When Boris Met Mendele: An Episode from Thomashefsky’s 1913 European Tour
Forverts (Forward, New York), December 7 and 14, 1913
Translated by Zachary M. Baker
Translator’s Introduction.
The stars of the Yiddish theatre in its heyday spent a lot of time on the road—and at least two of them chronicled their overseas travels in the pages of the New York Forverts. Boris Thomashefsky’s account of his European travels ran in that paper in 1913, and there was a follow-up in 1924 with reporting on his South American tour. Six years later, in 1930, the Forverts published Maurice Schwartz’s South American travelogue, succeeded in 1932 by a European travel series. A long sea voyage provided an ideal setting for these ordinarily over-programmed performers to lean back and jot down their impressions of the sights and sounds of the distant locales that they were visiting. Although Abraham Cahan, the editor of the Forverts, sometimes skewered Thomashefsky’s and Schwartz’s performances and productions on Second Avenue, he evidently appreciated the breezy and conversational tone of their travel writing.
When Boris Thomashefsky visited Europe during the late spring and summer of 1913, he performed with Yiddish theatre troupes from London to Odessa and numerous points in between. Upon his return to New York the Forverts announced, “Thomashefsky has returned from Europe with a whole heap of news” (September 5, 1913). Over the course of the next four months, starting on September 21, 1913, fifteen travel articles by Thomashefsky appeared in that newspaper.
Though Thomashefsky had been to Europe on performance tours previously, this was the first and only time that he returned to the Russian Empire, the land of his birth. Boris was in his early teens when the Thomashefsky family immigrated to the United States from Kiev [Kyiv] in 1881. His European tour thirty-two years later took him to the following cities: London, England; Warsaw and Łódź, in Russian-ruled Congress Poland; Berdichev,1 Yekaterinoslav [Dnipro], Kyiv, and Odessa [Odesa], in Russia’s Pale of Settlement (present-day Ukraine); and Lemberg [Lwów, Lviv] and Czernowitz [Chernivtsi], in the Austro-Hungarian Empire (present-day Ukraine). His sojourn in Russia coincided with preparations for the trial of Mendel Beilis in Kyiv, on ritual-murder charges.2 More than once, Thomashefsky conveyed his anxieties concerning the oppressively fraught political atmosphere prevailing that summer in Tsarist Russia.The Yiddish theatres of the European cities that Thomashefsky visited were the main focus of his travel journalism. In his estimation, the material circumstances of the theatres in the Russian Pale, Galicia, and Bukovina were pitiful, and much the same could be said of the troupes that he encountered there. The one glowing exception was Odesa, where a company of superb actors led by a first-rate director, Mark Arnshteyn, performed in the well-appointed Russkii Teatr (Russian Theatre) on Grechka Street.
Odesa was, moreover, the home of the classic Yiddish writer Sholem Yankev Abramovitsh—best known by his pen name and literary alter ego, Mendele Moykher Sforim (Mendele the book peddler)—with whom Boris Thomashefsky and his eighteen-year-old son Harry spent a memorable summer afternoon. Portions of two installments were devoted to this famous actor’s encounter with the grandfather (zeyde) of Yiddish literature. Boris took a fair amount of poetic license in his renditions of their conversations.
Mendele told Thomashefsky that he maintained an arms-length relationship with the Yiddish theatre. He had first seen Yiddish plays back in the Goldfaden era, before the tsarist regime banned Yiddish performances for more than two decades, and was also familiar with the more recent, “realistic” dramas by Jacob Gordin (at least in their published versions), although he disdained their reliance on European source material. He and Arnshteyn were currently at work on a play, Mendele continued. The unlikely subject of their collaboration, according to the Yiddish theatre historian Zalmen Zylbercweig, was the colorful German-Jewish socialist leader, Ferdinand Lassalle. Thomashefsky told Mendele that he would like to stage the play in New York someday, hopefully with the zeyde himself in attendance.
