Bayreuth, 6 Juli, 1903.
Conried, however, obtained his parts elsewhere, and gave a stage
performance that winter. Since then the copyright on “Parsifal” has run
out and it has been produced all over the world.
During my search for modern works I endeavored also to keep alive the
interest in the old oratorios. I owed much to them, and their dignity
and genuine expression of religious feeling had been a most important
factor in my early and earliest education. As a boy I sang alto in the
Oratorio Society chorus and at sixteen was promoted to the dignity of
accompanist at rehearsals. At this work I became quite an expert, and if
my father stopped at a certain place to correct the chorus, I would, of
course, know beforehand what he wanted, and would hammer out the right
note for the altos or the tenors—it was usually the tenors—or would
resort, even while they were singing, to all manner of expedients, such
as playing the critical intervals an octave higher in order to keep up
the pitch or to define them more clearly. As both my mother and Tante
Marie sang in the chorus, there would be the four of us going home
together after a rehearsal, discussing this or that point which needed
more drilling, or a weakness that needed bolstering up, or we would
express mutual enthusiasm over some chorus particularly well sung that
evening. Naturally the refrain after almost every rehearsal was: “How
can we get ten more first tenors?” America did not seem to grow them,
and as even basses were not as plentiful as they should have been, it
seemed almost as if the future American composer should write choruses
for women only. If at the voice trial of new applicants, which usually
took place before or after rehearsal, that _rara avis_, a tenor, was
found, we glowed with delight and speculated as to whether he would
really turn up at the next rehearsal and become a regular member. It
cannot be claimed that tenors are to be found in profusion even to-day,
but there has been an immense development in the quality of choral
singers. Their voices are better trained, they read better at sight, and
the general increase of interest in music manifests itself very strongly
in this direction.
In 1892 I gave a Handel festival in honor of the
one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the first performance of
Handel’s “Messiah” in Dublin under his own direction, in 1742, followed
by the one which King George II and his court attended, and when the
crowd was so great that the management requested the gentlemen not to
wear their swords nor the ladies their hoop-skirts, in order to enable
as many as possible to hear the work of “Mr. Handel.” At this
performance, when the Hallelujah chorus began, with its mighty climax,
“King of Kings, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” King George, overcome with
emotion, arose and remained standing until the end. Naturally the entire
audience rose in imitation of their royal master, and Great Britain has
continued this custom ever since. As this was a fitting homage both to
the Almighty and to the composer who in this chorus so marvellously
voiced man’s adoration for him, my father introduced the custom at his
own first performance of the “Messiah,” in 1874, and the Oratorio
Society audiences have followed it to this day.
An interesting account of the kind of orchestra Handel may have employed
is given in a description of a memorial service of the “Messiah,” sung
in Westminster Abbey shortly after his death. I decided to reproduce
such an orchestra as far as possible at our festival performance. The
main characteristics consisted in the doubling up of the string parts in
the choruses with oboes and bassoons and in duplicating the trumpets and
kettledrums in the choral climaxes. The effect of this was most
remarkable. I had placed an additional oboe with every three violins and
an additional bassoon for every three violoncellos, with a few
contrabassoons and contrabass clarinets to strengthen the double-basses
and to take the part of the serpent—an instrument which has become
obsolete. The doubling up of trumpets and kettledrums in the climaxes
did not make them sound louder, but more full. For the first time in my
experience the sound of the orchestra was not completely buried in the
avalanche of tone from a large chorus of three hundred and fifty voices.
The orchestral accompaniments supported and supplemented the chorus in a
way that perhaps only a very large and mellow church organ might.
