DEAR MR. MCLANE:

Mr. Walter Damrosch is one of the very best Americans and

citizens in this entire land. In character, ability, loyalty,

and fervid Americanism he, and his, stand second to none in the

land. I have known him thirty years; I vouch for him as if he

were my brother.

Faithfully

(_Signed_) THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

The assurance of a safe-conduct from the Ministère des Etrangères was a

rather important item as I had been born in Germany, even though only

the first nine years of my life had been spent there. My father

emigrated to America in 1871, and as I had received my education here,

had lived in America ever since, and had married an American, I had

never felt myself anything but an American and of the most enthusiastic

variety. When the Germans invaded Belgium, when they sank the

_Lusitania_, and when they seemed to have broken all laws of

international relations, I expressed myself, both personally and in

newspaper interviews, so strongly that long before we entered the war

several Berlin newspapers violently took me to task and honored me by

calling me a renegade and a traitor to the country of my birth.

There was an understanding between our country and France that no

American civilian of German birth should be permitted to enter France

except by special permission of either M. Clemenceau or M. Pichon, then

Minister of Foreign Affairs. The French high commissioner cabled to the

latter and in most cordial terms recommended that I be permitted to

enter France, both because of my office as president of the Society of

American Friends of Musicians in France, and because of a life-long

admiration for French music, which I had demonstrated for thirty-three

years by producing in our country nearly every important symphonic work

that French composers had written before and within that time.

M. Pichon promptly cabled the necessary visé and with all proper

credentials I set sail on June 15, 1918, on the French steamship _La

Lorraine_.

The ship’s passengers were almost entirely soldiers and war workers.

There were two hundred and fifty Belgian soldiers with their officers

returning to France after three years spent in Russia, and who, when the

revolution broke out, had after incredible hardships reached

Vladivostok, sailing from there to California. There were Polish

soldiers on their way to join the Foreign Legion of the French army and

there were dozens of Red Cross, Y. M. C. A., K. of C., and S. A.

workers. There were not more than a dozen civilians, among them my

friend, Melville Stone, director of the Associated Press, and M. Sulzer,

the Swiss minister then accredited to our country. It was strange to be

on a transatlantic steamer without any idle rich, tourists, or

commercial travellers; and the large guns mounted fore and aft with a

gun crew watching, ready day and night, gave one a grim foretaste of the

war raging on the other side.

On the first day out Stone told me that M. Sulzer would like to meet me.

I expressed my pleasure and laughingly said: “I will promise not to ask

him any questions regarding the Swiss citizenship of Doctor Karl Muck.”

Stone must have repeated this to Sulzer, for immediately after our

introduction he said: “I want to tell you that Doctor Muck had no more

claim to Swiss citizenship than you have. The facts are as follows:

After the Franco-Prussian war, Muck’s father—a Bavarian living in

Munich—was afraid that Bavaria would become completely Prussianized,

and, as he had no liking for that country, he preferred to emigrate to

Switzerland, where he acquired citizenship which at that time was very

easy, as Switzerland was glad to receive the intelligentsia of other

countries. His son Karl left Switzerland as a boy to be educated in

Germany, and never returned. He went to a German university, studied

music, became an orchestral conductor, and as such officiated in various

German opera-houses, until he became conductor and Generalmusikdirektor

at the Royal Opera in Berlin. There he remained for many years and when

the war broke out offered his services to the German Ministry of War in

a clerical capacity. The Swiss Government does not recognize him as a

citizen and refuses him the protection which such citizenship would

afford him.”

Our journey was uneventful. We saw no submarines and, what was still

more important, no submarines saw us. When we reached the “danger zone”

some hundred miles from the coast of France, I was solemnly appointed a

committee of one to inform M. Sulzer that as he was the Swiss minister

and as such the representative of German interests in the United States

during the war, we intended to bind him to the foremast and play a

searchlight on him and on a large Swiss flag hanging over his head,

during the two or three nights before we dropped anchor in the Gironde.

He smilingly expressed himself as so willing to act in this capacity as

our guardian angel, that we refrained and trusted to luck, which indeed

never failed us.

We dropped anchor at the mouth of the Gironde to take on the usual

officials, among them the secret-service men who were to look over the

passengers while we waited the turn of the tide before proceeding

up-stream to Bordeaux.

It was a beautiful sunlit evening, and as I was standing at the rail

watching the tide, which ran out to sea like a mill-race, suddenly there

was a splash and we saw one of the Belgian soldiers lying on the water,

his face downward and his arms and legs outstretched and motionless. He

was being carried out to sea with incredible speed by the tide, and it

was evident that he was trying to commit suicide, as he made no effort

to struggle. The sailors were all busy elsewhere getting out the

mail-bags and trunks, and for a few minutes nothing seemed to be done.

Suddenly there was another splash as, from the deck above, a man dove

after the Belgian. It was Lieutenant Shirk, an aviator in our marines,

who had not even taken the time to throw off his coat or leather

puttees. A life-saving belt had been thrown just previously and floated

with the tide several yards ahead of the Belgian soldier, but both were

carried along so swiftly that it was some time before Lieutenant Shirk

could reach him. As he approached, the Belgian promptly kicked at him,

and it took several moments before he was overpowered and dragged toward

the life-belt. In the meantime a boat had been lowered, but so swift is

the tide in these waters that when the boat reached the two men, they

seemed like two small black spots in the distance. The excitement and

enthusiasm when they were brought back to the ship may easily be

imagined.

Lieutenant Shirk proved to be a well-to-do young business man from

Indianapolis, who when the war broke out had immediately enlisted,

leaving a wife and children and large important business interests to

give himself whole-heartedly to the service of his country.

If you “tell this story to the marines” they will refuse to acknowledge

that it is anything extraordinary, and they will also tell you that that

is just a way they have of dealing with any emergency on land or sea.

The sad part of this heroic rescue is that a few days afterward, meeting

one of the Belgian officers in Paris, he told me that the soldier, soon

after landing, had succeeded in his effort at self-destruction, and had

shot himself in a fit of despondency. He had been away from Belgium for

four years, and during all that time had had no news of his wife or

children; his little farm was in the hands of the Germans, and there was

neither hope nor desire to live left in him.

We all had to assemble in the saloon of the ship to present our

passports, and when it came to my turn I was politely told to go to my

cabin with two secret-service men, that they might question me further

regarding my mission. One of these men was silent, but the other a very

voluble, polite Frenchman. But even the visé by the Minister of Foreign

Affairs and the French High Commission did not seem quite to satisfy

him. The fact that I had been born in Germany evidently impressed him

unfavorably. He asked me finally: “Do you intend to take any money out

of France?” “On the contrary,” I replied, “here is a letter of credit,

every cent of which is to be used on French orchestra musicians.” In

corroboration I showed him the cable from the Ministère des Beaux Arts

offering me the use of the Pasdeloup Orchestra, the conductor of which

was M. Rhene Baton. The face of my secret-service man suddenly became

wreathed in smiles. “Ah!” he said, “M. Baton! Why, before the war I used

to play third horn in his orchestra in Bordeaux. Everything is all

right.” With a bow he handed me back my passport, and at this point his

silent companion suddenly gave me a most genial wink, the nationality of

which could not be mistaken. I said: “You are American.” “Sure!” he

answered, and thus I was enabled to land at last in France with colors

flying.

The next morning saw me in Paris at the little hotel “France et

Choiseul,” to which I had always gone on my visits to Paris during

twenty-five years preceding. I found the same courteous, smiling

directeur, M. Mantel, to receive me. Even the old canary-bird, hanging

in the courtyard, was still living, but either corpulence or old age had

stopped his musical demonstrations.