When their conversation shifted to the subject of theatre criticism, Thomashefsky placed more than a few words in Mendele’s mouth, while putting his own vanity on full display. The alleged shortcomings of the critics were clearly a sore point with the visitor from New York, who went on at some length detailing his own—and Mendele’s (purported)—grievances directed at such scribblers. Thomashefsky presumably had in mind those critics who made a habit of ridiculing the so-called shund plays and operettas that were his stock in trade. He let his editor, Cahan, off the hook by carefully exempting “responsible and serious writers” from his negative assessment of Yiddish theatre criticism.
Although Boris’s son Harry took a photograph of these two eminences standing side by side during their visit to the Abramovitsh dacha, it was not reproduced in the pages of the Forverts and is probably lost. It was too bad, too, that Mendele’s neighbor, the poet Chaim Nachman Bialik, was not at home when Thomashefsky passed by before returning to town from the countryside. An encounter between these two personalities would have made for an interesting postscript to Thomashefsky’s account of his afternoon with the zeyde.
Less than a year later, the Great War broke out in Europe, upending life and disrupting communications channels between the two continents. By the time that Mendele died, on December 8, 1917 (he was nearly 82), the Russian empire was in the throes of revolutionary turmoil, the Bolsheviks having seized power in Petrograd just a month earlier. The play that he promised to Thomashefsky was lost to posterity—and Mendele never did manage to visit New York.
As I have mentioned, in 1924 the Forverts published a second series of travel articles by Boris Thomashefsky, devoted to his one and only tour of South America, where he and Harry were joined by Boris’s longtime companion Regina Zuckerberg and her daughter, Pauline Kobak. A follow-up account of that travelogue is in the works.
[Start: from “Interesting Yiddish Actors in Odessa,” December 7, 1913]
During one of my evening performances, the editor of Odessa Jewish Life [sic], Mr. Hochberg,3 approached me on behalf of Mendele Moykher Sforim and suggested that I pay him a visit. Mendele is an old man, you see; he lives in a dacha far from the city, and it’s hard for him to make his way to the theatre.
The following afternoon we traveled by automobile to Mendele Moykher Sforim’s house. This was the most joyous car trip of my entire life. I’ve read all of the works, many times over, by the zeyde of our literature. My entire life, I’ve dreamed and fantasized about getting to meet the venerable “grandfather” Reb Mendele—and here I was, traveling to meet the old man whom I idolize. The faster the automobile moved the slower its pace felt to me, but eventually we reached a garden not far from the sea. We arrived at an ordinary wooden Russian house with a wide balcony that was overgrown with vines and flowers. An elderly man greeted us and asked who we were and what we wanted. This was Reb Mendele’s son-in-law. When we identified ourselves, he said that Reb Mendele was asleep, and we might see him in a couple of hours.
All of a sudden, through a window I heard a voice: “I’m not sleeping; I’ll come right out. Excuse me, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” That’s what old Reb Mendele said from his bedroom window overlooking the balcony.
And soon there stood before me a tall, proud, regal figure with a short, white, well-trimmed beard, an old and wrinkled face, two fading yet intelligent and expressive eyes, and a large and high forehead with two deep indentations in it. Even if you didn’t know that this was Reb Mendele, a mere glance would convince you to treat him with all due respect and deference.
As I grasped his hand in mine, my unending anticipation and yearning to meet our zeyde Reb Mendele released a flow of tears in my eyes. These were tears of joy.
My [son] Harry, who had heard about the zeyde only when we spoke of him during our brief time in Odessa, said to me in English, “Papa, it feels like Tolstoy is standing in front of us now.”
I replied to him in English, “This is our Jewish Tolstoy.”
The zeyde was quite familiar with my reputation. He had heard a lot about me from American [sources] and had read all of the critical articles about me in the Russian [press]. He was well informed about the American Yiddish theatre, the actors and writers, and in particular he was aware of the condition of Yiddish theatre in America.
My reception by the zeyde and his family was very gracious and heartfelt. He apologized that up to that point he hadn’t attended my performances. He’s an old man, so it was too difficult for him to travel late at night to and from the theatre. (His summer residence is quite far from the city.)
