munger

Wednesday Mar 26

by

I have really intended to
spend the Eve. at home, but
(torn) Jack Breitbart upset my plans
by calling my to accompany
him to the Metr. Opera house
which gave me an opportunity
to listen for the first time
to, Le Roi de Lahore (in French)

It is a wonderful romance
with a still more wonderful
ballet.

————–

Matt’s Notes

The 1924 production of Le Roi de Lahore was regarded in its day as a spectacular trifle. The New York Times treated it as a curiosity because it had never been staged in New York and was early work by Jules Massinet (who after writing it went on to a long and storied career). In a cheeky review, the Times repeatedly described it as grand but unoriginal, notable for its bombast, spectacular sets, and (as Papa noted) its elaborate ballet:

The ballet was very elaborate and brilliant…The little children, with sprouting wings, made a pleasing episode, which could not have occurred upon the stage, in, for example the State of Massachusetts…Nor should the the admirable elephant of act four go unmentioned. His legs deserved the highest praise.

Irving Kolodin has less fun with the production in his The Story of the Metropolitan Opera (1883-1950) :

The total of works by Massenet seen in New York climbed steadily higher when Le Roi de Lahore (new in 1877) was introduced on February 29 amid and eye-filling decor by Boris Anisfeld. [Guiseppe] De Luca was an excellent Scandia, Delia Reinhardt a tasteful Sita, and Larui-Volpi sand Alim with fine vocal quality. [Louis] Hasselmans conducted acceptably, and [Rosina] Galli led an elaborate ballet with traditional charm. The fault, and it was a fundamental one, was with Massenet’s score, a weak suggestion of the man who was to write Manon. Four repetitions sufficed for Le Roi de Lahore.

Papa had a weakness for the corny and spectacular, so this story, set in 11th-Century India and full of war, palace scandal and glimpses of the afterlife, would have been a treat for him. (Especially since his friend invited him unexpectedly, kind of like the way I felt about seeing Lucinda Williams at Radio City the other night — I never would have gone on my own, but the tickets a co-worker dropped on me at the last minute softened me up quite a bit.)

——————

Additional references:

Thursday Mar 27

by


Again meeting at the
Maccabean

1st payment of $10 on 1924 pledge
for K.H.

——————-

“The Maccabean,” as we now know, was the nickname of Papa’s chapter of the Order Sons of Zion (a.k.a. B’nai Zion) a fraternal and mutual aid society dedicated to the Zionist cause. B’nai Zion routinely collected money for the Zionist fundraising organization Keren Hayesod (the “K.H.” mentioned in today’s entry) so Papa undoubtedly made his pledge through them.

According to the U.S. Department of Labor Bureau of Statistics, $10 in 1924 had the same buying power as $119.01 today. That’s a lot of money for a factory worker like Papa, even if he had gotten a $5 raise two months earlier. Looks like he talked the talk and walked the walk, in a Zionist fundraising sort of way.

Friday Mar 28

by

Sister Clara gave birth to a
baby boy at 10:05 P.M.

This was a complete surprise
as I did not expect her to
give birth now.

I cabled immediately
the news to my parents.

————

Matt’s Notes

When I first transcribed this entry and the words “this was a complete surprise…” I thought Papa meant he was surprised that Clara gave birth in the first place, not that he was surprised by how early she gave birth. I wondered, with a jolt, how Clara could have been pregnant for so long without Papa knowing about it, whether the baby was unusually tiny, or if Clara was somehow ashamed and hiding her pregnancy like the high school girls you sometimes hear about who give birth at the prom. This misunderstanding cleared up milliseconds later as I transcribed the words “I did not expect her to give birth now,” but for some reason the first words of this entry still have a trace of the same effect on me when I reread them.

Maybe I secretly want Papa to have not realized Clara was pregnant until her baby suddenly appeared because it would be a funnier story, or maybe his own surprise and excitement made its way to the page in the form of a surprisingly-worded sentence (then again, I may be the only one who’s thrown by this passage; if any of my legions of readers experienced the same thing, please let me know). Perhaps Papa penned this entry, still breathless, after dashing home from the Western Union office (an overseas telegraph message must have been quite a splurge) though his handwriting doesn’t seem hurried or shaky. Anyhow, the baby in question is my cousin Julius (a.k.a. Julie) with whom I recently been in touch. Stay tuned for anecdotes.

Saturday Mar 29

by

Well I had the sought pleasure
of the 20th Century girl to be with
me at the opera.

She is very nice, although poor
she likes only the high places,
she cannot mix with common
people, and is rather serious
minded, find she is fairly well
educated, fine manners in
conversation, has a passion
for cigarette smoking. peppy.

Her little slim figure is very
fascinating, that beautiful
face, those eyes of enchantment.