It would take a man of much greater eloquence than I can claim, to give

an adequate picture of Paris at that time. It seemed to me more

beautiful and more noble than I had ever seen it during my many visits

in times of peace. The streets were almost empty, there were no

tourists, no pleasure-seekers, no idlers, and therefore that part of

Parisian life which usually stands out so prominently and which, alas,

is generally the only part that the average visitor sees, was entirely

absent. One saw only the French people going about their daily tasks and

the soldiers of France and her allies. The Champs-Élysées, the

Tuileries, and, above all, the Jardin de Luxembourg seemed more charming

than ever, but the tragic note was that the lovely children who in

former times crowded these gardens were all gone. Constant air raids and

the frequent bombardments by the “Big Bertha” had driven them away. It

was said that a million and a half people had left Paris, and that,

owing to the nearness of the German armies, the entire evacuation of the

civilian population was imminent. Rumors had it, furthermore, that all

the banks had sent their securities to Orleans and that the embassies

and various relief organizations were ready to leave Paris at a few

hours’ notice. There was not the least sign of panic, but an

indescribable sadness brooded over the city.

During the long twilight, which is the most beautiful time to see Paris,

when the sky and the clouds seem to hover most intimately and

caressingly over its wonderful vistas, I used to take long walks along

the banks of the Seine. Even the complete darkness at night, the absence

of all electric lights or signs, with only an occasional half-hidden

blue lamp here and there, made the city more picturesque and wonderful.

It was almost as if the centuries of civilization and modern inventions

had been swept away and we were back again in the time of the _Grand

Monarque_, when Paris was only dimly lighted by faintly flickering oil

lamps.

Of course, I soon made the acquaintance of the nocturnal air raids, and

when the sirens placed at various high buildings of the city sounded

their horrible warning that the German Gothas were approaching, every

inhabitant was supposed to seek shelter in the cellars. I did this

dutifully for two or three nights, but as it meant leaving one’s bed at

about 11.30 or 12 and returning at about 1.30 or 2 A. M., I gradually

realized that my own pet cowardice was more the fear of not getting

enough sleep, as I was completely knocked out during the daytime by the

lack of it. After weighing the alternatives carefully I decided to take

the small risk of remaining in my bed and getting a good night’s rest in

consequence; and having solved this question to my complete

satisfaction, I used to wake up on hearing the warning of the sirens,

stretch myself comfortably, and immediately go to sleep again.

The gatherings in the _abri_ of our hotel were, however, quite amusing.

The guests used to assemble in the wine-cellar, which was protected by

walls several feet thick, and in which we could further fortify

ourselves by sampling a bottle or two of the excellent claret and

burgundy which it contained. If one of our little number was an army

officer we would make him tell us his experiences at the front, and

listen with awe and eager interest until the bugles of the fire

department outside sounded the “all-clear” signal. Then the old portier,

whom we used to call “Papa Joffre,” would come down and, with the

sweetest smile on his dear old face, assure us that all was safe and we

could creep back again to our beds.

In the meantime I began to investigate the conditions under which to

carry out our plan of giving orchestral concerts for our soldiers at

their rest camps and in the hospitals, and soon discovered that the

recent developments at the front would make it exceedingly difficult, if

not impossible. Paris was in a state of great depression. The enemy were

threatening the city, our rest camps were empty, and our soldiers were

being drilled furiously in order to put them as soon as possible either

in the line or behind the line as reserves. Every available inch of

space on the railroads had to be used for military purposes, for the

transportation of men and material, and to have intruded an orchestra of

fifty men with cumbersome luggage, musical instruments, etc., would have

been a nuisance instead of a service.

The French Government, through its various departments with which I came

into contact, especially the Ministry of Fine Arts and the French High

Commission, received me with the greatest courtesy and kindness. M.

Cortot, at the Beaux Arts, had taken steps to procure an orchestra for

me and I was already getting the full benefit of the friendliness for

everything American which, after the first entry of our troops into the

fighting-line at Seicheprey, Belleau Wood, and Château-Thierry developed

into an enthusiasm, the like of which cannot be imagined. I saw the

change from deepest despondency to greatest optimism come over the city

like a wave, and especially after the heroic stand of our men at

Château-Thierry there was nothing which an American could possibly want

that a Frenchman was not willing to give to him with both hands.

For the morning of the Fourth of July a Franco-American demonstration

had been arranged which was to culminate in a parade of French and

American troops from the Arc de Triomphe down the Champs-Élysées to the

Place de la Concorde. I was naturally among the crowds of eager

spectators who lined the avenue to greet our troops, which included a

company of our marines who had fought at the front but a few days

before. This was literally the first time that I had seen a crowd of

people in Paris, and it marked in significant fashion the change from

the gloom that had hovered over the city when I first arrived.

Paris had been decorated as only the French know how, and the noble

vistas of the city looked their best under a glorious sky of blue

slightly flecked with white clouds. In the waiting crowd there were no

young men, not even middle-aged, for all these had been at the front for

four years, but there were old men, boys, and women of all ages down to

a charming little girl of twelve, evidently of the poorer class, who was

standing by my side on tip-toe with excitement. She could speak a few

words of English and every now and then, with the sweetest and shyest

glance at me, she would demonstrate her knowledge of our tongue, and

then supplement it with more voluble French, as she pointed out to me

the various wonders of the day.

Overhead some of the most expert of the French airmen were flying

backward and forward, looping the loop, dipping the dip, and executing

marvellous manœuvres as they swooped down, sometimes almost brushing the

trees on either side of the magnificent avenue, all to the great delight

of the crowds awaiting the coming of our soldiers. As the mounted police

of Paris, a splendid body of men, came down the avenue, the excitement

became intense, and when our khaki-clad boys swept into view the

enthusiasm exceeded all bounds. Young girls, with their arms literally

banked with flowers, ran across the empty spaces cleared by the police,

and began to distribute them among our soldiers who, looking straight

ahead, awkwardly grabbed the flowers, stuck them into the tunics, or

held them in the hand not occupied with the rifle, all the time keeping

their alignment with the most rigid discipline, just as if they were

ignorant of the sweetest tribute that one nation could offer another.

The whole scene was so indescribably touching that every one in the

crowd, including myself, stood there with the tears rolling down his

cheeks.

On my other side stood an American bandmaster who recognized me, and

while we were waiting for the parade he implored me to do something for

the bandsmen in the American army in France. He told me that he had

drilled his little band of twenty-eight men for six months before being

sent overseas, that they had continued to work faithfully during their

stay in France, and that they had achieved a good standard of

efficiency. But, according to old American army custom, they had been

sent into the firing-line at Seicheprey as stretcher-bearers, and in

consequence so many had been either killed, wounded, or shell-shocked

that his band had become completely disorganized. His regiment was in

consequence without music, and he had been detached and sent to Paris as

general purchasing agent for musical instruments. He said: “It takes at

least six months to train a good bandsman, while a stretcher-bearer can

be trained in as many hours. We serve a real purpose, while the men are

in camp, in taking their minds away from the drudgery and monotony of

army life. Our music cheers them; a silent camp is almost unendurable.

Can’t you persuade General Pershing to change this custom, just as the

British and other nations have done?” I told him that I sympathized with

his views, that it seemed to me wrong to use the band for any other

purpose than music, except in case of absolute military necessity, but

that I was without any official connection with the army and so did not

think that I could be of much service to him.

When the parade was ended and the crowds dispersed, the little French

girl on my right said “Good-by” to me in English, ever so prettily, and

then very shyly pressed into my hand as a parting token a tiny little

American flag that she herself had painted on a bit of cotton, the stars

and stripes on one side and the French tricolor on the other. Needless

to say I still possess this charming symbol as a _porte-bonheur_.

I had arranged to conduct two concerts in Paris, one on July 13 at the

Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, exclusively for our soldiers and Red Cross

nurses stationed in and near Paris, and the other on the following

afternoon, Sunday, July 14 (the Fête Nationale of the French), the

entire proceeds of which were to be given to the Croix Rouge Française.