Naturally, I forgave the zeyde, and as we drank tea from a genuine Russian samovar on his spacious balcony, we swapped yarns, in the course of which a conversation about the Yiddish theatre unfolded. I had scarcely opened my mouth when exquisite words like pearls began to drop from Reb Mendele’s old, pale lips. Yet he spoke with a young man’s liveliness.
My Harry was incredibly enthused by the way that the zeyde expressed himself, and he remarked to me in English, “Papa, this is the first time in my life that I’ve heard someone use such beautiful language.”
“Zeydenyu, why don’t you try to write something for the Yiddish theatre?” I asked the elderly grandpa.
“Yes, why shouldn’t I write for the theatre?” Reb Mendele responded with his eyes closed, leaning on the handrail of his wide chair, and for a few seconds he became lost in thought. He furrowed his large, high, and wrinkled brow even more. “In my younger years I might have tried my hand at it, and once I even started to write a play, but it didn’t come out in the form of a theatre piece.4 I didn’t understand how to handle characters on stage—the scenes either turned out too large or too small for what I’d imagined.
“I rewrote it, but not for the theatre. After all, did Luzzatti write specifically for the theatre? That’s just how things turned out at the time—and even now I’d like to write something for the theatre, but I can’t do it on my own; that’s a bit too much for a grandfather; I need to have a ‘grandson’s’ assistance.
“And now, I’ll tell you a secret. No one knows about it—just yours truly, my daughter, my son-in-law, and a few acquaintances who live in the dachas nearby.” With that, the old man laughed, and we joined in. “I’ve begun to write something for the Yiddish theatre,” he continued. “And my ‘grandson,’ Mark Arnshteyn, is helping me. That is, we’re helping each other out, and when the piece is finished, I’ll have something to leave for posterity.”
[Continuation: from “Thomashefsky’s Conversation with Mendele Moykher Sforim,” December 14, 1913]
During our visit with Sholem Yankev Abramovitsh, he told us about his first visit to a Yiddish theatre.
“I remember,” the zeyde Reb Mendele said, “when I received my first invitation to the Yiddish theatre.
“To tell the truth, I didn’t greatly relish going. However, once I observed a Jewish theatre, a Jewish audience, and Jewish actors speaking in a juicy Yiddish, I thought that the Messianic Age had arrived.
“But let’s not speak about the Yiddish theatre back then. I knew that as time passed the Yiddish theatre would turn into what it is today. But I think that it’ll continue to evolve.”
The zeyde took a couple of sips from his glass of tea. He remarked that the tea was growing cold. His daughter brought another glass of tea right away and the zeyde continued:
“Jacob Gordin ‘converted’ the Yiddish theatre [into something new], but it still wasn’t what it needed to be: [thoroughly] Jewish—[a reflection of] Jewish life. In my opinion, Yiddish theatre needs to be Jewish, not a borrowing or an imitation. The Yiddish theatre needs to embody the Jewish spirit and do so in a form that’s light and accessible. You can’t spoon-feed philosophy to the folk because we don’t have many philosophers. We need to grow close to the masses and not distance ourselves from them.
“And I’m not pleased when I see, or rather, when I read pieces that are written for the Yiddish theatre and they’re not our own but have been borrowed or rehashed, or for that matter are imitations of ‘Faust’ and ‘Hamlet,’ or facsimiles of Sudermann’s and Hauptmann’s works. They can’t appeal to the average Jew because he can immediately detect what isn’t Jewish—he can sniff out Jewishness, and Jewish qualities can and must appeal to him. Even so, Gordin’s pieces aren’t bad. I can embrace that kind of Yiddish theatre and write like that for you to put on in America. And it’s possible that I’ll even sit in a box and watch my play. What do you think?” the zeyde asked me.
“I very much hope to live to see that, zeydenyu,” I answered. “And many, many of our people over there in America would feel fortunate indeed to see a work of yours produced on the Yiddish stage, and see you in person in the theatre at the performance. I think that Jews would pay an awful lot of money just to see you in person, even without a work of yours being staged.”