In Handel’s time he himself usually sat at the organ and filled in with
masterly improvisations many of the harmonies for which in his score he
had written only the bass, with figures indicating the harmonies which
the organist should improvise. Since then various musicians have
endeavored to supply these harmonies in permanent fashion by writing
them for other instruments in the orchestra, principally for clarinets
and bassoons. As most concert-halls are but poorly supplied with organs,
these arrangements offered a kind of substitute, and the one most in use
was that of Robert Franz. He was a German composer of very lovely songs,
and a great admirer of Handel, but, curiously enough, his arrangements
were very bad and not in keeping with the Handelian spirit. Mozart also
had written accompaniments to supply the missing harmonies for a
performance of the “Messiah” in Vienna at a hall in which there was no
church organ. His additions, especially in the air “The people that
walked in darkness,” are of such transcendent beauty that when I
proceeded in my work of restoring the Handelian orchestra to its
original form my courage failed me completely as I came to this air. It
was as if one master had found a painting by another and had encircled
it in a frame of such beauty as to enhance the value of the original
picture. I could not bear to disturb it, but the clarinets and bassoons
of Robert Franz were thrown out by me with great gusto.
Another novel and interesting feature of our festival was a scenic stage
performance of a charming pastoral of Handel’s “Acis and Galatea.” This
proved to have dramatic qualities which in their appeal seemed way
beyond that of the many Italian operas which Handel has written. The
cast was excellent. The part of _Galatea_ was sung by Madame de Vere, a
charming coloratura singer; the shepherd _Acis_ by William Rieger, one
of our best young concert tenors; and _Polyphemus_, the giant, by that
master artist, Emil Fischer. The scene represented a landscape of
classic beauty, and all the participants were clad in very charming
Greek shepherd costumes. The scene in which _Polyphemus_, coming upon
the shepherd lovers, lifts a huge rock and in jealous rage kills Acis,
was done with such dramatic intensity as to thrill our audiences. The
performance was a real event, as this work had perhaps not been given in
its dramatic form since the time of Handel; but, curiously enough, it
roused but little interest, for, whereas all the other performances of
the festival were crowded to the doors, we had but half an audience at
our two performances of the pastoral. It came about twenty years too
early, and I think that to-day, especially if given under the auspices
of the Metropolitan Opera, it would arouse wide-spread interest.
This spring (1922) I was in Munich and the town was in great excitement
over the approaching performance of Handel’s “Acis and Galatea” in
dramatic form. Their conductor, Bruno Walter, said to me: “We are very
proud of this stage performance, as it is the first since Handel’s
time.” He was amazed and, as he told me, much chagrined when I informed
him that I had given it in New York nearly thirty years ago. He gave it
a beautiful performance. I had costumed my singers in classic Greek, but
the Munich stage director had given the work an additional and rather
piquant flavor by dressing the singers and dancers as in Handel’s time,
when all performers, in no matter what age their plays were supposed to
take place, wore the costumes and huge periwigs of their own period.
In the summer of 1898 we were much excited by the dramatic accounts of
Admiral Dewey’s victory in Manila Bay, and it seemed to me fitting to
celebrate it by composing a “Te Deum” for soloists, chorus, and
orchestra. In order to give my “Manila Te Deum” an appropriate
character, I used several of the bugle-calls of the American army and
navy as a _cantus firmus_, around which I wove the fugal developments of
the voices of the chorus. In the last chorus, “O Lord, in thee have I
trusted; let me never be confounded,” I used the “Star-Spangled Banner”
in similar fashion.
The work received its first performance at a concert of the Oratorio
Society, December 3, 1898, and marked the introduction of my brother as
regular conductor of the society. The following spring I was invited to
conduct it at a Dewey celebration in Chicago, and on February 6, 1900, I
directed it again at a special performance given in Carnegie Hall, the
proceeds of which were to be used toward the building of an arch in
honor of Admiral Dewey. This arch, however, was never built, and the
several thousand dollars which resulted from our concert were finally
donated by the Dewey Arch Committee to a philanthropic purpose. Our two
guests of honor at this performance were Admiral Dewey, in a box on one
side of the hall, and Theodore Roosevelt, at that time Governor of New
York, in a box on the other side. Roosevelt was to make an appropriate
address, and as the victor of Manila Bay was present and the entire
occasion was one of jubilant admiration for our navy, we expected one of
Roosevelt’s most flaming patriotic addresses on the glories of the
American navy. But, alas, that evening his mind was completely occupied
with things nearer home, and after a few very courteous remarks about my
music, he launched forth into a terrific speech on the Street Cleaning
Department of New York and the “duty of every citizen to vote at the
primaries”!
