Strollin’ down the Bowery recently, and bein’ in an observant and at the same time contemplative frame of mind, I passed a little barroom of the second or third class. The place has nothin’ attractive or peculiar about it from the street, but within, behind the barroom, was one of the most curious places in New York–the only place of its kind in the city, or, for that matter, I believe in the country–a Jewish theater, managed by Jews, the actors and actresses all Jews, the subjects of the plays all connected with the Jews, and the plays all given in the Jewish language, or what is known to the Jews as Judisch Deutsch, or German-Hebrew.
This little theatre has been the scene of many a bit of comedy and tragedy in real life. It has witnessed the rise and fall of many a “snap” company, the beginnin’ and the end of many a “combination.” Small as it is, it has been quite a theatrical graveyard.
The place itself has changed its appearance almost as often as it has changed proprietors or lessees. It has been “altered” and “improved,” “decorated” and “redecorated” times without number.
Each “snap” has had a whack at fixin’, unfixin’ and refixin’ its little stage. Each “combination” has done its best, or worst, to obliterate the alterations of the precedin’ one, but all alike have failed, busted up, vamoosed, leavin’ only unpaid bills behind ‘em. “Variety” shows of all sorts have been given here; even a “circus” was attempted here once. It has been a “free and easy” several times, but it’s queerest phase has been its latest–its transformation into an “Oriental Theatre.”
Here performances are given by a company of Russian and Polish refugee Jews who perform plays by Polish and Russian authors, treatin’ of Russian and Siberian life, and exhibiting the various aspects of the oppression to which the Jews have been subjected in Russia and Poland.
This company claims that they are the first of its kind who have ever visited this country. But this is a mistake, for two or three years after I came to New York, that is, about thirty years ago a small party of Hebrew theatrical exiles came to the city from Odessa.
They were banished to America by the order of the Czar, and looked upon their banishment as a piece of exceptional mercy at the hands of that autocrat. For it had been at first designed to shoot ‘em, then to sentence ‘em to penal servitude in the mines of Siberia. Their offense had been a very grave one in the eyes of the Russian officials: they had dared to present plays in the Polish-Jew dialect based upon the political wrongs of their audience. Of course they had attracted crowds; but of course they also attracted the attention of the police, who forthwith arrested ‘em. They were tried for offenses against the divine Czar and found guilty forthwith. For far less, the most dire punishment had been inflicted upon unfortunates; but somehow the Czar had a fit of good nature on him at this time, and contented himself by banishin’ the dramatic company. They were given one week to leave the country in the continent, and before that period expired they were all on board of a sailin’ vessel, bound for New York. They arrived here without any demonstrations of welcome, as may readily be supposed. But then they had no troubles with the Custom House officers either. All their baggage consisted of one trunk, one box, and four old sacks, or bags–not very heavy baggage for a party of seven.
They were rich in hope, though, for they had heard that the streets of New York were paved with gold, and they looked confidently to a warm greetin’ at the hands of their countrymen. But they didn’t get it. There were not nearly so many Jews in New York then as now, and they were not near so rich then is now, either. So there was no excitement at all over the arrival of the newcomers, and within a couple of weeks they had found their level, which was in a small dilapidated old frame house in Bayard street near Elizabeth street. Here the party of seven all live together–cuddlin’ together for domestic purposes in the second story and attic of the house, turning the ground floor of two rooms into a Jewish theatre, which was really the first place of the sort in America.
It was a queer existence, a strange double life those Jewish Exiles led here in this American metropolis. Each of ‘em was compelled to do somethin’ by day as well as act by night. The leadin’ man, who illustrated the wrongs of Poland on the stage every evenin’, went round the Bowery every mornin’, peddlin’; and the “old man” of the troupe, who was the wronged and outraged head of a Jewish family, banished, or beaten, or executed every night, was a rag-picker when he wasn’t sufferin’, or cussin’, or dyin’, or appealin’ to Heaven against his country’s wrongs.
The leadin’ lady was the wife of the rag-picker, and was rather good-lookin’. She had a daughter of about seventeen years of age who was really beautiful. She was the prime attraction of the troupe.