“I’ll come to America when my play gets produced,” the zeyde resumed. “I’ve read all of the critical articles about you in our Russian newspapers. They write very nice things about you; they compare you to our Dalsky, even in your mimicry and posture. That’s very nice, very nice. Among us, Dalsky is recognized as a great talent.5
“But that’s completely in tune with what I’m saying: The critics all reproach you for the pieces that you’re putting on. Some of the newspapers claim that your talent surpasses the writers.
“I’ve read—and others have told me—that in America you have great, talented actors: Kessler, Adler, Liptzin, Mogulesko. You have a union. All of your actors are good, genuine artists. Nice, very nice. Here, too, we have fine Yiddish artists: Zhelazo, Dranov, Kaminski, Teitelbaum, Lando.” (The zeyde enumerated the good Yiddish and Russian actors on his fingers.) “In other words, if we put them all together, we’d have an incredibly great Yiddish art theatre.”
“But where will we find the artistic plays for the artistic actors?” I asked the zeyde.
“We have a lot of good Yiddish writers nowadays, both over there in America and here in Europe, but they need to pay attention to what they’re writing. Spend a little more time at it and put in more soul. In America, after all, you do everything at a ‘hurry up’ pace.
“Now, here’s what really annoys me,” the zeyde continued. “I mean, our critics. In my opinion, we’re far behind the rest of the world. It seems to me that when a child is good at learning, he should be given some encouragement. But our Jewish critics come along and demand a bit too much of the Yiddish actor.
“He can’t be a Figner, a Possart, a Coquelin, and be any better than he is.
“The few times that I was at the Yiddish theatre, I was impressed by the Yiddish actors. If I were to write about them, I wouldn’t say anything bad—on the contrary, only good things. And I say it’s a great sin to criticize a Yiddish actor.
“You should point out errors that he ought to correct, but not run him down. I get heartburn whenever I read a critical article about the Yiddish theatre.
“And that’s why I don’t care to read any Yiddish theatre criticism whatsoever.”
I explained to the zeyde how Yiddish criticism gets “manufactured” in America. When a responsible and serious writer comes to the theatre and critiques a Yiddish play, he writes truthfully, with a critical perspective, and the result is an honest critique. The actors (and readers, too) are able to learn something from that kind of criticism.
Sometimes, though, irresponsible parties visit the Yiddish theatre—would-be authors peddling ready-made dramas and comedies, “masterpieces” that they consider to be better than Ibsen’s, Sudermann’s, and Shakespeare’s works. In reality, though, their dramas and comedies are a mockery. When we decide to turn down their “masterpieces,” you understand, this crowd launches dishonest critiques, pouring out their resentment at the managers and the actors. Consequently, criticism in America can’t always be believed. Responsible writers provide responsible criticism. And we actors are always grateful for honest criticism. The irresponsible writers have become so popular now with their nonsensical critiques that the actors ridicule them, and the public doesn’t take them seriously either.
“America, as you doubtless know, zeydenyu, is a free country,” I explained to Reb Mendele. “Magazines, pamphlets, and journals spring up there like mushrooms after the rain. Anyone who gets tossed out of an editorial office immediately launches his own magazine.
“And we need to keep all of these rags satisfied—paying the price of advertisements, a favorable mention, or getting a picture inserted on the front or back page.
“But it’s our great good fortune that no one takes their jottings seriously; otherwise, we’d have to give up on the Yiddish theatre and we’d need to start publishing our own Yiddish newspapers. There are laments and wailing (with crocodile tears) in our Yiddish newspapers that the Yiddish theatre is now in a state of total decline. Entire editorials are written about that: ‘We’re about to toss the last shovelful of earth onto the theater’s coffin.’ And what effect does that have? These writers and their scribblings are an absolute joke, because instead of the two or three Yiddish theatres that New York used to have, we now have lots of Yiddish theatres—large and small—in New York. And they’re all ‘making a living,’ a nice living at that. And with thousands upon thousands of dollars they’re repaying those very same newspapers which are trying to bury the Yiddish theatre through their phony libels and false critiques.”