For the latter concert the French Government immediately offered their

historic _Salle du Conservatoire_, a courtesy that had never been

extended to a foreign conductor before. This was to be a symphonic

concert, entirely devoted in honor of the day to works of the great

French composers, but at the first rehearsal it looked as if the concert

would have to be cancelled because it seemed impossible to collect a

first-class orchestra of eighty men. The four years of war had called

almost every male citizen of France into military service, and the

recent evacuation of Paris had drawn with it many of the musicians who

had until then remained in the city. At my first rehearsal only

forty-three men appeared, and these were divided in most abnormal

fashion. There were five first violins, ten seconds, two violas, one

violoncello, and three double-basses. There was no oboe or English horn;

only two French horns, one trumpet, etc. Of the forty-three men

assembled seven were members of the _Garde Républicaine_, the famous

Paris military band, but which unfortunately for me had to attend an

official celebration of the Fête Nationale at the Trocadéro on the

Sunday afternoon. The President of the republic was to be present with

various other dignitaries and a chorus of three thousand

school-children.

I was in despair, and finally made an appeal to the orchestra in very

voluble but ungrammatical French, the gist of which was that America had

gladly sent one million soldiers to France and was getting ready to send

two millions more; all I asked in return was an orchestra of eighty men!

Could they not help me to supplement their thin ranks with a sufficient

number of trained musicians to complete the orchestra? My little speech

was received with an agitated enthusiasm. They immediately began to

gather in excited groups and swore to me that the orchestra could and

would be obtained. One assured me of a fine oboe, another of a

trumpeter, another of a first violin, and so on. M. Cortot also got

busy. He sent for Captain Ballay, the conductor of the _Garde

Républicaine_, and represented to him in what seemed to me an eloquent

oration worthy of the _Chambre des Députés_, that after Seicheprey and

Château-Thierry France could not and would not refuse an American

anything he asked for. Captain Ballay enthusiastically agreed, and

promised to send the seven members of his band whom I needed for my

concert—in the swiftest taxi-cabs he could procure—from the Trocadéro,

where the governmental celebration was to begin at three o’clock,

immediately after they had played his opening overture, to the _Salle du

Conservatoire_ at which my concert was scheduled for four. He thought

that the President of the republic was not musical enough to notice the

absence of these seven men, and that he would manage to get along

without them for the rest of his programme.

At the same time, noted French soloists who ordinarily did not play in

orchestras, offered their services—Captain Pollain, famous

violoncellist from Nancy and M. Hewitt (whose great-grandfather had been

an American but whose family had lived in France for three generations),

solo violinist of the Instruments Anciens. And at the second rehearsal,

whom should I see, but dear old Longy, for thirty years celebrated oboe

player of the Boston Symphony, who said to me most touchingly: “I see

you have no second oboe. I have no instrument in France as I left mine

in Boston, but I will borrow one and play for you if you need me.”

At my second rehearsal an excellent orchestra of seventy-seven men

assembled, and at the third the orchestra was complete, including many

French soldiers in uniform, four or five distinguished virtuosi who

played in orchestra only for this occasion, and even one of my own first

violinists from the New York Symphony Orchestra, Reber Johnson, who,

having been rejected for the army as physically not fit, had immediately

volunteered in the American Red Cross, and turned up at the rehearsal in

his uniform in the most natural way, as if this had been one of the

regular daily rehearsals of the New York Symphony.

My first trumpeter was a young French soldier who had played clarinet

before the war. His arm had been shot off only a year before, and as

soon as he left the hospital he studied the trumpet and with his one arm

not only held but fingered it with remarkable facility.

I do not think that in all my long career I have ever conducted concerts

or rehearsals in which both conductor and players were enveloped in such

an atmosphere of emotional excitement. Our young, handsome boys in khaki

seemed like demigods to these tired and worn people who had fought with

such incredible tenacity for four terrible years. The members of the

orchestra received every criticism which I made during the rehearsals

with a quick nod or an engaging smile, and every now and then some

remark of mine regarding the proper interpretation would be followed by

a murmur of approval, which would spread through the orchestra and

sometimes even vent itself in applause. I hope that my criticisms, as

well as my interpretations, pleased them, but I know that even if they

had not, it would have made no difference. I was an American and that

was enough.

At the Saturday-night concert, which was more popular in character, I

gave our American soldier audience Victor Herbert’s clever medley on

American airs, and those Frenchmen played as if they had known them all

their lives. The huge audience in khaki fairly seethed with patriotic

excitement, which of course found its climax when we turned into

“Dixie.” All jumped to their feet and cheered and cheered, so that for

ten bars or so literally nothing of the music could be heard, and only

by the waving of my stick and the motions of the players could one tell

that the music was going on.

The following afternoon the programme was one of real symphonic

proportions, and included Saint-Saëns’s great “Symphony No. 3” for

orchestra, organ, and piano, Debussy’s “L’Après-midi d’un Faune,” and

the “Symphonic Variations” for piano with orchestra, by César Franck.

The organ part in the symphony was played by Mlle. Nadia Boulanger,

without doubt the greatest woman musician I have ever known, and the

Franck “Variations” were superbly interpreted by Alfred Cortot. M.

Casadesus played an exquisite concerto for the viola d’amour by

Laurenziti.

The little _Salle du Conservatoire_, its quaint architecture dating from

the time of Louis XVI, with its tiny boxes and balconies, was jammed to

the doors—the janitor told me that it was the largest audience he had

ever seen there. Every available space was filled twice over and the

walls literally bulged outward. The audience was a very interesting one.

The French Government, with its usual politeness, had sent official

representatives from the _Ministère des Etrangères_, the _Ministère des

Beaux Arts_, and the French High Commission—many of them in uniform.

There were also many French musicians of distinction, among them dear

Maître Charles Widor, the _Secrétaire Perpétuel de l’Institut de

France_, and, of course, many French, British, and American soldiers. A

New York fire commissioner would have gasped at the way in which all

precautions were disregarded, and the excitement in the audience, when

at the end of the concert we played the “Marseillaise” and the

“Star-Spangled Banner,” can be imagined.

To add to my pleasure my daughter Alice, who was doing war work away

down in Brest, had received permission to come up to Paris for the great

occasion. My old friend, Paul Cravath, vice-president of the New York

Symphony Society, who was at that time at the head of our Finance

Commission in London, had flown over in an English airplane, and smiled

upon me from a centre box in all his splendor of six feet four as I

turned around to make my bow to the cheering audience.

I think we gave them an exceedingly good concert. The orchestra were

delightful in their keen desire to carry out my intentions; but I think

if we had played less well the enthusiasm would have been just as great,

for while we were playing, the names of Seicheprey and Château-Thierry

were vibrating in the hearts of all listeners, and their enthusiasm was

poured out upon me as if I, single-handed, demonstrated the valor of our

American troops.

At the end of the concert, the president of the Musical Orchestral Union

of Paris presented me with a large bouquet of roses tied with the

American colors, and in a very eloquent speech voiced the gratitude of

the French musicians for the assistance which had been given them by our

Society of American Friends of Musicians in France. I was able to

supplement my words of thanks with a further substantial check, which

had been sent by Mr. Flagler and which was to be devoted to the families

of orchestral musicians serving at the front.

The week had been fully occupied with the preparations for these two

concerts, but notwithstanding the attendant excitements and elations I

had periods of great despondency. The possibility of continuing my

mission in France seemed less and less capable of fulfilment, partly

owing to the tense military situation and partly because I did not seem

to get the proper assistance from the Y. M. C. A. Mr. McLane and Mr.

Sloane, at the head of affairs in New York, had given me their

enthusiastic support, and I had sailed at their urgent request. They had

cabled and written full instructions to the “Y” in France, and on my

arrival Mr. Ernest Carter, the head worker, whom I liked exceedingly,

had promised me the fullest co-operation. But he was evidently harassed

and overworked and did not get the efficient help which he should have

had in the running of so large an organization in war time. Many of the

heads of departments were ex-clergymen or church and Sunday-school

workers who were evidently inexperienced in the management of practical

affairs. I am told that later on this condition was much improved and

that the men who were subsequently sent out from America were chosen

more for their business ability, but at the time I mention, the

confusion at the headquarters in the Rue d’Agesseau was often great and

there seemed to be insufficient co-operation between the different

departments. In order to be able to travel around France unmolested I

had to have a _carte rouge_, and this card it seemed impossible to

obtain for me, notwithstanding all my proper and complete credentials as

an American, as a musician well known all over our country, and, above

all, as a _persona grata_ with the French Government.