Her beauty soon got her into trouble. She was a good girl, but a young Gentile, the son of a Broadway clothier, fell in love with her, and findin’ he could not obtain her under any other condition, proposed marriage to her, whereupon the girl referred him to her father. The girl herself, though regularly brought up as a Jewess, had no cast-iron prejudice against the Christians, and made no secret of her preference for the young man. But her old father and mother were orthodox Jews of the most severe sect, who regarded marriage with a Christian as almost a deadly sin. So they refused their consent, and although the enamored youth coaxed the maiden to elope with him, she steadfastly refused. Meanwhile the father of the young man had heard of his son’s infatuation for a young Jewess on the East side and raised Cain about it, and blamed the old couple and the girl for enticing his son. A stormy scene ensued one night between the old fathers, in the little theater, but although blows were exchanged no bones were broken nor blood spilled. The reporters got wind of the affair. But the old clothin’ merchant hushed the matter up and sent his son out West. The only practical result of the affair was that the old rag-picker, or actor, forced his daughter to marry one of the actors in the company, so as to get her out of the reach of further mischief.
With the exception of this young girl, all the rest of the troupe of seven were homely as hedge fences; but there were several clever people among ‘em. Some sang well, and all of ‘em were good elocutionists. The leadin’ man, the old man and the leadin’ lady were really fine actors.
At first they charged a regular admission price to their theatre. But not finding the returns at the box-office satisfactory, they adopted the plan of free admission, and then passin’ the hat round. This peculiar style of “managin’” seemed to produce better results than the other. Still it didn’t pan out enough to more than pay the bare rent of the old shanty.
The “runnin’ expenses” of the theater were very light indeed, especially in the matter of light, which was wholly furnished by a few tallow candles. Occasionally, durin’ the performance one or other of the actors, not “on” at the time, would leave the stage and go round the “auditorium,” snuffin’ the candles.
The “orchestra” was reduced to its simplest elements–an old battered piano and a solitary fiddle. At first the company appeared in entire plays, then they only gave scenes from plays; finally they turned the whole show into a sort of variety performance.
But regularly once a fortnight the company presented an entire play, illustratin’ the wrongs of the Jews abroad. They did this from a motive intensely patriotic and praiseworthy, in order to keep alive in ‘emselves and others the memories of the injuries inflicted by tyrants on their native land and fellow countrymen, and and co-religionists.
On these great nights the play chosen was always of a high order, by some popular Polish or Russian author, and was presented with as much fidelity and acted with as much skill as possible. It was a like a joy and a duty with these exiles to keep alive the traditions and the memories of their far-off birthplace, and their religion–the mere matter of money takin’ in, and attendance, bein’ on those occasions altogether minor considerations.
Sometimes the delineation of the sufferin’s endured by, and the wrongs inflicted on their fellow Poles and Jews would stir the audience to an almost frenzy; but as a rule these “national” nights, as they might be styled, were not successes, save as duties.
I have alluded to the actors occasionally leavin’ the stage to snuff the candles in the auditorium. This was not all. The leading lady, Madame Rachel Scholvin, who was a clever performer, used to fill up the intervals between the acts by waitin’ upon the audience selling cups of strong, black coffee at five cents a cup. No Frills or airs about such a leadin’ lady as that. As all the company lived over the theatre, the whole establishment partook of a domestic character. Madame Scholvin used to bring her baby down and nurse him, when not on the stage; the cries of the baby sometimes mingled with the declamation of the actors and the music (?) of the orchestra; while the audience was as democratic and domestic in its way as the performers, and smoked trubkas or Russian pipes, or ate sandwiches and sausages while the performance was goin’ on.
Altogether this first Jewish theater in New York was without a parallel in the history of metropolitan amusements.
[Editor’s note: Harry’s column, in this case, asserts a very startling revision of the history of Yiddish Theater. According to theater professor Edna Naschon, the accepted timeline has the Yiddish theater originating in Rumania in 1876, and opening in New York in 1882, which sparked growth of New York’s Yiddish Theater District. Harry is suggesting that one opened on Bayard Street around 1852-1853–decades earlier.
No corroborating evidence has yet surfaced. But in 1852-53, a noted Eastern European Jewish religious congregation, Beth Hamedrash, was located at 83 Bayard Street–so there was a community in that locale that would have patronized a Yiddish theater.
No traces of “Rachel Scholvin” (or variations of that surname) have yet been found.
Harry mentions Yiddish as “German-Hebrew,” and in different points call the performers Poles and Russians. In the 1850s, a large section of Poland was under Russian authority. There was a large, persecuted Jewish community in Odessa in the 1850s that used Yiddish.
Even so, Harry Hill was already in New York at that time, and was very well versed on local theater, since he considered himself a theater manager. It defies logic that he (or his ghostwriter) would make up such an unlikely history.]