“So, you’re not the only one, zeydenyu, who is sick at heart when you read such scurrilous critiques of the Yiddish theatre. Every Jew, every educated person feels the same degree of pain.“ But we scoff at them; they aren’t taken seriously—and you shouldn’t let them get to you, zeydenyu. So, when I get a chance to put on a play of yours in New York I’ll have an answer for all of the critics, and your play will lure to the theatre the connoisseurs who know how and what to criticize. The publishers—one and all—will put their noses to the grindstone, and anyone with the good fortune to critique a play by the zeyde will attend.”
The zeyde laughed in response. He appreciated my deep knowledge of the Yiddish theatre in America, and accordingly he assured me that he would write a play for the Yiddish theatre in America and was very eager to attend the premiere.
The hours that I spent with the zeyde on his balcony were a couple of the most satisfying hours of my entire lifelong career. We went on to speak about a variety of matters. Then we began to prepare for our return trip to the city, because I was scheduled to go on stage that very evening.
The zeyde accompanied us to the gate. On the way there, he chatted with my Harry. He noticed that Harry was carrying a camera on his shoulder.
“Well, in that case,” said the zeyde, “let’s take a photograph.” Naturally, I was especially pleased. For me, it was an honor to stand next to the zeyde in a picture.
As we stood there, my Harry got ready to take the picture.
“How shall we pose for this picture?” the zeyde asked with a smile.
“Let’s strike a pose as if we’re bidding each other farewell, zeydenyu,” I said.
The zeyde thought for a moment, put his hand upon my shoulder, and responded, “No, my child, I wouldn’t want that kind of pose. Let’s take our picture, posing not as if we’re saying goodbye to each other, but as though we’ll meet again twenty years from now.” (According to the editor Hochberg in Odessa, the zeyde is now 96 years old.6)
It was heartbreaking to hear the zeyde utter these words with such sensitivity and with a sigh and a smile. A realm of tragedy resided within those few words.
The picture of the zeyde and me is sacred because the moments of my meeting with the zeyde and my parting from him will remain the most hallowed moments of my life.
As we said our farewells, I clasped the zeyde’s hand in mine for a very long time and said to myself, “Zeyde is old, very old. Hold onto his hand; greet him once again; who knows?”
Taking leave from the zeyde, we approached our great poet Mr. Bialik’s place. But we didn’t find him at home…
Appendix. Names of Actors and Other Personalities Mentioned in This Article:
Sholem-Yankev Abramovitsh, aka, Mendele Moykher-Sforim (1836-1917), dubbed the “grandfather” (zeyde) of Yiddish literature (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:1358-1368). A product of the Russian Jewish Enlightenment, or Haskalah, Abramovitsh wrote in both Hebrew and Yiddish. Best known for the rich language and biting satire of his novels, one of his early works was the play “Di takse” (The [Meat] Tax). Adaptations of his fiction also made their way onto the Yiddish stage and screen.
Jacob P. Adler (1855-1926), famous Yiddish dramatic actor, active in Odessa, London, and New York (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:13-28). Adler was a sometime partner and frequent rival of Thomashefsky; he was also the patriarch of one of the best-known family dynasties of the Yiddish theatre.
Mark Arnshteyn / Andrzej Marek (1878-1943), Polish Yiddish journalist, playwright, translator, and director (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:98-102, 5:4414-4467). In 1913, Arnshteyn was directing the Odessa Yiddish theatre troupe with which Thomashefsky performed. Arnshteyn was murdered by the Nazis following the Warsaw Ghetto uprising.
Hayim Naḥman Bialik (1873-1934), the preeminent Hebrew poet of the first half of the twentieth century, who also wrote in Yiddish. Bialik was a long-time resident in Odessa who relocated to Tel-Aviv in 1924 and was buried there.
Benoît-Constant Coquelin (1841-1909), French actor.
Mamont Viktorovich Dalsky (né Neelov), 1865-1918, Russian actor, born near Kharkiv, died in Moscow.
Natan (Nisn) Dranov (1884-1920), Yiddish actor, active in the Russian Empire (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:569-570), married to Nadia (Meytus) Dranov /Dranoff (1889-1955), Yiddish actress, active in the Russian Empire and the United States (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:568-569).
