eyes: "Will they also
celebrate her birthday each year like George
Washington's? Are they going to have statues of Grandma
Celia all over the place?...."
I cannot
indeed assure my grandchildren that their rich
children's powers of creative imagination will be
fulfilled—but I do want to have the pleasure of
finishing "My Story" with their little witticisms....
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1Here is the letter
written by the woman/medical student that Celia so
eloquently writes about. It was sent from Cartegena,
Columbia and is dated May 25, 1925. This letter was
transcribed by Steven Lasky, and is a handwritten
letter, written in script. Some editing was done with
regards to the English translation and a number of
illegible words, where .... is used to indicate omitted
words.
From Pauline Beregoff
Cartagena
May 25, 1925 2:30 A.M.
My dear!
Your charming letter threw me into
a sweet, sad train of thoughts. I felt on reading it all
of the pleasure I have been deprived of for nearly four
years. The certainty that …. still renewed me, has
suddenly ?own me out of my long apathy. Expressions
would fail me to relate the sense of joy your photos
brought into my life. It feels so good to have something
that looks like you to gaze and gaze at, until I can
almost believe you are right here, with me!
Alas! You, the bearer of sincere
affection of millions of admirers. You, who inspire so
many to work, to hope to …. You, who bring joy into so
many lonesome souls. You-you lost all trust in
sincerity?? You should feel the happiest of mortals in
your golden chains of friends. "To know Celia Adler is
to love her and sacrifice for her." And I believe that
half of the world knows you and loves you.
Oh! So many times, have I lost
faith in sincerity, yet there are some real, real
sincere friends who are worthwhile.
The reveries of the future are the
leaders of the mind; with beautiful illusions, we are
building castles, dreams of oases that many times turn
out to be air bubbles, disappointed mirages!
If we but could see into the
future? Would we be happy then? I suppose "hope" would
fail us. We work, push and pull, hoping to reach the
goal of our aspirations, experimenting joyful thrills on
climbing and even we fail to reach the end. Isn’t there
a new beginning left? The more we work, the more we see,
sweet is the fruit?
Be happy, dear! I doubt whether
there is another being who is more loved than you are.
Your life must be filled with the most wonderful
impressions, satisfactions, glories—en?se the few
disappointments that cross your path and …. Believe,
that there are sincere friends—one of them is this
lonesome girl who is writing to you, who adores you, as
a genius, as a model of a true soul, as a dear, dear
only sister! Order me, I shall serve you with pleasure.
I am glad your vacation is on hand.
You work too hard. You must take care of yourself, for
we need you—the world needs you—I—oh, I more than
anybody!
As for myself? A frown on my face,
a wave of my hand and off I go from the mind’s registry.
I am to graduate from the school of medicine and surgery
this coming October. I am an intern at the City
Hospital, as well as the director of the Pathological
Labs. [I] work twenty-two hours out of twenty-four.
Do you think it’s hard? Oh well, I
am used to it. It makes me forget about my existence,
making it so much easier to tolerate.
I find very much satisfaction in
helping the poor souls of the Charity Hospital, and it’s
a pleasure to do something for my country that’s
worthwhile. I expect to return to the U. S. A. as soon
as I graduate. My ambition is to be able to alleviate
human suffering. I shall keep on working until darkness
arrives, and then—it may unite me with the souls I love.
I could keep on writing and
scribble forever more, but I fear that you are quite
exhausted, reading this illegible hurried writing. So I
must have pity on you. Hoping that you will not
retaliate by letting me wait indefinitely for a line
from you. I am with sincerest love, ever
Your faithful, Pauline Beregoff
P.S.- Do you speak Spanish? Where
was the photo of the "Teatro Central" taken?
Gratefully
back to Volume 1 >>
|