An-sky’s the Dybbukthrough the Eyes of Habima’s Rival Studio

An-sky's The Dybbuk through the Eyes of Habima's Rival StudioHelen Tolstoy

Partial Answers: Journal of Literature and the History of Ideas, Volume10, Number 1, January 2012, pp. 49-75 (Article)

Published by The Johns Hopkins University PressDOI: 10.1353/pan.2012.0011

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Partial answers 10/1: 4975 2012 The Johns Hopkins University Press

An-skys The Dybbuk through the Eyes of Habimas Rival Studio

Helen TolstoyThe Hebrew University of Jerusalem

The Dybbuk written by An-sky in Russian, triumphantly staged by Vakhtangov in Hebrew (Moscow, 1922), subsequently a seminal work of the Israeli national theater, often attracted harsh criticism and was a subject of many controversies. One of the better-known debates deal-ing with Habimas choice of Hebrew rather than Yiddish took place in Moscow in 1920. The Russian intellectual audience generally supported Hebrew, not only out of reverence for the language of the Bible but also in the face of the Bolshevik persecutions of religion. It was natural for the artistic public to feel solidarity with the spiritual drama on the stage, made universal by Vakhtangovs genius. And yet the play was received by fellow actors and directors not without reservation: witness a parody in the form of a review that originated in the Moscow Art Theaters First Studio, later known as the Moscow Art Theater-2 (MAT-2]), founded in 1913. This paper is an attempt to read that parody in light of reasons why the production of the play could irritate fellow Russian artists.

Even before its turning into MAT-2 in 1924, the Studios fate was sad. Its two immensely talented young leaders, Leopold Sulerzhitsky1 and Evgeniy Vakhtangov,2 both died young. Michael Chekhov, an actor of genius who headed the theater from 1924, left because of a confron-tation with his colleagues in 1927; he later emigrated. In the years that followed, MAT-2 fell out of official flavor for its mysticism and idealist

1 Leopold Antonovich Sulerzhitsky (18721916), a Russian theatre director of Polish descent, worked at the Moscow Art Theater with Stanislavsky; he was Vakhtangovs and Michael Chekhovs teacher. Well versed in Oriental religious practices and techniques, Sul-erzhitsky played an important role in the creation of the Stanislavsky system. At the turn of the century he fell under the spell of Leo Tolstoys ideas of pacifism and anarchism and became an ardent Tolstoyan. He organized and led the mass emigration of Russian sectar-ians, the Doukhobors, persecuted in Russia for religious reasons, to Canada. Sulerzhitsky co-directed Stanislavskys productions at the Art Theater but because of his exceptional modesty he never cared to be named, so most of his work there cannot be identified.

2 Evgeniy Bogrationovich (sic!) Vakhtangov (18831922), a renowned Russian theater director of Russian-Armenian origin.

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values. Its proximity to the great Moscow Art Theatre of Stanislavsky did not count in its favor: the authorities thought that one theater for the in-telligentsia sufficed for Moscow. In 1936 MAT-2 was closed. Its history was subsequently ignored or studied surreptitiously; historians felt free to turn to it only in the past two decades, after the fall of the antiquated ideological taboos during perestroika. MAT-2 is now studied both as a constellation of extraordinary talents and as a nest of spiritual opposition to the regime.3

While searching the Moscow Art Theatre Museum for materials on Nadezhda Bromley (18841966), an actress of MAT-2, as well as a bur-geoning playwright encouraged by Vakhtangov, I stumbled upon a most curious theater review. It appeared in the home-made, partly handwrit-ten, partly typed newspaper Chestnoe slovo (Word of Honor) that the actors of the First Studio issued for themselves.

The review is an account of the Habima production of The Dybbuk that opened on January 31, 1922 and probably reflects one of the dress rehearsals. It reads as if coming from someone who had never heard of Semen An-sky and his play. Here is my translation:

Habima and The Dybbuk

It would be difficult to imagine a more pitiful spectacle than the new per-formance by Habima. First there is the play itself. Its contents are neither brilliant nor rich in collisions. The action takes place in the 80s and the 90s of the past century. Two members of the Peoples Will movement one named the Passer By (Prokhozhii), the other Khanan arrive in a back-woods Jewish town in order to engage in agitation and propaganda. Out of fear of the police they hide in the local synagogue. Soon they succeed in establishing contact with the local merchants. Leah, the daughter of one of the locals, becomes a particularly fervent dis-ciple of theirs. However, the synagogue is filled with police spies (the beg-gars) headed by Mr. Vardi.4 As an experienced conspirator, the Passer By manages to hide, but Khanan falls into their clutches. He is interrogated by an inexperienced investigator of the Okhrana [the tsarist secret police], who vainly attempts to disguise himself as a traditional Jewish scholar.

3 Cf. Poliakova 2006; Byckling 2000; Khalizeva 2009: 53367, 585616; Polkanova 2004: 11203.

4 David Vardi (18931949) was one of Habimas central actors, and a member of the group of directors responsible for the preservation of the production. He left Habima in 1923, later rejoined it, and moved to Eretz Israel.

51The Dybbuk tHrougH tHe eyes of Habimas rival studio

Khanan is confused. He faces the threat of being hanged, yet does not wish to give himself over into the hands of his enemies. After asking Leah to carry on with the cause, he commits suicide by poison. This concludes Act I. What can we further expect from such a play? Of course, in Act II Leah is forced into marriage by her despotic father, who is a character straight out of Ostrovsky.5 Leah almost accedes to such a fate but, at the last mo-ment, under the wedding canopy, she encounters some dancing! beggars. The sight of these hungry suffering people shakes the impressionable girl. She breaks with her parents and goes to the people. In Act III we see the dnouement of this drama. Leah has been caught by the Okhrana. As a humane person, the local tsar and divinity Mr. Tsaddik (the self-same Mr. Vardi) tries to influence the self-sacrificing girl with the help of her father. This does not help, and so he begins to take things over. Although exhausted by the terrors of prison, Leah remains unyielding. Yes, she is a revolutionary. She will not return to her parents home. At this point a quick and merciless trial takes place. It is Leah who now faces the gallows. (These gallows now figure for the second time in the play!) A somewhat complex religious ritual takes place; then come the last words of the condemned criminal, but Leah does not allow the rope to be placed around her neck. After that we see her lifeless body. She too has poisoned herself. Thats the whole play. In this play the author clearly wants to attain an unprecedented tragic effect, but the result is cinematic clichs. The director of the production attempted to present the play in a realist fashion and partially succeeded. But, oh Lord, how cumbersome, false, and pathetic are many, very many, of the scenes. Who is to blame is hard to say is it the inexperienced director or the no more experienced actors? In any case, the director is undoubtedly guilty of letting the performance take place against the backdrop of an outmoded and undistinguished set. In his sketches Altman6 attempted to evoke decorative painting (The Loss

5 The playwright Aleksandr Nikolaevich Ostrovskii (18231886) drew his subjects from ethnic life. Most his work revolves around patriarchal merchants, with their old ways, and their oppressive rule over their families.