In 1892 I gave the first performance in America of Saint-Saëns’s opera
of “Samson and Delilah.” This work is admirably adapted for concert
performance, and many portions of it are far more effective in this form
than on the stage. The music is lovely and of great melodic simplicity,
and many of the choruses are written in oratorio form. At stage
performances the dramatic climax of the second act, in which _Delilah_
appears jubilantly at the door of her palace, shaking _Samson’s_ red wig
triumphantly at the admiring high priest and soldiers, is really an
anticlimax, and excites our risibilities much more than our sorrow that
the God-given strength of the mighty soldier has left him.
From my father I have inherited a deep admiration for Hector Berlioz and
have conducted many performances of his greater works—the “Damnation of
Faust,” the “Requiem Mass,” “Romeo and Juliet,” and the first rendition
in America of his “Te Deum.”
Another novelty which I produced with the Oratorio Society in 1889 was
the “Missa Solemnis” of Edward Grell. This work created a sensation. Its
composer was virtually unknown except locally in Berlin, where he had
been a teacher of counterpoint and composition in the first half of the
nineteenth century. He had lived himself so completely into the style of
the Italian masters of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that
modern harmonies simply did not exist for him, and his “Missa Solemnis”
is conceived absolutely in the manner of the early masters of
ecclesiastical music. It is written for four choruses of four parts each
and four solo quartets. There is absolutely no accompaniment, and the
purity of these sixteen-part harmonies without any admixture of
instruments produces truly celestial effects. The four choruses which
are generally used antiphonally with the solo quartets, produce
thrilling climaxes, and the _Benedictus_ especially gives an impression
of ecstatic beauty.
I have written elsewhere, of my first performance of the “Christus,” by
Liszt. I also produced “St. Christopher,” by Horatio Parker,
distinguished American musician and composer. This work, however, did
not prove as effective as his “Hora Novissima.” It seemed to fall
between two stools, as it was neither an opera nor an oratorio.
I gave, of course, many renditions of the oratorios of Handel, Haydn,
and Mendelssohn, and inaugurated the custom of an annual performance of
Bach’s “St. Matthew’s Passion” during Holy Week. I am happy to say that
I succeeded in “popularizing” this mighty work, so that now it draws a
huge and devout audience whenever it is given. But, generally speaking,
the interest in the older oratorios is waning, not only in New York but
all over the country. The ears of our audiences have lost pleasure in
the simpler harmonies of Handel and Haydn, and, accustomed to the richer
orchestration of to-day, find the accompaniments of the Handelian
orchestra thin and archaic. Something of the simple and naïve religious
faith that inspired the old oratorios has also gone, and the composer
has not yet been found who can voice the faith and aspirations of
to-day. It is a pity that the old oratorio form should therefore be
neglected. I think, however, that it is not dead but only sleeps, and
will awaken again.
In 1898 I retired as conductor of the Oratorio Society, owing to the
pressure of my operatic and orchestral work, and my brother Frank was
elected as my successor. He is two years older than I and has always
shared my love and enthusiasm for music in an equal degree. He studied
the piano as a boy, but had always insisted that his talent was not
great enough to warrant making music his profession; and therefore, at
the age of seventeen, he with great courage determined to go out West
and begin a business career. Arrived in Denver, Colorado, with one
hundred dollars in his pocket, he proceeded, in the manner of our
American young men who have no intention of becoming a burden on their
parents, to earn his own living.
