The following paper was given at Exoticism, Orientalism and National Identity in Musical Theatre, International Musicological Conference on the Centenary of the Death of Karl Goldmark, 11–12 December, 2015, Institute of Musicology (Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences), Budapest. This was the first paper in a double presentation based on research undertaken as part of a European Research Council Project on German operetta reception. In the second paper, Anastasia Belina-Johnson offered additional evidence in support of the cosmopolitan perspective I presented here. Her research focused on the cultural transfer of operetta from Vienna and Berlin to Warsaw.
n this short presentation, I want to outline the social conditions that underpinned the development of operetta as a cosmopolitan genre in the early twentieth century. In this period, there were a number of composers who had grown up with the experience of being able to make different cultural choices, and whose family lineage or place of birth gave them no direct or clear-cut cultural identifications. Instead, they had the experience of being able to move flexibly among cultural options.
Take Franz Lehár, for example. His birthplace was in Komárom, Hungary, a city in two halves, divided by the Danube. He was born in the northern half, which was declared Slovakian and named Komárno after the Treaty of Trianon, 1920. He was, in fact, often referred to by the librettists Julius Brammer and Alfred Grünwald, and the composer Emmerich [Imre] Kálmán as the Slovak.2 His mother was Hungarian, but of German descent, and his father was Austrian. The diacritic mark above the “a” in the family name was actually added by Franz himself, and he did this in order to indicate the Hungarian vowel sound corresponding to the German “ah” (The unmarked vowel “a” is pronounced “o” in Hungarian.). The diversity of Lehár’s cultural experience was expanded further when he chose to study violin at the Prague Conservatory and, after that, got his first job in Vienna, as assistant bandmaster to his father’s band. So, there does not seem much point in trying to attach a national label to Lehár. Isn’t “cosmopolitan” the term that describes him best?
It would appear to be confirmed by by his own activities and the many varied geographic locations of his operettas (which are set in over a dozen different countries). Wo die Lerche Singt is Lehár’s only opera set entirely in Hungary, and the only one of his operettas to be premiered in Budapest. It was given as A Pacsirta, at the Király Szinház (demolished in 1941), on 1 Feb. 1918, and produced the following month at the Theater an der Wien. For those wondering about the location of Zigeunerliebe, I should explain that Acts 1 and 3 are set in Romania. The setting of Act 2 is the estate of Ilona von Köröshága, which may hint at Köröshegy in Hungary.
And now, given the theme of the conference, I will add some brief remarks on how cosmopolitanism affected the way the authors and composers of Silver-Age operetta positioned themselves towards exoticism and Orientalism. It would be naïve to deny that an operetta such as Leo Fall’s Die Rose von Stambul indulges to some extent in cultural Othering, as well as in cultural identification with the Self, but it differs in significant respects from exoticism and Orientalism in its representation of the cultural Other. This is where reception needs to be examined in combination with the subject positioning of operetta. Those involved in its production made a variety of assumptions about the audience to whom they were catering. To satisfy the kind of aesthetic cosmopolitanism already evident in the appetite for adaptations of German operetta shown by audiences all around Europe and further afield, cultural traditions needed to be explained and shared and not become barriers that separate. Thus, we find something closer to what art critic Nicolas Bourriaud calls a “translation of singularities,” rather than cultural misrepresentation (39). In contrast, exotic and Orientalist representation techniques serve the function of emphasizing difference or strangeness: they work to produce recognition of the Self as different to the Other, and not to stimulate recognition of the Self in the Other—that is, sameness. (I discuss this at length in “Orientalism and Musical Style”.) If we reach back to The Mikado, we find perhaps the most pronounced example of an “Eastern” operetta in which the English audience recognized itself—even if the eponymous character enters to a Japanese tune. To recognize the Self in the Other is a key characteristic of the cosmopolitan disposition.