6 Natan Altman (18891970), a Russian painter, had participated in exhibitions of the Bubnovyi valet (Jack of Diamonds) and Soiuz molodezhi (Association of Young People) and hence was considered a member of the avant-garde. In the 1910s he was also an active member of the Jewish renaissance and founder of the Jewish Society for the Encourage-ment of the Arts. He made his debut as theater designer at the cabaret Prival komediantov in 1916, and in 1918 he created the futurist dcor for the Palace Square events in honor of the anniversary of the October Revolution. He worked for the Jewish Theater of Granovsky and followed it to Moscow in the late 1920s. In 1922, Altman became famous for his Dyb-buk design. He went abroad with Habima in 1928 and stayed in Paris until his return to the USSR in 1935.

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of Hope) but did not succeed. If not for the venerable P. D. Senatorovs remarkably skillful execution, which saved the day, the decor of The Dyb-buk would have been completely unacceptable. Among the better aspects of the production, one can mention the ethnic songs and dances but, oh Lord, how pitiful they are in comparison with the classical presentation of Jewish dances by M. I. Tsibulskii,7 which have been performed at one of the Barbizon8 banquets. (Okontrer)

In all evidence, this review is written tongue in cheek. The First Studios true opinion of The Dybbuk is voiced by Nadezhda Bromley in her post-humous memoir of Vakhtangov:

The Dybbuk. An overtly esoteric production. Behind grotesquery and sat-ire, there is a most acute longing for the spiritual world. The theme of the two worlds sounds here in the title itself. The text of the production, the alien, specific timbre of speech, the distorted contours of objects, the dance of the beggars, the death, the horror and that all-overcoming scream of love, the ecstasy, the life have stayed in the memory forever. (1939: 76)

Bromley and her husband, actor and director Boris Sushkevich, were among the Studio members closest to Vakhtangov at that period, and truly understood his art.

To return to the mock review: why was it funny? What target audi-ence could appreciate the joke? What were the feelings that had prompt-ed it and why had these feelings arisen? Who was the author? Were there any other texts of the same kind? These are the questions that the present article will attempt to answer, explaining the joke to the modern reader. For this purpose, let us trace the various ways in which the review plays and interacts with The Dybbuk.

7 Mark Ilich Tsibulskii whom Kornei Chukovskii (1991, I: 219) referred to as a fat playboy headed the administration of the First Studio.

8 In the history of French painting, the term Barbizon refers to a group of plein-air painters of the mid-nineteenth century. The term was adopted by some of the young actors within the First Studio, who apparently banded together under the organization of the actor Bondyrev (who, during a later European tour of the Studio, would remain in Germany). The group included the actor- director A. Dikii. The term had a humorous connotation (somewhat close to Young Turks), since phonetically it suggests the Russian word borba, meaning fight or struggle.


The Plot

The play opens in the old synagogue of the (fictional) shtetl of Brin-itz. Young Khanan,9 a brilliant but poor yeshiva student, is in love with Leah, but her father wishes her to marry a rich man. Khanan plunges into the Kabbalah, searching for occult ways to win Leah. When Leah visits the synagogue, it is obvious that she returns Khanans love. Thrilled by the sight of her, he undertakes an ambitious but dangerous task: he will win her hand by redeeming the world, bringing together opposites, and justifying and redeeming sin itself.10 The news that Leahs wedding has been arranged is announced. Emaciated by fasting and prayer, with the forbidden book open in his hands, Khanan cries out about his victory and drops dead.

On the eve of her wedding Leah dances with the beggars and faints. Under the canopy she starts shouting in a mans voice, obviously pos-sessed by a dybbuk a spirit that cannot find peace and attaches itself to a living soul. It is the spirit of Khanan. The hasidic tsaddik fails to ex-orcise the dybbuk and starts ex-communication: the dybbuk leaves Leah, but asks for additional time to stay close until the prayers for him start. A rabbi arrives to help; he arranges a court hearing between Leahs living father and Khanans father, who is long dead: the spirit appears at the court to testify that Leahs father had broken his promise to marry their future children and refuses to be appeased with compromises offered by the rabbi, who is overcome with dire forebodings. Leah is left in a pro-tective magic circle while everybody comes out to meet the bridegroom; the spirit of Khanan appears telling of his love; yearning to join him, she comes out of the circle, and is united with her beloved in death. Their last words speak about rising to Heaven: indeed, their love and suffering weigh more than their transgressions, and their souls are saved. Khanan and Leah are victorious; he has succeeded in his mystical task.

The Gap

The review misrepresents this plot and changes the scope of the play. An-skys play is about the human spirit breaking all barriers and about the tragedy of human existence. The reviews plot paraphrase is an intention-

9 Three different sets of names were used in three versions of the play: Khonon and Lia in Russian, Khonen and Leahle in Yiddish, and Khanan and Leah in Hebrew.

10 See Petrovsky-Shtern (100101) on the Sabbatean roots of Khanans transgression.

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al misconstruction: the universal motif of two souls parted and reunited in death is transformed into a pitiful story about persecuted members of the Peoples Will, a terrorist organization of the 1870s, whose aim was to sow the seeds of revolt among the peasants.

The Pun

This transformation, which is the pivot of the reviews jest, is triggered by a subtle word-play. In The Dybbuk, the Passer By fulfills an important function: he is defined in the program as a mystical figure who seems to personify the commands of the peoples conscience (veleniia narod-noi sovesti); he is present at the decisive points in the plot and comments on them. The Russian veleniia (commands) resembles volia (will), both phonetically and semantically. This motif of the will of the people in the program is the source of the central idea of the joke: the fantasy about Narodnaia volia (The Peoples Will).

In the review, the Passer By becomes a newly arrived agitator of the Peoples Will, and his sporadic appearances are attributed to his con-spiratorial experience; Khanan is transformed into a similar but unlucky activist, a disturber of the public order; the beggars, those Jewish indi-gent who throng around the synagogue, are turned into secret agents of the police. Leah becomes a young woman from a wealthy home who identifies with the revolutionaries, and is viewed as being in the clutches of the Okhrana (the secret police). The tsaddik himself is the local tsar and divinity. Nothing remains of the story of the dybbuk.

The Author

The joke must have seemed funny because it fit all too well with the biography of the playwright. Semen An-sky (Shlomo Rapoport, 18631920) belonged to the Narodnik (Populist) persuasion these were revolutionaries who went to the people. In the early 1880s, he settled in a village to teach peasant children, and soon started his literary career as a journalist, publishing in Voskhod, a Jewish journal in Russian. Then he became a correspondent of the leading liberal newspaper Russkie ve-domosti, where he placed his sketches of the lives of miners and Siberian pioneers, among others. It was at this point that he began using his Russi-fied penname. During his wanderings, he also collected folklore; his first book (1894) was a study of Russian folklore. In 1891 An-sky, threatened


by persecution for activities deemed revolutionary, left the country. In 1894, in Paris, he became secretary to Petr Lavrov, a famous Populist leader. He was active in the formation of what would become the SR (Social Revolutionary) party, which was the successor of the Populists. After the 1905 revolution, An-sky returned to Russia and wrote stories and plays about Jewish revolutionaries.