In conclusion she is beautiful
type worthy of admiration. —
I am glad to count her among
my friends.

This little adventure tonight
was rather expensive but worthwhile.

———

Matt’s Notes

Papa saw an opera double-feature on his date with the 20th Century Girl. The main attraction was Nicholas Rimsky-Korsakoff’s Le Coq d’Or, which concerns an Eastern European warlord (not unlike those who were making life miserable around the world for people like Papa) who gets his comeuppance for being a jerk. Papa certainly had a rooting interest in the outcome, and since I’m sure he knew the Pushkin poem, “The Golden Cockerel,” on which the opera’s based, he would have really enjoyed himself if he wasn’t too distracted by the “little slim figure” in the next seat.

Then again, if the 20th Century Girl’s education afforded her a working knowledge of opera, Papa would have had cause for worry; the performance apparently wasn’t that good. Though the New York Times had blessed the production, it had saved its highest praise for Rosina Galli-Curci. Alas, she was indisposed on the night of the 29th, thus casting a pall over the proceedings. Irving Kolodin, in his Story of the Metropolitan Opera, describes the consequences thus:

The large repertory was further varied by the return of Le Coq d’or on January 21 with Galli-Curci singing the Queen with excellent style and indifferent pitch, and Laura Robertson as the Voice of the Golden Cock. Giuseppe Bamboschek conducted a cast otherwise very much as before, and the production was Pogany’s…As one was to notice with increasing frequency, the heavy schedule often resulted in cast changes that not merely deprived the audience of a favorite voice, but substituted one of notably inferior quality. Thus, Sabinieeva for Gallie-Curci in Coq d’or…

Oh well. Perhaps the 20th Century Girl’s “passion for cigarette smoking” had her too distracted with thoughts of bodice-ripping ashtrays and tumescent match heads for her to notice the compromised work up on the stage. If not, she at least would have enjoyed the one-act opera that preceded Le Coq: Franco Leoni’s L’Oracolo, a tale of murder and intrigue (a “brilliant little ‘shocker’,” according to the Times) set in San Francisco’s Chinatown. I’m listening to L’Oracolo as I write this, but since I don’t speak Italian and am also sitting on a loud plane with a distressingly chipper flight crew chatting away behind me, much of the dramatic effect is lost.

In any event, there’s plenty of drama building in Papa’s delightfully 19th Century-style account of the 20th Century Girl. The phrases he uses, like “those eyes of enchantment” and “she is worthy of admiration,” sound like the words with which an awkward-but-secretly-loaded Jane Austen hero might stoically torment himself. Papa, of course, was not secretly loaded, and we know the 20th Century Girl “cannot mix with common people.” If Papa were writing a novel instead of his own life’s story, this description of her low tolerance for the low-born would certainly give the experienced reader pause.

———————–

Additional Notes

I still can’t get over how Papa cites the 20th Century Girl’s “passion for cigarettes” as one of her standout qualities. I’ll have to remember to credit myself with a “passion for bourbon” the next time I feel Maker’s Mark-induced shame creeping up on me.

Meanwhile, I’ve tried to figure out how expensive Papa’s night at the opera really was, but I’ve yet to learn what ticket prices were like in his day. Good tickets nowadays run $200 or more — the equivalent of $16 in 1924 dollars — but I doubt he spent that much. I’ll have to keep poking around, but if anyone out there can tell me more, please write to me or drop a comment.

——-

My mother adds:

Papa must have seen Galli Curci other times, because I remember him mentioning her a lot; I guess in an effort to improve my musical taste, which in those days ran toward the top 40. I think Papa probably disapproved of the passion for smoking of the 20th century girl, but was listing her many fine attributes as well as some things not so good, like not mixing with the common people. The fact that he counts her among his friends does not bode well for romance.


————

Sources

Sunday Mar 30

by

Wrote to Henriette (the 20 C. girl)
a letter, asking for admission
into her circle of intimate friends.
She got me thinking of something

Visited Sister Clara at hospital
in afternoon saw the baby.

Saw some friends during day
in evening had a little
sociable game at my house
with Blaustein Friedman and
Zichlinsky.

The operas heard last
night were L’Cock D’or and
L. Oracolo

—————–

Matt’s Notes

I’ve found Papa’s writing style for the last couple of days to feel particularly formal, but this one really rings of 19th Century drawing-room drama. What does he mean when he says he wrote a letter to Henriette “asking for admission into her circle of intimate friends?” Has he given up on his prospects with her, or is this a euphemism for a love letter? (If it was a love letter, I wonder if it was euphemistic and oblique itself, or if he came right out and declared his intentions.) And why has he decided to refer to her by name, at last, instead of as the “20th Century Girl?” Is it just easier to write, or does it reflect his desire for deeper intimacy?