A few days before my first concert I was informed that it was impossible

to procure this card for me, and that therefore I could not be permitted

to leave Paris. When I asked for an explanation, it was refused by a

rather sanctimonious person who put his arm around me, called me

brother, but expressed his regret at the unfortunate fact of my having

been born in Germany. I swallowed my rage as best I could, but my

chagrin was all the greater because in the meantime M. Casadesus and

four other distinguished French artists had offered me their services to

travel around with me in a motor-car and give concerts in our camps and

hospitals. I finally obtained the information from a very nice young man

who was in charge of the entertainment division of the “Y” that he

understood that the objections came from the Intelligence Department of

the A. E. F. I immediately called on Major Cabot Ward, the head of the

Intelligence Division in Paris whom I had known in New York for

twenty-five years. I showed him my various credentials, and he assured

me that: “As far as the United States army is concerned, you are as free

as air.” I returned with this information to the Rue d’Agesseau and was

met by the same impenetrable wall of ignorance or ill-will; and, as my

friends at the French High Commission had already assured me that as far

as they were concerned all France was open to me, I seemed to be at my

wit’s end how to unravel this riddle.

I finally called on my friend, Robert Bliss, counsellor of our embassy

in Paris. I can never forget his kindness and helpfulness during this

period. He and his charming wife had made their apartment the very

centre of American life during those trying times. Mrs. Bliss had

resolutely refused to leave Paris, and dispensed a generous hospitality

at their apartment in the Rue Henri Moissan. When I told him of my

troubles and that I, who had lived in America forty-seven years, should

now be thus treated, he smiled and said: “We can do nothing for you at

present, as you are still a part of the organization of the Y. M. C. A.,

but as soon as you get that uniform off, you will find every road open

to you.”

That wretched uniform! It had annoyed me from the first moment I had put

it on because the tailor to whom the “Y” had sent me had made a

miserable job of it. It was too narrow between the shoulders, which is

fatal for an orchestral conductor, and the trousers were a tragedy. But

there was no time before sailing to order a better-fitting uniform, and

as I had been told that I could not move an inch in France without it I

had literally taken no civilian clothes with me! I had ordered some new

clothes in Paris, but there was a tailors’ strike on and I was

therefore, for decency’s sake, compelled to hold on to that uniform,

much as I longed to divest myself of the symbol of the sacred triangle.

However, I began to see daylight, and as I hoped by the following Monday

or Tuesday to get my new civilian clothes, I decided to conduct the two

concerts on Saturday and Sunday and then magnificently hand in my

resignation. But I was not spared a last drop of bitterness, for on

Saturday morning I received a visit from a very stupid and exasperating

_officier de liaison_ of the Y. M. C. A., who proceeded to inform me

that as I had been “born in Germany” and therefore could not obtain my

_carte rouge_, the committee of the “Y” thought that I should not

conduct the two concerts in their uniform. Again that accursed uniform!

I was so enraged that I said I would either conduct in it or in my

underclothes, that my resignation had already been written and would be

presented on Monday, and that I insisted on an interview with Mr. Carter

and his executive committee, as I wished them to know how I had been

treated. I knew that Mr. Carter, poor man, had no knowledge of the

entire affair, as he had been zigzagging around France all this time to

the various posts and supply centres of the “Y,” trying to bring some

kind of order out of chaos. He immediately accorded me a meeting, and

when I told my story, made me an apology so ample and generous that I

left him with none but the kindliest feelings and really regretted that

he, a man of high ideals and spiritual power, should through the

exigencies of war have been so overburdened with practical affairs. For

a few of his aides I have nothing but absolute contempt, but there were

many among the men workers and certainly the majority of the women who

gave wonderful service and gladly suffered all kinds of annoyances and

deprivations in order to help the soldiers, who were not all angels by

any means.

But my real triumph was to come on the very Sunday morning of my concert

when General Charles Dawes, of the American army, called on me at my

hotel and, to my amazement, asked me whether I could come to the general

headquarters of the A. E. F. at Chaumont, and confer with General

Pershing regarding the possible improvement of our army bands. I could

not believe my ears that so suddenly after my bitter experiences with

the “Y,” the commander-in-chief of the American army in France had

personally sent for me.

General Dawes was at that time at the head of the army supplies, with

headquarters in Paris. A great lover of music, he had contributed

largely to its cultivation in his own city of Chicago. He was an old and

valued friend of General Pershing and I think that it was he who had

suggested my name to him. I can never thank General Dawes enough for

giving me, a musician and over fifty years of age, this wonderful

opportunity to touch even the outer hem of the robes of the war goddess.

Needless to say, my despondent mood immediately changed to one of

elation. I accepted the invitation with alacrity and arranged with

General Dawes to go to Chaumont on the following Wednesday, July 17.

In the meantime the air had been full of rumors regarding the “Big

Bertha” who had been conveniently silent ever since my arrival in Paris.

It was persistently said that on Monday morning seventeen of these

ladies bearing the same name would again begin a bombardment of Paris,

and I confess that it gave me something of a shock, when, on the Monday

morning after my concert while I was still luxuriating in bed—thinking

with pleasure of the triumphs of the day before and with eager

anticipation of my approaching trip to Chaumont—I suddenly heard a

curious reverberation, different from the explosions of the Gothas or of

the answering air-guns. It was the first greeting of Madame Bertha, and

this greeting was repeated punctiliously every fifteen minutes

throughout the day, the shells striking in Paris in different quarters.

It was interesting to watch the French people. After every shot, crowds

of them would run into the streets, talking, gesticulating, and

speculating where that particular shell had fallen. This would go on for

thirteen or fourteen minutes and then all would scoot back into their

shops and houses as they knew that the next shell was about due.

That evening I had been invited to dine at Mrs. Edith Wharton’s, at her

lovely apartment in the Rue de Varennes. Just as I got to her door a

Frenchman stopped and said to me that he had been at the concert on the

preceding day. He then added: “I see that you are making the

acquaintance of ‘La Grosse Berthe.’” Thinking that he referred to the

return of the bombardment, I smiled assent, and then proceeded to Mrs.

Wharton’s apartment. I found our great novelist with two other ladies,

an American officer, and an American composer, my dear friend Blair

Fairchild, who had been living in Paris for several years and was acting

most ably as distributing agent for the money which our “Society of

American Friends of Musicians in France” was sending over. The dinner

proceeded as if we lived in times of deepest peace. It was served with

punctilious efficiency, the flowers were charming, and the conversation

delightful, and it was only when dinner was half over that I found out,

quite casually, that what my French gentleman at the door had referred

to was, that only two minutes before my arrival the last shell of the

Big Bertha had fallen on the roof of the house opposite, demolishing it

and parts of the upper story.