At some point, his erstwhile engagement in the revolutionary struggle and universalist schemes transformed into a keen interest in Jewish life.11 He devoted his energies to various Jewish activities, such as establish-ing Jewish cultural and educational institutions, museums, libraries, and organizing a Jewish encyclopedia.

In 19111914 An-sky headed an ethnographic expedition (which in-cluded composer Engel and artist Yudovin and was financed solely by Baron Vladimir Gintzburg (in French transliterations, Guenzbourg), son of the famous Jewish Maecenas, Horace Gintzburg of Petersburg), to shtetls of Volyn and Podol, collecting Jewish folk art, music, and tales.

The Aim

The first version of the play was written in Russian around 1913. The long argument about what language held precedence in the history of the play (see Werses) has recently been resolved with the finding of the 1915 censored Russian version. It was later given to Baron Vladimir Gintz-burg, and he criticized it echoing the spirit of the radical 1860s for insufficient social awareness resulting in an overly idyllic presentation of the Jewish community.12 The Dybbuk had indeed grown out of An-skys Jewish folklore studies. It was meant for the Russian theater, which had flourished in the pre-war decades, and was held in high esteem as the most prestigious art form, exerting its influence on the European theater (see Wolitz). The play was supposed to demonstrate to the Russian spec-tators the true, spiritual values of Jewish life. On the plane of cultural politics An-sky sought to inscribe, legitimate, and valorize East Euro-pean Jewish folk culture and its spiritual creativity as a normative part of the empire (Wolitz 168). This was possibly a response to the Beilis affair (1913), as well as to intellectual anti-Semitism, which was gaining ground in Russia in the second decade of the century, challenging the in-

11 On the partial and problematic nature of An-skys return see Petrovsky-Shtern 83102. 12 His letter to An-sky, January 30, 1914. (Paris, Manuscript division, IR OFI NBUVF,

F.339, unit 312). Quoted in Ivanov 2006a 36263, 505.

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telligentsias formerly almost obligatory Judeophilia. The play idealized the Jewish Ashkenazi cultural milieu somewhat along the lines of a para-Slavophile nostalgia for the religious and moral unity of old: according to Seth Wolitz (168), An-skys play is a daring cultural ploy to estab-lish Jewish pochvennost.13 The other message it carried was secular and Western the value of an individual demonstrated by the victory of love over old ways of life. That idea, self-evident for the Russian theater-goer who had been secularized and Westernized during the past two centuries, still retained its liberating potential for the Jewish audience.14

History Intrudes

In the course of the following years, however, during the cataclysmic changes in Russia, The Dybbuk, written in 1913, changed in the text and even the language; many of its pragmatic purposes receded while others arose.

Caught by the start of World War I very near the front line, An-sky returned to Petersburg and looked in vain for a theater to stage his play; after many attempts he managed to interest Stanislavsky, who headed the liberal Moscow Art Theater. An-sky wrote in a rich but not always correct Russian, with solecisms and awkward constructions. The text re-quired deep editing. But this alone did not suffice to make the Russian version fit for the Russian theater-goer. Its wealth of references to Jewish religion, morals, folklore, superstitions, and ways of life was so over-whelming and so new for the Russian audience that a long novel would not have sufficed as an introduction. Besides, the power of the unfamiliar spiritual world that the play introduced to an unprepared audience could produce unpredictable results. On the one hand, censorship demanded changes; on the other, Stanislavsky obviously had his own doubts and did not seem too eager to stage The Dybbuk: in 19151917, the work pro-gressed very slowly. The fate of the Russian version remained unclear; An-sky meanwhile translated the play into Yiddish.

Stanislavsky wanted the play restructured to make it clearer by, for instance, introducing the figure of the Passer By to comment on the events. An-sky was working on a new Russian version together with

13 The ideal of pochvennost (closeness to the soil) was associated with Dostoevskys idealization of the people and its religion in the early 1860s.

14 Wolitz 201 shows how the play carries two different messages, to Russian and Jewish audiences.


Leopold Sulerzhitsky, director of the First Studio, to whom the play was handed over. After Sulerzhitskys untimely death in 1916 the play re-mained at the Studio: it was given to Boris Sushkevich, the director of the tremendously successful The Cricket on the Hearth after Dickens (1915).

In Russian society the compassion for the Jewish population rav-aged by the war was, at the time, at its highest; the hated Pale was de facto abolished. There is no doubt that had The Dybbuk appeared before the Revolution, Sushkevich would have staged another penetratingly humane production. One can suppose that he would have united the realism of the soul with a fairy-tale, developing The Crickets line writes Vladislav Ivanov (2006: 252). The Tsaddik was supposed to be played by Michael Chekhov, which promised another performance of infinite psychological depth and charm, and the staging might have given the Russian public more understanding of the besieged minority. How-ever, Stanislavsky kept stalling.

After the democratic revolution of February 1917 he at last was ready to sanction The Dybbuk. But something quite different took place, which prevented the enchanted Jewish world from speaking in Russian to the Moscow theater public.

Around 1916, a young Jewish theater director from Poland had come to Moscow in a stream of war refugees. He was Nahum Tsemach, whose Jewish theater studio called Habima had played in Hebrew in Bialos-tok and Vilna before the war. In Moscow Tsemach gathered a new troupe and was preaching the necessity for a grand Jewish theater performing in Hebrew.

In the wake of the February 1917 revolution, Jews got equal rights and were no longer a downtrodden minority. A group of Jews in Moscow formed a union called Habima with the aim of establishing a high-level Jewish theater performing in Jewish languages. After a public reading of The Dybbuk in early 1917 by An-sky, the union decided to buy the play from him. Anskys condition was that the play be translated into Hebrew by Bialik (see Vl. Ivanov 2006: 25253). Meanwhile Tsemach brought the Russian text of the play to Stanislavsky in September 1917 and asked him to head the project. Stanislavsky indeed took Habima under his wing as one of MATs Studios, and entrusted it to Vakhtangov. Shortly after-wards, Haim-Nachman Byalik translated The Dybbuk into Hebrew; the translation was published in January 1918 in the Moscow Hebrew journal HaTkufa #1. Vakhtangov adapted the Studios Russian text for the stage in late 19181919, cutting it drastically, abolishing the Prologue, the

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Epilogue, and background stories. He staged the Hebrew version, simi-larly abridged.

Neither Stanislavsky nor Sushkevich now insisted on staging the Rus-sian version of The Dybbuk. Was it because the consciousness-raising function of the play about a disadvantaged minority was no longer rel-evant? Or because the revolutionary atmosphere was so polarized that it was dangerous to stage such a play in Russian?15

In 1918, the persecution of SR party members began, and in the au-tumn of that year An-sky, an SR delegate to the Constitutive Assembly cancelled by the Soviets, fled to Vilna which now belonged to indepen-dent Poland. He died in Warsaw in 1920, two years before his plays triumph, having been busy, as usual, organizing Jewish cultural institu-tions.