Questions, questions. Still, his abandoned sentence in the first paragraph — “She got me thinking of something — intrigues me most of all. What “something” did he decide not to write about? Or did he just cut his thought short because he needed space to talk about the other events of the day?


Monday Mar 31

by


What keep me at home for
an entire evening, the radio.

In my quest for a rest of
my longing soul there is no
better remedy as the radio
The fascinating music, and
other features.

I heard just new, Rubensteins
Romance which was wonderful

—–

Henriette will undoubtedly
answer my letter, I am
anxious to see what she will
write.

It’s her kind that appeals
to me, but has a poor dog [like me]
a chance? Is a girl even of
her type ripe enough to see
my qualities, and truly love
me despite my poor standing?

Heard Sleeping Beauty Tchaikovsky
Waltz

———-

Matt’s Notes

Papa’s fascination with the radio may seem quaint, but it fairly represents the excitement most radio listeners felt in 1924. Up until then, wireless broadcasting had been a tool for a military and a toy for amateur enthusiasts who were willing to build their own transceivers and spend their days and nights sending, receiving and praying for a signal. If Papa came to America in 1913, it would be eight more years before he’d see an all-in-one radio set in a shop window, and still another year before the radio business really took off.1

So, when he wrote this entry Papa was still discovering, along with broadcasters, advertisers and artists, what the medium could do. That’s not to say it wasn’t widespread — I just mean it had exploded before Papa’s eyes as a commercial and social force in the same way the Internet exploded before our eyes in the mid 1990’s. In describing how the radio distracts him, however incompletely, from his woes, Papa may have shown us an early prototype of the lonely guy who sits and home, channel- or Web-surfing while everyone else is out having fun.

Speaking of which, the song this “poor dog” listened to, “Rubenstein’s Romance,” was a classical piece by Anton Rubinstein properly called “Romance in B-flat, Op. 44, No.1.” A popular adaptation known as “If You Are But a Dream” became a Frank Sinatra hit, and though this didn’t happen until the 1940’s I think the lyrics sum up Papa’s feelings about Henreitte:

If you are but a dream, I hope I never waken,
It’s more than I could bear to find that I’m forsaken.

If you’re a fantasy, then I’m content to be
In love with lovely you,
And pray my dream comes true.

I long to kiss you but I would not dare,
I’m so afraid that you may vanish in the air,
So darling, if our romance should break up,
I hope I never wake up, if you are but a dream.

I long to kiss you but I would not dare,
I’m so afraid that you may vanish in the air,
So darling, if our romance should break up,
I hope I never wake up, if you are but a dream.

——————–

Additional Notes and References:

1 – This is very roughly condensed from information presented in Erik Barnouw’s A Tower in Babel: A History of Broadcasting in the United States to 1933.

————————

Music:

Tuesday Apr 1

by

This day will long be remembered
because of the terrific snowstorm.

Visited Clara at Hospital
with David.

Again the radio brought me
old familiar tunes, tunes that
I’ve heard when I was a little
boy, on the old little square
of my European hometown when
I with my playmates [used to follow] the old man
[with the] playing box, who played the
same identical melodies whose
music I always remembered.

Listening to the music I close my
eyes and in my illusions I found
myself on the little marketplace
or outside my fathers house surrounded
by my little friends merrily dancing
around the man with the playing box
who so gladly repeated those enchanting
melodies at our request.

——————

Matt’s Notes

In light of his stylish, expressive prose, it’s hard to remember that Papa was not a native English speaker. Once in a while, though, a missing word or strange turn of phrase serves to remind us: A few weeks ago he repeatedly referred to the headmaster of his brother-in-law’s school as “the school man,” and it looks like he didn’t have the word “organ grinder” at his disposal while composing today’s entry. Still, I don’t think it detracts from the sweetness of his recollection.

In case you’re wondering what early 20th Century Eastern European organ grinders looked like, here are a few photos courtesy of the Yivo Institute’s “People of a Thousand Towns” project:

photo of an organ grinder

photo of an organ grinder

photo of an organ grinder

We also know what Papa’s brothers and sisters looked like when they were children, so perhaps we can get a little closer to imagining the “illusions” Papa saw when he closed his eyes:

photo of an organ grinder

The children in this 1898 photograph are, clockwise from top left: Issac (he gave Papa some grief earlier in the year) Nettie, Ettel, Clara, Papa (his face is distorted in this photo, but that’s him at 3) and Gitel.

Clara, as Papa mentions in this entry, was now all grown up and in the hospital with her new baby. The weather Papa and her husband David braved to visit her was indeed “terrific”: New York got over 8.5 inches of snow accompanied by gale-force winds, resulting in, among other disruptions, an elevated train crash in Long Island City that injured over 50 people, one fatally.