Many of the individuals who enjoyed multiple cultural attachments were Jewish artists. Kálmán, for instance, composed operettas to both Hungarian and German texts. His family name at birth was Koppstein, and his family spoke both languages (Erskine). He may have “Magyarized” his name to aid his integration in Hungarian society. A diaspora may make great effort to retain cultural traditions, but may also assimilate other cultural knowledge and practices, and a diasporic cosmopolitanism forms a significant dimension of the art world of operetta. Operetta involved a considerable number of Jews working in all aspects of its production. An ability to move easily between different cultural options, sometimes meant that Jewish artists found themselves described negatively as “rootless cosmopolitans” (Botstein 133). However, there was a keen desire, and thus a market, for the cosmopolitan in the metropolis. The cosmopolitan sensibility may include a sense of an identity that relates to place, but is not constrained by place. The urban Viennese waltz, for instance, was already international by the mid-nineteenth century, whereas the rustic Ländler carried a strong Austrian identification. A Jewish artist may form multiple attachments: for instance, to other countries where friends and relations once lived, to friends and relations who are not Jewish, and to a country of birth. The Jewish creative artist often embodied a cosmopolitan disposition, while also identifying as, say, Russian Jew or German Jew. To think that German Jews did not think themselves German, for example, was to fall prey to Third Reich propaganda. The term “embedded cosmopolitanism” has been used to describe those who have a strong attachment to a community but readily interact with others and demonstrate a cultural openness (Erskine). Regrettably, in the 1930s there came a period of social upheaval and migration in which displaced persons (many, though not all of them, Jewish) began to affect the course of European culture. Two of the pre-eminent stars of operetta were Fritzi Massary (Jewish by heritage, but Protestant by religion) and Richard Tauber (Jewish, but Roman Catholic by religion), and both found it necessary to flee Germany. Tauber was mocked by the Nazis as the languishing tenor who demanded 2600 marks a night (Stengel and Gerigk 272). From 1934 on, a once-thriving operetta culture was quickly disintegrating, even if it did still manage to continue in the absence of many of its leading figures and under watchful Nazi eyes. One of the cruelest ironies of these later years is that Leon Jessel, the Jewish composer of the ultra-German operetta Die Schwarzwaldmädel, was murdered by the Gestapo. One of the surprises is that Oscar Straus was actually helped to escape by a German officer on a Swiss train (Letellier xxvi).
To return to Franz Lehár, Hitler’s favourite operetta composer: he was a Roman Catholic, but he married Sophie Paschkis, who was Jewish. She converted to Catholicism, but that meant little to Nazi fanatics. Thus, seeing what had happened to so many of his artistic collaborators, Lehár was left constantly worried about his wife’s safety. Fritz Löhner-Beda [Bedrich Löwy], the librettist with whom he had worked on five operettas, was arrested and sent to Dachau in April 1938 (the month after the Austrian Anschluss). Lehár petitioned for his release, but to no avail, and his ex-librettist was beaten to death in Auschwitz III Monowitz on 4 December 1942 (Hilberg).
I want to end by asking if Nazi music policy did any lasting damage to the output of Jewish composers? In some cases, the answer, I believe, is yes, and for two reasons. First, it meant that previously highly esteemed work could fall into neglect. In keeping with the theme of the present conference, I will choose Carl Goldmark as an example. In a recent article on the composer, David Brodbeck informs us that before the Anschluss Goldmark’s opera Die Königin von Saba (1875) had been performed 277 times in Vienna, but he adds that it has “rarely been heard since” (Brodbeck 500). We must hope that the recent performances at the Erkel Theatre in October and November will re-establish it in the repertoire. The second way in which the Nazis damaged Jewish composers is in the embarrassment they caused for those performing or producing music that carried with it reminders of the hateful treatment its creators had received. This was especially noticeable in the neglect of operettas by once popular Jewish artists. How could you enjoy this music, when you were aware of what had happen to so many of its creators? It is only now, under the leadership of Australian Barrie Kosky, that the Komische Oper in Berlin is finding a fitting way of paying respect to these artists and revealing once more what wonderful life-affirming entertainment is to be found in a work such as Paul Abraham’s Ball im Savoy.
Bibliography
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Last modified 8 July 2020