Thus, the text of The Dybbuk was changed a number of times. The Russian version, with changes imposed by Tsarist censorship, has sur-vived; a later version, reworked by Stanislavsky and Sulerzhitsky, was lost. The Yiddish version that An-sky wrote waiting for a delayed Rus-sian production was also lost. These two versions together became the source for Bialiks Hebrew translation (see Bialik II: 113), considered the final authorized version; the latter became a basis for some further trans-lations including a new one into Yiddish that An-sky made in Warsaw.16

Habima after Russia

Habima made a lot of enemies, mostly among members of the Jewish section of the Communist party, who denounced it as a bourgeois, na-tionalist theater. Its supporters were intellectuals, mainly Russian, of the highest cultural prestige, such as the Commissar of Education Anatolii Lunacharsky, the poet Vyacheslav Ivanov, theater theorist Prince Ser-gey Volkonsky, and the influential critic Akim Volynsky. At some point, Stalin, as Commissar of Nationalities, also intervened in its favor, but soon the political climate around it worsened. Under this pressure, many

15 D. Vardi stated that it was Stanislavsky who suggested Hebrew, while An-sky was for Yiddish as mass language (7879). Still, it was An-sky who made Hebrew a condition of the sale (see Gnessin 11921). It is true that Stanislavsky was a known enthusiast of Hebrew production, but he was choosing between Russian and Hebrew, while An-sky, between He-brew and Yiddish.

16 Allegedly he did it because he had left behind the Russian and the Yiddish texts. Shm-uel Verses, author of a paragon study of the plays textual history, sees this as a pretext on An-skys part for updating and improving the Yiddish version (14043).


actors left the theater; schisms appeared. Finally, a decision was reached to move abroad, and in 1926 Habima started its triumphant world tour. It finally settled in Jaffo in 1927, from where it went on another prolonged tour in 19291931. Upon its return to Tel Aviv, it became the national theater (see Vl. Ivanov 1999: 12981). The Dybbuk remained its central production; it was last revived in the 1970s.17

The Director

Evgeny Vakhtangov had joined the Moscow Art Theatre in 1911. Stan-islavskys favorite disciple, he was entrusted with coaching the actors. He started directing early in his career, cooperating with small cabaret theatres like Petersburgs The Stray Dog and Moscows The Bat in the overtly expressive style influenced by commedia dellarte and Meyer-hold. He also directed in the First Studio according to the naturalistic requirements of Stanislavsky and, in parallel, experimented in his own Third Studio.

His work with Habima began in the summer of 1918, was interrupted for a year and a half due to illness (he was replaced by Vakhtang Mche-delov18), resumed in the autumn of 1920, and was crowned by the sensa-tional success of The Dybbuk in early 1922.

During this period, he was also working on the staging of Carlo Gozzis Princess Turandot at the Third MAT Studio, where the actors were his own pupils. The production was based on commedia dellarte principles and included improvisation; it was received ecstatically as a demonstration of the free spirit of play defying the dire restrictions on individual freedom, and was a tremendous success in the early spring of 1922. The triumph of these two striking parallel projects was largely at the expense of Vakhtangovs home, the First Studio, where he had a continuing engagement. There, in early 1922 he was in the midst of pre-paring a production of Nadezhda Bromleys controversial play, the tragic farce Archangel Michael, which he started staging as a grotesque. These responsibilities exhausted him at a time when he was already terminal-ly ill with cancer of the stomach. His physical condition deteriorated

17 Cf. Gad Kaynars attempt to deconstruct Habima and its mythos from the point of view of a modern Israeli.

18 After Vakhtangovs death it was Vakhtang Levanovich Mchedelov (real name Mchedlishvili, 18841924), a Russian stage director of Georgian origin, who temporarily headed Habima.

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rapidly; he made superhuman efforts to complete The Dybbuk and Prin-cess Turandot. The prospects for the First Studio, where the work on Archangel Michael was only beginning, were dim. Vakhtangov died on May 29, 1922. Without his drive and vision, the unfinished production of Bromleys play lost momentum. Finally, after five or six dress rehearsals, Archangel Michael was banned: the authorities sensed its hidden anti-totalitarian message.

Rivalry

It was in this context that the jocular review of The Dybbuk appeared in Word of Honor in the early spring of 1922, a short time before Vakhtangov succumbed to his illness. It must have been prompted by bitterness and envy. The members of the First Studio loved the charis-matic Vakhtangov; his work with other groups at the expense of his own seemed to them unfair.

They probably related to the other claimants on the time and atten-tion of the great teacher with no less jealously than they did to Habima. The second issue of Word of Honor, dated la Gogol February 31, 1922, contains a note entitled Novoe bedstvie (A New Calamity), about the dangerous tendency of some of the Studio members to work in too many places at the same time. The notice reports a new epidemic disease split personality:

The disease is manifested when the infected sees his second personality in another institution. . . . Nor has the plague spared some ministers.19 Its first victim was E. B. Vakhtangov, who caught sight of himself at the Habima.20

This resentful text prepared the ground for an attack on Habima that ap-peared in the next, third, issue of Word of Honor. The jealousy must have

19 The word ministers refers to the humorous membership list of the newly estab-lished artistic council of the Studio, published in the same issue of Chestnoe Slovo: 1) E. B. Vakhtangov minister of productions; 2) B. M. Sushkevich prime minister; 3) N. N. Bromlei [representative of the] ruling party; 4) S. G. Birman Womens League; 5) M. A. Chekhov minister of religious cults; 6) Giug Giggins [representative of] the Chest-noe Slovo Party; 7) A. A. Geirot anarchist-individualist; 8) A. P. Cheban member of the Aktiv; 9) V. V. Gotovtsev minister of finance.

20 Pervaia Studiia MKhAT i MKhAT-2: Chestnoe Slovo: Satiricheskaia gazeta Giuga Gigginsa (Vl. A. Podgornogo), 19211928, (The First Studio of MAT and MAT-2: Chest-noe Slovo: Satirical newspaper of Giug Giggins (Vladimir A. Podgornyi), 19211928), #2, 1922: 58.


been exacerbated by the awareness that had the Habima union not bought The Dybbuk, it would in all probability have been produced by the Studio and all that triumph might have been their own.

The Source

Word of Honor provided, in an uncensored, intimate, and jocular manner, valuable intra- and inter-theatrical perspctives on important theatrical events. But when and how exactly did it emerge? Its history is bound up with that of the First Studio.

The Studio21 was established in 1912 by a group of idealists led by Sulerzhitsky: it was to be a spiritual brotherhood rather than a hierarchi-cal structure. In order to maintain its democratic atmosphere, as well as to help clarify its vision, a hand-written newspaper was launched. Its pur-pose was also to provide a forum for Studio members to express them-selves and for the leaders to communicate with members of the troupe. The first newspaper appeared in the spring of 1915 as The Book of Jot-tings (Kniga zapisei) of the Moscow Art Theaters First Studio, and was also referred to as The Book of Suggestions or The Studio Book. Entries were made for approximately one year, until the death of Suler-zhitsky on April 20, 1916 (see Polkanova 140203).