Nikolay Nikolayevich Figner (1857-1918), Russian tenor, and Medea Figner (1859-1952), Italian-born mezzo-soprano, married to Nikolay Figner, brother of the Russian revolutionary Vera Figner (1852-1942).
Jacob Gordin (1853-1909), prominent Yiddish playwright, active in New York. He was an apostle of realism and naturalism (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:392-461).
Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), Norwegian playwright and director. His plays “A Doll’s House (Nora)” and “Ghosts” were staples of the Yiddish theatre.
Ester-Rokhl Kaminska (1870-1925), eminent Polish Yiddish actress (Zylbercweig Leksikon 6:5433-5616), married to Avrom-Yitskhok Kaminski (1867-1918), Polish Yiddish actor, director, playwright, and translator (Zylbercweig Leksikon 6:5254-5281).
David Kessler (1860-1920), famous Yiddish dramatic actor, active in London and New York (Zylbercweig Leksikon 4:2689-2803). He was a sometime rival of Adler and Thomashefsky.
Shmuel Landau-Kleckau / Lando-Klekoy (1882-[194-]), Yiddish and Polish-language actor, active in Poland, who perished during the Holocaust (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:999-1000, 5:3940-3953).
Ferdinand Lassalle (1825-1864), pioneering socialist leader in pre-unification Germany. Born to a Jewish family in Breslau (now Wrocław, Poland), Lassalle was a philosopher and pioneering political activist who founded the precursor of the influential Social Democratic Party in Germany. He died following a duel over the affections of Helene von Dönniges, a young woman from a Protestant family.
Keni Liptzin (1856-1918), eminent Yiddish dramatic actress, active in New York (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:1108-1127). Remembered for her roles in plays by Jacob Gordin.
Luigi Luzzatti (1841-1927), Italian Jewish financier, political economist, social philosopher, and jurist. Luzzatti was Prime Minister of Italy between 1910 and 1911.
Sigmund (Selig) Mogulesko (1858-1914), pioneering Yiddish comic actor, active in Bucharest and New York (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:1180-1208).
Ernst von Possart (1841-1921), German actor and theatre director.
Hermann Sudermann (1857-1928), German playwright and novelist.
Avrom (Sholem, Sam) Teitelbaum / Taytelboym (1889-1947), Yiddish Hebrew actor, director, translator, and critic, active in the Russian Empire, Europe, Palestine, and the United States, where he performed with Maurice Schwartz’s Yiddish Art Theatre troupe (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:875-878).
Boris Thomashefsky (1866 or 1868[6]-1939), pioneering Yiddish actor, director, playwright, and impresario (Zylbercweig Leksikon 2:804-840). He founded one of the first Yiddish troupes in New York City and was one of the most enduringly successful personalities of the Yiddish theatre.
Leyzer (Eliezer) Zelazo / Zhelazo (Zhelazni) (1877-?), Yiddish actor, active in the Russian Empire, Congress Poland, and the United States (Zylbercweig Leksikon 1:797-798). Zelazo performed with the Vilna Troupe in Europe.
- In Berdichev, Boris visited the large synagogue where he had been a boy chorister, under the tutelage of Cantor Nisan (Nisi) Belzer. ↩︎
- During the trial, which was held in the autumn of 1913, Beilis was acquitted. ↩︎
- Shaul Hochberg (1870-1942) edited Unzer leben, a daily newspaper which was published in Warsaw from 1907 to 1912, and in Odessa from 1912-1917. ↩︎
- Two of Mendele’s works take the form of plays: Di takse [The Meat Tax] and Der priziv [Conscription]. In addition, some of his fictional works were dramatized by other authors and produced on stage and screen. ↩︎
- This is probably the noted Russian dramatic actor Mamont Dal’sky (1865-1918). Dal’sky was of Russian noble birth, which must have pleased Thomashefsky. ↩︎
- Sholem Yankev Abramovitsh was born on January 2, 1836, making him 77 years old at the time of his encounter with Thomashefsky. ↩︎