He began at the very bottom and slowly worked his way upward, but
suffered intensely during his first years in Denver from the almost
total lack of music there. He had drunk of it in such generous
quantities in New York that it had become a larger part of his very life
than he had realized; and in order to satisfy his need he founded a
choral society with which he gave some of the old oratorios, and with
characteristic audacity he supplemented this with an orchestra composed
of a handful of professionals then playing at the Denver theatres and a
few amateurs. The citizens of Denver, realizing that he was a real
musician in spite of his modest estimate of himself, urged him to give
up business and turn altogether to music.
At the time of my father’s death Frank had become virtually the moving
force in all the higher musical enterprises of Denver. It seemed to me
that the time had come to urge him to return to New York and together
with me continue the work my father had begun. He was promptly engaged
as chorus master at the Metropolitan Opera House, and also became more
and more active in pedagogic work, for which he had a special enthusiasm
which has never waned.
His activities extended in many directions. He founded the Young
People’s Concerts at Carnegie Hall, and became supervisor of music in
the public schools of New York, completely reforming the teaching of
music. The good effects of this are felt to this day. He also founded
the People’s Choral Union, in which working men and women were taught
singing and the rudiments of music and then promoted into a chorus of
twelve hundred voices which studied and performed the old oratorios of
Handel and Haydn.
He officiated as conductor of the Oratorio Society from 1898 until 1912,
and during this period conducted first performances in New York of
Edward Elgar’s “The Dream of Gerontius” and “The Apostles,” Anton
Dvořák’s “Stabat Mater,” Gabriel Pierné’s “Children’s Crusade,” Johannes
Brahms’s “Song of Fate,” and Wolf-Ferrari’s “La Vita Nuova.”
His interest in the pedagogy of music culminated in the founding of a
music-school—the Institute of Musical Art—which was liberally endowed
by James Loeb and others, and which has developed into one of the few
great music-schools of this country and Europe. This school soon began
to assume such proportions as to demand all of his time and vitality. He
therefore retired from other public work, with the exception of the
conductorship of the Society of Musical Art, a unique chorus of
sixty-five professional singers, giving only two concerts during the
season, representing the highest that can be attained in choral singing.
For its programmes he drew upon the rich and partly unknown treasures of
the _a capella_ choruses of such masters as Palestrina, Orlando di
Lasso, Cornelius, and Brahms; and as this chorus was composed of the
very elect of New York’s church and concert singers he obtained results
ravishing in their beauty.
When we were boys together we quarrelled dreadfully and outrageously.
Frank would try to assert his two years’ seniority over me and I would
resent this with both hands and feet. I remember my mother resolutely
separating us and giving me a little room to myself, as that seemed the
only way to achieve peace between us. But I am happy to say that since
1885, when Frank returned to New York, we have lived and worked together
in absolute harmony and mutual helpfulness. In fact, the unity between
us has been so complete that we are now inclined by contrast to consider
each other as having been exceptionally devilish and nasty during those
early boyhood years. I know, of course, that the blame was entirely his,
as he was so overbearing and presuming because of the accident of his
earlier birth, while he is equally convinced that I was altogether too
cheeky for my age and it was absolutely necessary for my own good and
future welfare to put me where I belonged.
In 1919 I was again asked to assume the direction of the Oratorio
Society. Their affairs had not prospered after my brother had
relinquished the conductorship. A huge debt threatened to engulf them,
and, while I was overwhelmed with work in connection with the New York
Symphony Orchestra, with which I gave over a hundred concerts every
winter, I could not resist their appeal and promised to stay by them
until they could find a permanent conductor to their liking.
I am glad to say that the man was found in Albert Stoessel. He had been
a bandmaster in the A. E. F. during the war, had been chosen as teacher
of conducting at the bandmaster’s school in Chaumont, which I had
founded for General Pershing, and had become my assistant conductor at
the rehearsals of the Oratorio Society. The chorus were delighted with
him, and he was elected as regular conductor of the society in 1920. He
has already conducted two highly successful seasons, and I think that
our beloved old society will have many years of life and success under
his direction.