In the following years, the independent spirit of the Studio was pre-served, despite the very difficult conditions, including cold and hunger, of the revolutionary period. In 1921, when the country began to revive under the NEP (the so-called New Economic Policy, allowing some forms of private economical and cultural activity), the Studio collec-tive attempted to bring back some of the previous atmosphere of joyous openness and free public opinion as a democratic alternative to the con-trol of Party bureaucrats over the theater and the inanity of endless po-litical meetings. It was precisely to serve such goals that Word of Honor was established.22 The copy in the Museum library is a folio brochure handwritten in black ink on chalk paper. It may have been the original for some kind of hectograph reproduction of the kind once used in the-aters when the texts of plays had to be issued in several dozen copies.

21 It assumed the name of the First Studio when other studios of the Art Theater appeared.22 The sources of the name can be found in the history of Vakhtangovs studios. After the

failure in 1915 of his first experimental production in the Third, Vakhtangovs own, Studio his disciples sent him an open letter titled Word of Honor, which was their oath of fidelity to their beloved master.

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This is suggested by the note Printing Press of O. Bokshanskaya: Olga Bokshanskaya was Stanislavskys secretary and a typist, one of whose functions was text preparation.23 Moreover, another Word of Honor entry describes a sudden visit of the authorities to the Printing house with the aim of preventing the newspapers multiplication.

The Editor(s)

Word of Honor first began to appear under the leadership of the brilliant comic actor Vladimir Afanasievich Podgornyi (18871944) in 1922, shortly after he joined the Studio. Podgornyi had worked in Petersburg with V. F. Komissarzhevskaia (19081910); he was involved with the Petersburg artistic cabarets Brodiachaia sobaka (Stray Dog, 19121914) and its heir Prival komediantov (The Comedians Stopping Place, 19161918). He gained fame for his 19101914 participation in the Peters-burg cabaret theater Krivoe zerkalo (Crooked Mirror, directed by Nikolai Evreinov) and in Nikita Balievs Moscow cabaret theater Letuchaia mysh (The Bat [Fledermaus]), 19151919, taking part in its tour of the South as well.24 His acting was noted for its originality, irony, and wit. As the editor of Word of Honor, he adopted the nom de plume Giug Giggins (a Russian version of Hugh Higgins) an allusion to the protagonist of the successful 1915 production of The Flood, by the Swedish playwright Johan Henning Berger, one of the first plays directed by Vakhtangov at the Studio.

More difficult to identify is another contributor, Okontrer. This pseudonym, the Russian transliteration of Au contraire, had been the nickname of the co-owner of the Stray Dog, the legendary composer Tsybulskii, often mentioned in the memoirs of the Russian Silver Age for example, in the following noteworthy passage by Georgii Ivanov:

Radiant and at the same time worried, Pronin walked around the Dog, moving things around and making noise. Due to his impetuous move-ments, his large, many-colored necktie flew like a ribbon above his chest. His closest associate, the composer N. Tsybulskii, nicknamed Count Au Contraire, a large, flabby person, shoddily dressed, was sluggishly helping his friend. The Count was sober and, therefore, gloomy.

23 She was the sister of Mikhail Bulgakovs wife, and the prototype of Poliksena Torop-etskaya in his The Theatrical Novel.

24 After the dismantling of MAT-2 in 1936, Podgorny moved to the Malyi Theater.


Pronin and Tsybulskii were very different in both character and ap-pearance, complementing each other, jointly taking care of the small scale but complicated management of the Dog. The eternal skepticism of the Count cooled down the unbounded enthusiasm of the doctor of aesthet-ics. (G. Ivanov III: 340; my translation)

Nikolai Karlovich Tsybulskii (18791919?) was the composer of the op-era Golos zhizni ili skala smerti (The Voice of Life or the Rock of Death) and an excellent pianist. At the Stray Dog he performed many of his own compositions and also shared organizational functions with Pronin, at least as far as his alcoholism permitted. It is not known what happened to him after 1919, when all traces of him were lost. Pronin resurfaced in Moscow in the early 1920s and twice attempted to run cabarets Stranstvuiushchii entuziast (The Wandering Enthusiast) and Mansarda (The Attic). But no reappearance of Tsybulskii was registered. It was probably someone else, with a memory of the Stray Dog days, who wrote for Word of Honor as a theater critic, using the old nom de plume without the title Count.

There are some clues as to the identity behind the name. In the theater, Podgornyi was not the only one who had participated in the whimsical, brilliant, ironic cabaret culture of prewar literary St. Petersburg. Another associate of the Studio, Alexander Geirot (18821947), was an artist and actor who had previously taken part in the Starinnyi (Ancient) Theater of Petersburg (19071912), which aimed to reconstruct medieval theater forms and was headed by enthusiasts Baron N. V. Drizen, Nikolai Evreinov, K. Miklashevsky, among others. Stanislavsky invited Geirot to MAT in 1913. Geirot, noted for his acting in supporting roles, was phenomenally witty. He became close to Chekhov in 1920, when both took part in an informal concert group Centipede. He is thus another person who might have used the old pen-name. It might also hide a col-lective author.

In any case, Word of Honor declared itself heir to the free, toxic, and absurd spirit of the Stray Dog and The Bat; it followed, in a modest way, in the steps of the Russian cabaret culture with its spirit of parody, a crooked mirror of the contemporary art scene.

The Genre

The text about The Dybbuk belongs to the genre of mock reviews that would cavalierly recount the subject of a play and proceed to confidently analyze it despite the tremendous gap between the interpretation and the

64 Helen tolstoy

real subject, which would be well known to the reader of the review. Such a parody obviously poked fun not only at the reviewed play, but also at a particular type of reviewer. Parody of this sort was written circa 1910 by Arkadii Averchenko (18811925), a prominent pre-war (and lat-er migr) humorist. Modeled on the parody of a school essay jumbling a known literary work, it made fun of the programs that accompanied the screening of silent films: students, underpaid authors of such programs, often made a mess of epochs and realia. Word of Honor gives this tradi-tion a new twist, mocking new Soviet theater critics who often compen-sated for their lack of erudition by ideological ardor. Written in an idiom that seemed irreproachably politically correct by the standards of the day, it lampoons these very standards. In the first issue, for example, Okon-trer made fun of the opening of the 1922 theatrical season in impeccably Soviet idiom:

without pause, the luxurious theater of the Prokhorov Factory resounds with the young voices of healthy proletarians who, without false modesty, offer each other cigarettes and jokingly call to each other during the action of the play. Here and there one hears the squeals of girls, who are sur-rounded by several lads; here and there one hears a joyful and in no way vicious argument, the words of which, unfortunately, are not completely caught by the ears of the actors who are busy with their roles. The floor is strewn with fine democratic seeds, whose decorativeness significantly outshines the unnecessary, pitiful flowers of the aristocrats.