On the following Wednesday, July 17, I took the morning train for

Chaumont, again comfortably clad in civilian clothes. I was met at the

station by a young officer, Lieutenant Wendell, nephew of my old friend

Evart Wendell, who took me to general headquarters and introduced me to

Lieutenant-Colonel Collins, secretary of the General Staff, who

explained to me in detail various points on which General Pershing

desired information and assistance. I was then most comfortably put up

at the guest-house, formerly a large private residence in the town,

which had been taken over by General Pershing to accommodate his

visitors. I was to dine at his château that evening, and spent a great

part of the afternoon walking through the quaint old hill town situated

on a high cliff overlooking the valley of the Marne. It was during this

walk that I saw the only drunken American private during my three

months’ stay in France. I was following a picturesque road leading out

of the town into the country, when a colored boy in khaki reeled toward

me and said: “’Scuse me, sah. Are you a Frenchman?” I said “No,” and he

replied: “Then foh Gawd sake, will you please tell me whar ah can get a

drink?” I answered: “No. You have evidently had enough already.” He

tried to follow me and I, seeing two white soldiers approaching, turned

to them, and said: “I think you had better take care of this boy. He has

had too much to drink.” They briskly answered: “Certainly, sir.” But as

they went up to him he kept peering at me and said: “I want to talk to

that gen’leman. That’s Mr. Damrosch!” I laughed out loud, for here I

was, over three thousand miles from home, and this boy, who perhaps had

musical inclinations and had heard me conduct in some concert,

recognized me even through the alcoholic vapors which surrounded him so

thickly that one could have cut them with a knife.

One of the other visitors at the guest-house was General Omar Bundy, who

commanded the first division and had come to Chaumont to receive the

congratulations of the commander-in-chief on the splendid work of his

division. He proved a delightful gentleman, and we chatted together very

amicably as a motor-car took us that evening about five miles beyond

Chaumont through most lovely country to the château surrounded by

exquisite gardens and woods which General Pershing had taken for his

personal residence. A scene of greater peace and tranquillity could not

be imagined, and literally the only sign and symbol of war was the

solitary sentry pacing up and down before the entrance, with bayonet

fixed.

As this happened to be the first day of General Foch’s great attack in

which he pushed the Germans back six miles, General Pershing, who had

been at the front all day, had not yet returned, and General Bundy and I

walked through the grounds in the lovely evening twilight for perhaps

half an hour, when a motor-car drove up and our great

commander-in-chief, accompanied by his aide, immediately came over to us

and made us welcome in hearty and simple fashion. He reminded me that we

had met at the Presidio in San Francisco during the great exhibition of

1915, and indeed I remembered it well, for shortly afterward he had been

sent to the Mexican border in command of the troops, and while there had

been overwhelmed by the terrible tragedy of the death of his wife and

children, who were suffocated in a fire at night which destroyed their

home at the Presidio.

So much has been written regarding the wonderful impression which

General Pershing made in Europe on all who came in contact with him that

it is not necessary for me to more than echo the general chorus of

praise—soldierly, dignified, courteous, and simple in his bearing,

wearing a uniform as only a man can who has been a soldier all his life.

We entered the house and shortly after sat down to dinner. The party

consisted of the commander-in-chief, General Bundy, and a most

delightful staff of eight officers—I being the only civilian. As such I

expected and half hoped that the talk would be all about the wonderful

success of the first day’s push by Foch, of which I had already heard

enthusiastic rumors in the town, or of great military secrets, affairs

of strategy, monster guns, thousands of airplanes, and new, mysterious

machines of destruction. But, to my surprise, the conversation during

almost the entire dinner was of music, of its influence in raising the

spirits of the soldier, in giving him the right kind of recreation and

the necessary relief from the monotony of camp work or the horrors of

battle. General Pershing told me that after hearing some of the crack

military bands of France and England he had been so overwhelmed by the

consciousness of our inferiority that he was eager to know if something

could not be done to improve the general standard of our army bands,

and, more particularly, whether it might not be possible at least to

take out the best players from among the bands then in France and to

form a headquarters band of superior excellence, led by the best

bandmaster among them, and in this way form a model which the others

could endeavor to copy. This suggestion seemed to me excellent, and I

asked how many bandmasters there were at present in France, as I would

like to examine them as to their fitness. General Pershing said, with a

smile, that there were over two hundred, but this did not phase me and I

agreed to examine them all, provided that proper arrangements could be

made for a fitting test of their qualifications. Various plans for such

an examination were discussed and General Pershing finally decided to

send them all to Paris in batches of fifty every week, together with a

military band which should be stationed there for the following four or

five weeks, thus giving me abundant opportunity to test their efficiency

in conducting as well as in harmony and orchestration. It seemed to me

at the time remarkable that, in the midst of war and with all its many

immediate necessities weighing upon him, General Pershing should have

had the acumen to perceive the value of music in war time and to

interest himself in its improvement.

As I sat there, the memory of the hollow-cheeked Bandmaster Tyler who

had stood next to me at the Fourth of July parade in Paris suddenly came

back. I thought to myself that here I was, the only civilian at the

table, and that therefore I might say anything I pleased without being

put up against a wall at sunrise and shot, for at the worst they could

only consider me as very ignorant of army customs. Therefore I watched

for my opportunity and suddenly plunged in and spoke of my conversation

with Bandmaster Tyler while we were waiting for our marines to march

down the Champs-Élysées. I said that in my humble opinion it was a great

mistake to use musicians as stretcher-bearers in battle, not that their

lives as soldiers were any more valuable than those of any others in the

army, but that a stretcher-bearer could be trained in a very short time

while it took many months to train a bandsman; that the Canadian

regiments had followed the same custom during the first months of the

war, but the results had been so dire in destroying the bands and their

usefulness, that the soldiers themselves had implored their commanding

officers not to let their bandsmen be sacrificed in this way, as there

was nothing so terrible as coming back after battle to a silent and

therefore desolate camp. After I had finished my rather impassioned

peroration, General Bundy and others heartily agreed with me, but

General Pershing said nothing at all, and I felt that I had perhaps

talked too much and _mal à propos_. But the following morning, as I was

seated with Colonel Collins at general headquarters arranging the

details of my examinations, he smilingly handed me an order from the

commander-in-chief which had just arrived and which was to be sent to

the division commanders, to the effect that “from now on bandsmen are

not to be used any longer as stretcher-bearers except in cases of

extreme military urgency.”

One of General Pershing’s remarks during the dinner is so characteristic

that I repeat it here. He said: “When peace is declared and our bands

march up Fifth Avenue I should like them to play so well that it will be

another proof of the advantage of military training.” Subsequent

developments and meetings with this interesting man further deepened the

impression which he made upon me.

I returned to Paris and proceeded to make all necessary arrangements for

the examinations of the two hundred bandmasters. Our army had leased a

large hotel near the Bastille on the banks of the Seine, and a large

room on the ground floor served admirably for my purpose. The band of

the 329th infantry soon arrived and was quartered in this hotel, and

every morning at 9.30 the examinations began and continued from Monday

to Thursday at the rate of about fifty bandmasters a week, who arrived

from all quarters of France—from the seaport towns, from the training

camps, and some even from the very front line of the trenches. Fridays I

would usually return to headquarters and report on my findings and begin

recommendations, which gradually assumed greater and greater proportions

as the magnitude of the work developed.

To assist me in this prodigious work, I engaged the services of M.

Francis Casadesus, brother of Henri and a splendid musician. He examined

the men as to their qualifications in instrumentation and in their

general knowledge of the various instruments, while I examined them in

the actual process of conducting and drilling a band. I would first let

them bite their teeth into an overture like the “Oberon” of Weber, or a

movement from a classical symphony, and then would let them conduct a

composition of their own choice. I found very soon that while most of

these young bandmasters were musically talented and ambitious, they had

had no or but little opportunity for acquiring what we may call the

technic of the baton. They had had no intensive disciplinary training

such as our young officers from civilian life had received at Plattsburg

and similar camps. Many of them did not know how to beat time properly,

much less train a band in phrasing or rhythmic accuracy; and I soon saw

that unless some opportunity was given them to learn at least the

rudiments of their calling, the effort toward improving our bands would

be useless. It therefore seemed to me that the quick formation of a

bandmasters’ school was the only solution of the problem, and as our

army had had the help of French military and aviation officers as

instructors, loaned to us by the _Ministère de la Guerre_, I thought

that a similar arrangement could be made, under which we might obtain

the necessary musical instructors also from the French army, as nearly

all the musicians of France were at that time in uniform.

I also discovered that some of the most important musical instruments

which give mellowness and nobility to the tone of a band were almost

utterly lacking. We had hardly any oboes, bassoons, French horns, or

flügelhorns. I knew that some of the greatest masters of these

instruments, first prizes of the Conservatoire of Paris, were serving in

the French army, and immediately, through the _Ministère des Beaux

Arts_, obtained their names and the regiments to which they belonged. On

the following visit to Chaumont I proposed to General Pershing that we

form a music-school at which fifty bandmasters could get the most

intensive musical training and discipline for eight weeks, to be

succeeded by a new batch of fifty, etc., and at the same time forty

pupils each in oboe, bassoon, French horn, and flügelhorn could get a

similar training of twelve weeks on their respective instruments.

General Pershing and his staff were delighted with the plan and I

offered to procure the necessary instructors from the French army,

promising General Pershing that the school would be in complete running

order by October 1, provided a proper building could be obtained. The

general asked me where I wished to place the school and offered me

Longres, where several schools on the strategy of war were already in

progress, but I claimed that the surroundings for my music-school should

be of a more “peaceful and even academic character,” and suggested

Chaumont. General Pershing smiled, but insisted that it was already

overcrowded and that I would not be able to find a building large enough

to house so great a number of instructors and pupils. He gave me full

power, however, to see what could be done, and I set forth immediately

with a French liaison officer—member of the French Military Commission

at Chaumont, and in G-5, general headquarters, under which department

the proposed music-school would come—who proved a most remarkable and

valuable assistant in my work. He was Lieutenant Michel Weill, nephew of

the owner of the well-known White House in San Francisco, and an

enthusiastic musical amateur who, through his long residence in America,

had acquired a knowledge of English and a sympathy for America only

second to that for his own native land. He belonged to a delightful

French officers’ mess at Chaumont, and they immediately made me a kind

of honorary member and in most hospitable fashion invited me to their

Lucullan repasts. As they were all enthusiastic lovers of music, I

endeavored to repay them by pounding out Wagner, their supreme favorite,

to their hearts’ content on an old upright piano placed in a little

sitting-room next to their _salle à manger_.

Lieutenant Weill and I first paid a _visite de cérémonie_ to the _Maire_

of Chaumont and explained to him our desire. The idea of what he called

“_un petit conservatoire de musique pour les Américains_” in Chaumont

appealed to his fancy immensely, and he immediately picked up his

telephone and called up an old friend of his, a fellow citizen and mill

owner. He explained to him the great honor that was about to befall

their town if a proper building could be found, and exhorted him to show

himself as a really patriotic citizen of France and friend of the

Americans by giving the mill which he owned just outside the city and

only a few minutes’ walk from our headquarters for this noble purpose.

We motored to this building and met there an elderly, dignified, and

courteous Frenchman who told us that anything he had was at the disposal

of “les Américains.” We found a huge mill with walls two feet thick, the

machinery in disuse, and with large empty spaces that our army engineers

could easily turn into sleeping-quarters, practising-rooms, and other

needs for a music-school. In one large wing we found a few women and

many children playing about. I said: “Of course, we shall need this wing

also.” “Then I regret,” answered the owner, “but this wing you cannot

have, because I have given it to forty-eight refugees from Verdun with

the promise that they shall occupy it until the end of the war.”

Naturally Lieutenant Weill and I reconsidered, and concluded that a

large tent could be put up in the meadow as an eating-place, and that we

could get along without the extra wing. I then asked the owner what

rental he would demand. “Oh,” he said, “anything that the American army

wishes to pay.” But when Lieutenant Weill informed him that he should

fix a fair price, he asked timidly: “Would the American army consider

five hundred francs a month reasonable?” I tell this to offset the tales

of those people who keep harping on the commercial greed of the French

in anything that concerned the needs of the American soldier.

We returned to general headquarters jubilant, and, after a satisfactory

interview with the officer in charge of building operations, it was

decided to place the school in Chaumont, and I returned to Paris to

complete my plans.

My brother Frank had recognized the lack of good schooling for our army

bands and bandmasters many years before the war, and had very

patriotically placed the entire machinery of his Institute of Musical

Art at the disposal of the secretary of war. An arrangement had

accordingly been made by which a bandmaster’s school at Governor’s

Island, New York, was placed under my brother’s control, and for several

years before the war a small number of bandmasters were graduated from

it who ranked well on a par with those of other countries. But when we

entered the war and our army was organized on a scale of millions these

were but a drop in the bucket, and heroic measures were necessary to

bring some semblance of order into this musical chaos of hundreds of

uneducated bandmasters and thousands of still less educated bandsmen.

During these five weeks in Paris and Chaumont I worked very hard and,

while my life has been crowded with affairs of all kinds relating to my

profession, I cannot recall any time when the work was so constant day

and night or when I was more jubilantly happy in the doing of it. During

the forenoons Casadesus and I would examine the bandmasters, discover

what they could and could not do, give them, so to speak, “first aid to

the wounded” by pointing out their worst failings or their greatest

weaknesses. In the afternoons Lieutenant Weill and I would run around to

the various French government departments on the track of this or that

musician whom we wished to corral as professor for our school. At night

I would sit propped up in bed and work out the entire tuition plan of

the school, down to the minutest details.

My general recommendations to general headquarters, all of which were

subsequently carried out, included classes for the bandmasters’

instruction in the technic of conducting, in harmony, and in

orchestration. These classes were put in charge of M. Francis Casadesus

and M. André Caplet. The latter was later on succeeded by Lieutenant

Albert Stoessel, a highly talented bandmaster in our army, who has

returned to civilian life and has now become my successor as conductor

of the New York Oratorio Society.

Captain Ellacott, of the A. E. F., became the military head of the

school to which he gave most sympathetic assistance.

There were two professors each for oboe, bassoon, French horn, and

flügelhorn, all of whom were graduates and first prizes of the famous

Paris Conservatoire. I also recommended that the beautiful B-flat bugles

of the French army be adopted by us and that a French drum-major,

proficient on this instrument, be appointed as instructor to drill

successive classes of fifty for one month each, the graduates to become

first buglers of our regiments, in order that they might, in turn,

instruct other buglers in their respective drum and bugle corps.

At the examinations I also asked the bandmasters certain questions

regarding their position in their respective regiments, the attitude of

their colonel toward music, their general treatment, and the hours

allowed them for musical practice, and here I came on all kinds of

conditions. Some of the commanding officers had no sympathy with music

or with the bandsmen, and instead of making them practise their six

hours a day, they were put to work as kitchen police and on other

fatigue duties. I therefore urged that the commanding officers be

impressed with the fact that the primary object of the band is not to

fight, but to cheer the fighters, and the better their music, the

greater its beneficial effects upon the spirit of the soldiers, and that

therefore all bandsmen should be compelled to devote at least five or

six hours every day to the practice of their instruments and to

rehearsals, and that other duties should be made subsidiary to their

musical work and should not be of a character to unfit them for a proper

performance on their respective instruments.

I also discovered that there was a terrible wastage as regards musical

instruments and that in several instances, preparatory to going into

action, the instruments had been thrown away or simply left behind,

nevermore to be recovered, and that therefore it might be wise to

appoint a travelling inspector of musical instruments whose duties

should be to attend to the speedy replacement of missing parts, the

repairing of instruments, and the supplying of new music.

A really excellent headquarters band was formed at Chaumont, which

became a source of much gratification to the commander-in-chief and his

staff, accompanying him on many of his ceremonial visits and functions.

One of my most important recommendations for the school was that every

week at least one concert should be given by the professors and such of

the bandsmen as were really competent musicians. The programmes should

be made up only of the great master composers, in order that the

students—many of whom had come from isolated communities in our country

and had had but little opportunity to hear good music—should become

sensitive to the finer and more spiritual qualities of music as an art.

This was carried out in most remarkable fashion during the entire

existence of the school, and the programmes and their performance were

worthy of a place in any highly cultivated musical community.