One can only imagine the Zoschenko-style scenes behind these descrip-tions and the irritation of the actors who submitted to the humiliation of playing before such audiences. In MAT, Stanislavsky himself would ap-pear on stage before the performance, instructing the audience to behave in a civilized manner.

The mock review of The Dybbuk at Habima in the second issue of Word of Honor was similar in tone to the above text by Okontrer, but was signed Chistotelov (one who is pure in body, meaning a no-warts writer). This too must have been a pen-name there was no artist by that name in the troupe. Phonetically, the new pseudonym echoes the name of the newspaper but has a purgative connotation.

In the third issue of Word of Honor, there is another mock review, this time of Bromleys Archangel Michael, written in the same tone of toxic innocence and signed Turandot.


Social Struggle

The ironic misreading of An-skys play in the mock review anticipates, in exaggerated form, attempts by critics and ideologues to interpret the play in the then practically obligatory terms of social struggle. The play was construed as toeing the line of the copious pathetic literature about the suppressed 1905 revolution. In the early 1920s, this genre, welcomed by the ideological overseers of theater, again became popular: literary hacks produced revolutionary plays by the dozen. For almost half a century, Soviet ideology viewed The Dybbuk as a play about social struggle: this point was made in a 1940 book (later re-written) about Vakhtangov by the Soviet theater critic Khrisanf Khersonsky (18971968), who had once been close to Habima.25 According to his reading, the playwright, as it were, lamented primarily the lack of social equality, the spiritual tragedy of the downtrodden and deprived. According to this interpre-tation, Khanan is a victim not only of inequality but also of religious obscurantism.

The Dybbuk and the Russian Silver Age

The disenchantment following the defeat of the 1905 revolution and the subsequent wave of atrocities was shared by the Russian and Jewish in-telligentsia and led both to nationalism. An-sky became an enthusiast of the Jewish national rebirth, and around 1910 nationalist interests begin to appear also among the Russian intelligentsia. The Dybbuk is very much in tune with the Symbolist literature of 19051914.26 In turning from social to metaphysical themes, An-sky went the same way as high Rus-sian literature.27 Indeed, religion moved to the center of literary attention even Gorky explored the Russian peoples spiritual quests in Confes-sion (1909) after having written the revolutionary novel The Mother. In

25 See Khersonsky 301302. Script writer and theater and film historian Khersonsky may have been related to E. Khersonskaya, propagandist of the Partys Central Committee who was the Studios appointed administrator (direktor) in the 1920s.

26 Brian Horowitz, who sees An-sky as always striving for a Russian-Jewish synthesis, notes his convergence with the Russian religious-philosophical revival (107108).

27 Seth Wolitz paints a rich picture of the major literary and theatrical developments that might have been in the background of An-skys play; most important is that it might have been planned as a Gesamtkunstwerk with its unity of folklore, music, dance, word, and ritual. See also his valuable observation (17678) on the link of the plot to Tristan and Isolde (staged in Petersburg by Meyerhold in 19091910).

66 Helen tolstoy

its interest in the occult, The Dybbuk is close to the work of Innokentii Annensky, Fedor Sologub, Vyacheslav Ivanov; in its admiration of nave religious faith, to the plays of Remizov; in depicting mystical religious practices, to the poems of Alexander Blok and the prose of Andrei Bely.

The original version of The Dybbuk was practically devoid of social conflict. The questions asked were rather eschatological: the borders be-tween life and death, between good and evil, between compassion and rejection, and the frightening ambiguity of love. An-sky had evolved from a proponent of late Populist naturalism with its immediate social messages to the creator of what, despite his insistence on the plays real-ism, turned out to be a symbolist masterpiece, touching upon perennial concerns.

The Literary Context

An-skys symbolist metamorphosis was not a matter of chance. By 1908 the Symbolist movement prevailed in Russian literature. In 1910, the Symbolist leader, Valerii Briusov, became literary editor of the central liberal thick journal Russkaia mysl (The Russian Thought). Russian and Jewish-Russian literature were joined vessels, parts of the same literary process, and even shared a significant part of their readers. An-sky sought the style and idiom that his readers were already prepared to appreciate.

By 1910, writers of the leftist camp, including members of Gorkys Znanie group, had already combined depiction of societys ills in relation to a Jewish theme with a Symbolist or quasi-Symbolist two-level narra-tive, where the hidden plane was based on mythical, religious, and/or theosophic symbolism. The Dybbuk, in fact, had a clear precedent in the form of a mystical Jewish social utopia in Leonid Andreevs 1910 play Anathema, which was prepared for staging by the Moscow Art Theater and had been shown to wide artistic circles during rehearsals only to be banned at the last moment by the theater censorship. Even the phrase on the border of two worlds the subtitle of The Dybbuk actually appears in the opening words of Andreevs play, in one of the first lines of the Prologue. The art public was impressed not only by the acting of Vasilii Kachalov in the title role but also by the strikingly grotesque dance of the crowd of beggars which evidently was the model for the famous dance of the beggars in Habimas The Dybbuk.28

28 Wolitz (178) suggests that the figure of the Passer-By was inspired by Andreevs Somebody in Gray, a choric commentator on the plays events.


Obviously, the plot of An-skys drama displayed features that could suggest a late populist play, only this time with mystical motivations. Was the parody indeed peering into the plays subconscious?

It probably was. The above-quoted letter of Vladimir Gintzburg ex-presses reservations about the absence of the negative social phenomena; the Word of Honor review reinstalls some of them, all familiar Populist clichs: a cruel rich father, an enforced marriage, violations of human dignity by the religious milieu replete with wild superstitions, among others. It is not for nothing that the review mentions Ostrovsky, who was a master of those ingredients.

None of which explains why the author of the review was so resent-ful.

A Change of Vision

A look at the traditional Soviet approach can help us understand what an unsophisticated spectator might think of Vakhtangovs interpretation of An-skys play. At the beginning of his work in 1918, the director obvi-ously adhered to a humane and sympathetic treatment of the subject, which had been An-skys own intention. The editing of the Russian ver-sion sought to make the positive message of the play clearer. The work continued along the same lines after Vakhtangovs return from his sick leave, but somewhere in early 1921 he had an abrupt change of heart.

The change was allegedly induced by the artist Natan Altman, who appeared in Moscow with the Jewish Chamber Theater of Alex-ey Granovsky (pseudonym of Abram Azarch, 18901937) which had moved from Petrograd. Since it performed in Yiddish, which was con-sidered the language of the Jewish proletariat, it was needed in Moscow as a counterweight to the Habima, which performed in what was con-sidered the bourgeois, Zionist, Hebrew tongue. Initially Vakhtangov did not accept Altmans designs for the production, considering them decadent. One should not be tempted to attribute his rejection to con-servatism: Vahktangov had already produced or was working on his ex-pressionistic grotesques Anton Chekhovs The Marriage (Autumn 1920), the second version of Maeterlincks Saint Anthonys Miracle (Jan-uary 1921), and Strindbergs Erik the 24th, (with the avant-garde dcor of Ignatii Nivinsky, Spring 1921). Altman did not have to modernize Vakhtangov; it would have been preaching to the converted.

It was probably not Altmans Futurist style that Vakhtangov did not accept but his grotesque, ugly, distorted concept of the Jewish environ-

68 Helen tolstoy

ment, which was contrary to the original vision of An-sky and went against the ingrained Semitophilia of Stanislavsky, Sulerzhitzky, and Vakhtangov himself. And yet, in Khersonsky we read that Altman even-tually succeeded in winning Vakhtangov over by convincing the director to accept his view of Jewish life:

They argued for several days. Altman told Evgenii Bogrationovich [Vakhtangov] of his critical attitude toward the theme and the images of the play, repeatedly speaking about the tragic history of the Jewish people, about their religion of suffering, about reserved and passionate Jewish art, about the mutilated miserable human faces who look at us through the poetic images of legends. Vakhtangov began to relate differently to the art-ists sketches. No, this was not a departure from life but, on the contrary, coming closer to its profound inner essence. This was not decadence! (303304; my translation)

Khersonsky clearly means that Altman was painting from life, a terrible kind of life: that the artist had grasped the cruel and mutilated es-sence of the Jewish experience.

But Vakhtangov did not fully accept Altmans vision. He sent him to look at Chagalls newly painted murals at Granovskys Jewish Chamber Theater.29 They were opened to the public in April 1921. In contrast to Altman, Chagalls attitude to Jewish life, while not naturalistic, was col-ored by insight and warmth. Vakhtangov was probably driving Altman to a compromise.

Khersonsky, with his limited point of view and engag judgment, says that while An-sky was in love with his subject,

Vakhtangov has none of this love. . . . The clash, in his mind, is between the two worlds, although not between the sky (that is, mystical notions or even poetic abstractions) and the earth, not between the worlds of the poor and the rich but between live, real human feelings and fates, on the one hand, and the doomed world of the past with its everyday life, religion, or laws, on the other. One cannot live, cannot preserve ones beautiful soul in the world of oppression, deformity, and fear that is what Vakhtangov wants to say. (87)

According to the same reductive source, this was why Vakhtangov turned the production into a grotesque: The gestures are abrupt, the rhythm convulsive. These are the mutilated people whom Vakhtangov had been

29 Chagall, initially invited to design The Dybbuk, had not found a common language with Vakhtangov see Chagall 164.


looking for as an artist. A plastic monument is being built to the horrible past of the Jewish people. A modern liberated man, Vakhtangov thinks, can only see this past in this way (89).

Not being Jewish, Vakhtangov had to take it on faith from the young Jewish artist whose view was shared by so many modern and liberat-ed young Jews. The young Hebraizers of Habima were in favor of this change. Indeed, they were known to dislike An-skys play because it valorized the Diaspora: the negative vision of the old Jewish world was an important part of Zionist ideology. But there must have been some op-position also in Habima to the demonization of the Jewish world.

In addition to Altmans influence, there were other reasons for the sudden change in approach. The grotesque interpretation was more in tune with what Vakhtangov was doing in other studios. In addition, it was also to the liking of the powers-that-be, for quite a different reason: now it could be identified with the mythos of the struggle of the new with the old that was insistently recommended from above. It is probably worth mentioning here that in late 1921 Altman moved to Moscow not only to work in Granovskys Theater but also to head the department of the IZO (Otdel izobrazitelnyh iskusstv Plastic Arts Section) of the Peoples Commissariat of Education. He was an important Soviet functionary, and his attitude was in keeping with the official demands.

Of course the impulses for Vakhtangovs art were not as primitive as Khersonsky describes them. But the negative elements that he introduced might be understood by less sophisticated viewers as an unjust demoni-zation of the Jewish spiritual world. Indeed, the authoritative Symbolist literary critic Akim Volynsky (pen-name of Haim Flekser, 18631926) refused to accept the beggars dance as Jewish, stressing its decidedly un-Jewish plastic. Nevertheless Volynsky had fallen in love with Habima. When there was a dispute about the theater during its visit to Petrograd in July 1923, he spoke in its favor. In the newspaper account of the dispute, his rejection of the beggar dance is linked with his protest against reading The Dybbuk in terms of social conflict:

In his general positive evaluation of artists and the whole production A[kim] L[vovich] is no doubt right; here the disputants and the public agreed with 12000 spectators. But when A. L. points out that only Acts I and III are in the Jewish spirit, rhythm, and style, and not at all the image of the beggars with their ugly Chamitic faces of fawns and satyrs (in Act III), he falls into a methodological abstraction. Volynsky stressed that . . . the action takes place in the second quarter of the nineteenth century when no such deferential and open glee was possible on the part of beggars to-ward the rich classes. (Norman)

70 Helen tolstoy

Obviously, here was the seed of Volynskys famous essay about the Jewish theatre (which appeared in the Petrograd journal Zhizn iskusstva later the same month), where he tried to define the plastic traits of Judaism:

This dance is not staged according to a Judaic or even a Chamitic pattern. There is nothing Jewish in it. Everything is caricatured to the extreme and makes a morbid impression on the eye. To start with the mask. Jews never had noses like birds beaks, styled like rude props of Italian comedy. The dancing crowd is composed of satyrs and fawns. . . . The Jewish poor are not so cheeky, so insidious, or so noisy. Anyway, they do not have any-thing devilishly pompous or boorishly aggressive. . . . I cannot admit that this dance from The Dybbuks Act II could have been staged by a Jew. . . . The true essence of Jewish dance is different: it is understood and captured in the dance of the Hasids in Act III: the Hasids are raging, gesticulating and frolicking on the scene in complete self-abandonment. A great miracle has happened . . . and the crowd plunges into exaltation as a chorus. This is precisely exaltation, which is different: an exalted revelation of the inner self, of the inner essence of Tzaddikism. (1923: 1315)

Habima took the treasured pages of Volynsky to Tel Aviv and kept them until the old generation stepped down.

For a Communist like Khersonsky, Vakhtangovs new vision of the Jewish world was welcome. In her memoirs, Nadezhda Bromley, Vakhtangovs fervent supporter, was moved to defend his vision in its entirety from those who might be angry at its negative elements:

When I read that the theme of The Dybbuk is outmoded, I dont un-derstand it. Its theme is art, the idea of creativity, affirmation, joy, the gran-deur of the human being and life. Everything outmoded, every decline and disintegration can only be a counterforce in the work; otherwise it is sickness, madness, danger. (1959: 325)

A Cultural Vengeance?

In our parody-review, one can sense a special kind of vengeance: it actu-ally refuses to identify An-skys play as modern and Symbolist. Instead, it places The Dybbuk in the previous epoch, the late Populist one, cur-rently revived in the revolutionary hack play.