When I returned to Chaumont on a visit of inspection the following year,

I heard one of these concerts, which included a quintet of Mozart for

oboe and strings and a sonata for violin and piano by César Franck. I

sat in delighted amazement as I saw the happy faces of over a hundred

students in khaki who were listening to this divine music in rapt

silence. What a pity that such a school cannot be founded in every State

in America now that the war is over and our soldiers have returned home!

This would speedily result in an excellent band for every town and lay a

real foundation for the musical development of the people at large.

During these weeks in Paris I also saw a great deal of some of my French

musician colleagues, all of whom had refused to leave Paris in spite of

the Gothas and Berthas.

When I first called on Charles Marie Widor, the famous old organist of

Saint Sulpice, I found him installed, by virtue of his office as

_Secrétaire Perpétuel_ of the _Institut de France_, in a charming Louis

XVI suite of rooms in that building. He showed me a hole in the window

of his workroom and told me that a few days before he had just stooped

down to pick up a musical score from the floor when a shell from the Big

Bertha burst in front of his apartment and a piece of it hurtled through

his window, missing him only because he was in a stooping position.

His Gallic wit and versatility make him a delightful companion, and I am

grateful for the opportunity the war gave me for more intimate

acquaintance and friendship with him. Indeed, this applies to all the

friends made during that eventful summer. The war brought us more

quickly and closely together than would have been possible otherwise,

and as I was an American I reaped the full advantage of all the intense

gratitude which the French felt for us, some of which was hardly

deserved, as our government certainly had shilly-shallied and waited

until it was almost too late before they threw our great weight of men

and treasure into the balance.

I have already spoken of Mlle. Nadia Boulanger, who played the organ for

me at the performance of Saint-Saëns’s “Third Symphony” on July 14.

Among women I have never met her equal in musicianship, and indeed there

are very few men who can compare with her. She is one of the finest

organists of France, an excellent pianist, and the best reader of

orchestral scores that I have ever known. Again and again I have seen

her take up a manuscript orchestral score, sit down with it at the

piano, and brilliantly read it at sight, transcribing it for the piano

as she played along. When we first met, she and her dear mother were in

the greatest grief. A younger sister, Lili, had died only a month before

at twenty-four years of age. Beautiful, exquisite, and marvellously

talented, she had won the much-coveted _Prix de Rome_ three years

before—the first woman to have gained it. A mortal illness had slowly

sapped her strength, and as she had been the idol of her mother and

sister, her loss was to them a tragedy almost beyond endurance. Nadia,

besides keeping up her professional duties—she was substitute organist

at the Madeleine during the war—hurled herself into war work and more

especially the care of the students of the Conservatoire who were at the

front. She knew all their names and the numbers of their organizations

and founded a kind of musical gazette, mimeographed copies of which were

sent out every month to the students. All kinds of musical news and

musical questions were published in it, so that these boys, in the midst

of their military duties or while convalescing from their wounds in the

hospitals, could have something to think about more immediately

connected with their own profession. It is interesting to note that, in

answer to the question, “Should German composers like Brahms and Wagner

be played at our concerts during the war?” out of fifty-eight,

forty-seven answered unequivocally “Yes” for Wagner and Brahms, three

“Yes” for Beethoven and the classics, two were undecided, and six said

“No.” These answers were accompanied in many cases by highly interesting

essays on art and nationality of art, and, altogether, the judgments

thus expressed reflected the high intellectual standard of these young

French artists at the front.

I saw many instances of how keenly the French separate their artistic

from their political convictions. One night my friends of the French

Military Commission at Chaumont had come to Paris and one of them,

Captain Guegnier, invited me to dinner at his apartment. His wife and

the wife of one of his colleagues had come to Paris from the country

especially for the occasion. We sat down, a very jolly party of six, to

a most delicious dinner such as only the French can devise and properly

execute. As all the party were musical we naturally had a good deal of

music after dinner. The ladies sang charmingly and I had to play

excerpts from their beloved Wagner—“Tristan,” “Meistersinger,”

“Parsifal,” and the “Trilogy.” My hostess sang songs of Fauré, Chausson,

and Debussy, and just then the sirens boomed out their disagreeable

message that the Gothas were taking advantage of the moonlit night to

make one of their raids over Paris. At the same moment the taxi-cab man,

who had come to take me back to my hotel, announced that he had arrived.

Would he like to come up-stairs? Oh, no, he would just sit inside the

cab and wait till I got ready. “Then let us have some more music,” said

my hostess, and simply drew the curtain over the windows. And, while the

Gothas were scattering their shells over Paris, she turned to me and

said: “Now let me sing for you this lovely song of Schubert.” There was

my French hostess singing German songs, and it was not until about one

o’clock in the morning that Lieutenant Weill and I turned homeward.

The vast difference in attitude between the French and certain of my

compatriots regarding the proper stand to be taken in time of war toward

the art of an enemy nation was very striking. I had myself decided that

the New York Symphony Orchestra should not play the works of living

German composers, and that the German language should not be sung at our

concerts during the war. There seemed to me good and valid reasons for

such a course. But Beethoven, Mozart, and Wagner I considered as

classics, belonging to us just as much as to Germany, and their divine

message had naught to do with the political and military leaders of

Germany who had plunged the world into this horrible bath of blood.

There was, however, in New York a small but noisy group led by a few

women who sought to demonstrate their “patriotism” by hysterical

outbursts and newspaper protests against the performance of all music

composed by Germans, no matter how many years ago. Some of these women,

through the curious psychosis of war, really thought that they were

serving their country by their protests. In the winter of 1918 the

orchestra of the Paris Conservatoire made a tour through America under

their conductor, André Messager. When I called on him the day after his

arrival he showed me a letter he had just received from one of these

women protesting against his performing a Beethoven Symphony during his

stay in America. He was white with anger, and when I asked him how he

would answer it, he said: “I will answer it as a French artist should.”

I said: “The best way to answer would be to put Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’

Symphony on your first programme.” “I will,” he said; and he did.

The opposition to Wagner was based on very amusing premises. Because

some of his heroes were wont to appear on the stage in very blond wigs

and beards, these lady sleuth-hounds seemed to perceive some evil and

subtle connection between _Siegfried_ in the “Nibelungen Trilogy” and

Nietzsche’s “blond beast,” which, according to his prophecy, was

eventually to control the earth. Their studies of Wagner were too

shallow to enable them to realize that the whole philosophy of life as

expressed by Wagner in the “Nibelungen Trilogy” was in direct contrast

to the desire of the modern militaristic German to rule and control the

world by force. Wagner depicts a prehistoric world in which the gods of

greed, lust, and power rule, carrying, however, the seed of their own

destruction within them because of the materialistic quality of their

desires. As their power wanes and the old gods perish, a new religion is

born, the religion of self-sacrifice through love, as symbolized by

_Brunhilde_ in her self-immolation on the funeral pyre of _Siegfried_.

But all this is already ancient history, and I for one confidently

believe that the racial spirit which created the Germany of Bach,

Beethoven, Goethe, Kant, and Wagner will soon return again to brighten

and ennoble the world.

In five weeks all necessary arrangements for the school were completed

and notices were sent by the General Staff to the bandmasters of the

entire A. E. F. who had not come up to the necessary qualifications

during the examination which I had given them, to report to the Chaumont

School in batches of fifty every eight weeks, beginning on October 1,

and to start their studies. Students for oboe, bassoon, French horn, and

flügelhorn were also selected from the hundreds of applicants. At first

we had great difficulty in finding the necessary instruments for them.

France is famous for its wood-wind instruments, but the various

factories had long since ceased operations, as all the workmen were in

the army. The ever-ready and ingenious Lieutenant Weill, however,

succeeded in scraping together enough oboes and bassoons to start the

classes, and I cannot say enough for the willing assistance which was

accorded me by every United States army officer with whom I came in

contact. From the commander-in-chief down to Lieutenant Kelley, who sat

in the anteroom of General Dawes’s office in the Champs-Élysées, and

whose principal duty seemed to be to ward off disagreeable or tiresome

callers who wished to rob General Dawes of his valuable time, all made

me feel as if the improvement of the army bands was the one thing

necessary to win the war. It was high time for me to leave France and

“get back to earth,” as I no longer walked on anything but air and with

my head projecting far above the clouds.