Every joke is believed to carry a grain of truth: the review insinuates that the new Jewish theater displays the traditional Yiddish or Russian-Jewish plaintive tone and a down-to-earth representation of everyday topics; that Jewish theater is not about mysticism and metaphysics but


about social conflict. It refuses to recognize the Symbolist features of The Dybbuk.

The members of the First Studio had regarded The Dybbuk as their own for several years before it was taken away from them. They had their own vision of it that was revolutionary enough for the conditions of 1916. Were they disconcerted with its staging as too compliant with the new ideological dictates?

I see this as possibly their chief grudge against the play.

Secondary Anti-Semitism

There certainly were others. After the revolution, the Russian intelli-gentsia, which had been its main supporter, saw the free press suppressed and its own cultural domination questioned. Its free spiritual search, defying the dogmatism of the Orthodox Church, was all but outlawed, together with the Church itself. Intellectual leadership seemed to have been taken over by the Jews. This led to the appearance of a new kind of anti-Semitism among the people who had formerly shared an almost obligatory liberal code of pro-Jewish sympathies. One can sense this new attitude in the following remark quoted from a mock theater chronicle in the next page of Word of Honor:

At the dress rehearsal of The Dybbuk at Habima the following were pres-ent: Prime Minister30 B. M. Sushkevich with his spouse; the editors of W[ord of] H[onor]; some Efroses31; and leading representatives of the secular and religious authorities of the R.S.F.S.R: Moscows Lord-Mayor G. Kamenev32 and the Moscow Metropolitan Maze.

Maze was the Chief Rabbi of Moscow, and to call him a religious au-thority of the R.S.F.S.R and a Metropolitan in a situation where the

30 See note 19 above. 31 In addition to Abram Markovich Efros, a theater critic active in the Jewish theater, the

veteran theater critic Nikolai Efimovich Efros (18671923; wrote under pen-names such as Chuzhoi, Starik, or Moskvich) was also present in the hall.

32 Lev Borisovich Kamenev (Rozenfeld), Head of the Moscow Soviet in 19181926, was a fervent admirer of Habima. According to an official theater review, Among the regulars at Habima one could see Lev Kamenev. Of the political leaders he was the only real aficionado of the theater. The same source wrote a week later: At the premieres of Habima one could see Moscows [Chief] Rabbi Maze next to Politburo member Kamenev nodding to each other in satisfaction (L. Gurevich, Iskusstvo RSFSR: Ezhenedelnik Petrogradskikh gosu-darstvennykh akademicheskikh teatrov, Petrograd, 1922, #1516: 30, cited in Vl. Ivanov 60).

72 Helen tolstoy

Russian church was being severely suppressed was a political grunt. It was a sign of disapproval of what seemed a disproportionate representa-tion of Jews in the government and culture.

One can easily understand that a large part of The Dybbuks appeal to the Russian public lay in its spiritualized atmosphere, presenting the struggle of divine forces and their opposites, stressing the non-materialist vision of man. Ironically, such a play was possible only in a Jewish the-ater!

This bitter grudge was an additional factor in the complicated tangle of historical, political, cultural, national, generational, and personal mo-tifs that, together with the general ironic ambiance of Word of Honor, determined the tone and contents of the mock review of the opening night of The Dybbuk.

Criticism

In its position of alienation from the production, the mock-review re-vealed what was supposedly not clear to the ordinary viewer. It is with obvious pleasure that the author/authors of the review criticize the production, but the absurd attacks come together with points that may contain a kernel of seriousness. One example is the reviewers dissatis-faction with the motif of the gallows. While there are, in fact, no gallows in An-sky, there are three sudden deaths (one of which is the fainting of Leah), so irritation on this score may be somewhat justified. Charges of schematicism, clumsiness, falseness, and the excessive pathos of some scenes what the review calls cinematic clichs are not entirely unjustified. Everyone who saw The Dybbuk in Habima in the 1970s ad-mitted to being amused by its reliance on blatant overacting reminiscent of the early cinemas caricatured gestures.

However, the First Studio was at the very same time playing no less expressive dramas. In the early twenties, after a decade of avant-garde theatrical experiments, such a reproach would not necessarily be that of a theatrical old believer. Mockery is here not necessarily conservative it may stem from dissatisfaction with achievement that was already somewhat pass.

The reviews absurd attacks include, for example, a remark about the directors alleged attempt to present the play in a realistic mode. Actu-ally, the dcor and especially the costumes were in an exaggerated, dark style quite innocent of realism. The review speaks in the same jocular vein of the avant-garde Altmans inability to pursue the ideals of decora-


tive art supposedly attained in the sets of the Studios 1913 production of The Loss of Hope. That once-successful production of the play of the Dutch naturalist playwright Herman Heiermans (18641924), directed by R. Boleslavsky with sets by I. Gremislavsky, had become a symbol of a down-to-earth, naturalistic theater. The review then boldly claims that Altmans unsuccessful decorations were saved by a venerable and ex-perienced artist of their own Studio, Senatorov. But in reality Senatorovs job was merely an execution of the projects of other artists.

The reference to Altmans stage design as izzhitye (outmoded, liter-ally outlived) and ploskie (flat, banal) is also playful: Altmans decorations were actually flat rather than three-dimensional, in the sche-matic manner associated with Futurist art.

In 19181922 Futurists, who supported the Bolsheviks, practically had a state-approved monopoly on art: their carnival was at the expense of other styles in art which they branded as outmoded and reactionary. The majority of supporters of the avant-garde among the intelligentsia turned away from it after the revolution. This was primarily because of its link with the political powers that be, but also for another rea-son: innovative and vibrant as avant-garde art had been in the period of 19121916, in the eyes of the intelligentsia, by 1922, it had ceased to be inventive, and turned into an exploitation of things already given.33 It may have pleased the author to suggest that Altmans Futurist dcor was pass possibly in revenge for what might have been thought of as Alt-mans ideological pressure on the director.

To Conclude

Bromley, who saw in Vakhtangov an embodied prophecy of the art of the future, an art which in its lightness would come out of the depths of the spirit spoke of him as immortal:

His spirit had given birth to the melodic howl of the Dybbuks Song of Songs: as if it were a combination of timbres, those of mystical man lion lamb eagle; the spirit that gave birth to the mystery of playing the game of life in Turandot; the spirit that before our own eyes annihi-lated the tragedy of death. (1939: 76)

33 In his 1922 autobiography, Chagall speaks with some contempt of the post-revolution-ary Russian discoveries of Cubism, Simultaneism, Constructivism, and Counterrelief European novelties picked up with a ten years delay (1994: 16566).

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This was a First Studio members true appreciation of what Vakhtangov achieved in his last year of life. But alongside with this elated vision there existed another view, more profane, intimate, full of jocular fault-finding, humane in its unfairness and capable of giving us a glimpse of the historically conditioned psychological background of The Dyb-buks reception in contemporary Moscows theatrical world.

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An-sky’s the Dybbukthrough the Eyes of Habima’s Rival Studio

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