During my last visit to Chaumont I motored down to Domrémy, the

birthplace of Jeanne d’Arc, and found the little village in just about

the same state it must have been when she was born in the little house

next to the church, both of which have been carefully preserved for the

worshippers of to-day. The open space in front of her house, the trees

surrounding it, and the monument in the centre seemed to me to form a

natural stage on which a peace pageant could well be enacted, and as I

sat there and the bell began to toll from the little church in which

Jeanne had whispered her prayers, I began to dream of a possible peace

celebration in which a company of American soldiers, a company of French

soldiers, an American and a French military band, singers from the Opéra

Comique, and a children’s chorus should take part; the climax to be the

joyous meeting of the military forces around the monument and the

awakening of Jeanne from her sleep of centuries, opening the door of her

little house and standing there looking with astonishment at the

unwonted sight of American soldiers in khaki as brothers of her beloved

countrymen.

On my return to Chaumont I outlined this idea to several officers of the

Staff and of the French Commission, who received it with enthusiasm and

promised every assistance, but, alas, nothing ever came of it. When I

returned to France the following spring the armistice had been arranged

and the Versailles Conference was dragging its weary and dreary

deliberations toward an unsatisfactory conclusion. There did not seem to

be enough illusion or enthusiasm left to celebrate anything

international connected with the war.

On my last visit to Chaumont I gave a little dinner to Colonel Collins,

secretary of the Staff, whose constant interest had been invaluable and

whose mind seemed to be capable at a moment’s notice of turning from the

consideration of some intricate military problem to the great advantages

to be derived from the introduction of the French B-flat bugle into our

army. Over a very good magnum of champagne I rose and made him, Colonel

Boyd, and Lieutenant Weill solemnly swear that for the rest of the war

and as long thereafter as necessary the bandmaster’s school at Chaumont

should be to them as the apple of their eye, and this oath they

faithfully kept. The school flourished from October, 1918, until June,

1919, when it was discontinued owing to the return of our army to

America. The relations between the French professors and our boys, all

living together like a happy family, became so sympathetic and intimate

that the results may truly be said to have been remarkable. The soldiers

realized that they were receiving an education in music equal to that of

the foremost schools of France or America, and the French professors

entered into their duties with an enthusiasm which was touching.

Casadesus told me that many of his pupils worked at their musical

problems twelve hours a day and I urged him, in some way or other, to

continue these pleasant and important international musical relations by

founding a summer school somewhere in France, preferably near Paris, to

which American men and women, already sufficiently advanced in their

study of music, could repair for three months every summer in order to

acquaint themselves with French art and French methods of teaching.

Until the war began, hundreds of American students had gone to Germany

every year, and it seemed a pity that, owing to the Frenchman’s lack of

propaganda for what his country could offer to our students, some of

this stream could not be diverted to France. Our talks eventually led to

the founding of the _Conservatoire Américain_ at Fontainebleau, of which

details are told in another chapter.

By the courtesy of General Pershing I received permission to leave for

home on the army transport _America_. This ship sailed from Brest, and I

was anxious to go there in order to see my daughter, Alice Pennington,

once more. She and her friend, Miss Letty McKim, had been there for a

year and had founded the naval Y. M. C. A., to the great satisfaction of

Admiral Wilson and our navy stationed there. My daughter’s enthusiasm

and vitality, together with that of her equally able friend, had created

an atmosphere which our sailors greatly relished, and I was keen to see

some of her work.

My train was to leave Paris in the evening, and my faithful friend and

companion of the last five weeks, Lieutenant Weill, came to the station

to bid me good-by. There were no regular sleeping-cars on this train but

only what the French call “couchettes”—four bunks in each compartment,

two on each side. The names of the occupants were carefully written on a

slip of paper and pasted on the outside of each door, and Lieutenant

Weill informed me that a French general occupied the lower bunk opposite

mine. Sure enough, a handsome, youngish-looking general presently

appeared and, politely touching his cap, entered our compartment and

seated himself in his bunk. Weill, in French fashion, kissed me good-by

on both cheeks, and as I had still ten minutes to spare, I stood outside

and saw an American naval commander coming toward me with rather

unsteady steps. He told me that he had had thirty-six hours’ leave and

that he and his two aides had decided to spend it by going to Paris. As

the train took twelve hours each way this gave them only twelve hours in

the city of delights and he had evidently taken full advantage of every

minute of it. He told me that his two aides had not yet turned up, that

they had all the tickets and all his money; he also confided to me that

one of them was so rich that he could have bought the entire train. I

finally found his name on the list of our coupé, his bunk being directly

over the French general’s, and as it was getting late, I advised him to

enter. Just at that moment two handsome young naval lieutenants rushed

up, and he received them with enthusiasm, for they had his railroad

tickets. I helped him into our compartment, where he presently sat down

right next to the general, who wrapped his cloak about him and cuddled

up into his own corner. I said to my compatriot: “I think you are in the

French general’s bunk. Yours is the one above.” Whereupon he said: “The

French general can go to hell!” I was frightened out of my wits, as I

expected an immediate international encounter which might have the most

serious consequences. Luckily the general understood no English, and I

finally induced my new naval friend to climb up into his own bunk, but I

made a solemn vow that I would never again try to interfere where the

army and navy of two different countries were concerned.

I turned into my own bunk and slept well until next morning, when I

found the commander also awake and possessed of a thirst which knew no

bounds. There was, of course, no drinking-water on the train, but I

rushed him to the restaurant of the next station where we stopped, and

he seized a carafe of water and put it to his lips with such avidity

that you could almost hear the water sizzle as it passed down his

throat. He turned out to be a delightful fellow. He was commander of a

destroyer and had spent dreary and terrible weeks in his little craft

watching for submarines. The monotony and discomfort of such a life

cannot be imagined, as these ships are so small that their motion is

incessant and they have to go out in the dirtiest of weather. There is

hardly ever a chance to cook meals, and those on board must eat what and

how they can. For weeks and weeks nothing happens, but my commander had

had the good luck on his last trip to get a sub, and had received his

thirty-six hours’ leave in consequence. Small wonder that he and his

colleagues sought some relief in honor of the great event!

At the next station my French general and I got a cup of coffee. Sugar

was at that time taboo, and as, thanks to my army friends, I had my

pockets full of this precious stuff, I offered him some in place of the

awful saccharine, which he accepted gratefully and then told me that he

was going on his first vacation in two years to spend with his family in

a little watering resort this side of Brest. Sure enough at the next

station, as he got out, a charming boy and girl, browned by the sun,

rushed up to him and fairly smothered him with kisses. It looked for all

the world like a scene at a Long Island station in August, when the

various New York fathers commute on a Friday afternoon to spend Saturday

and Sunday with their families by the sea.

I found my daughter Alice waiting for me at the station in Brest, and on

the way to the little apartment which she and Miss McKim occupied

together, she told me that Admiral Wilson wanted to meet me before my

departure on the transport the same evening. She begged me to support

her if he denounced jazz music, against which he had a particular

hatred, for she had always insisted to him that the sailors loved it and

that in time of war they certainly should have anything they wanted.

In the afternoon the admiral’s band gave a concert in the public square,

and I, of course, attended it and met the bandmaster and his players,

who did very good work, several of them having been members of the

Boston Symphony Orchestra. They begged me to conduct them in one of the

numbers, and I took up the stick and solemnly played through the

“William Tell Overture” with them. At the end I saw Admiral Wilson on

the balcony of his apartment applauding vociferously, and he presently

came running, bareheaded, across the square to greet me. Almost the

first thing he said was: “Doctor, don’t you think jazz music is

horrible? It destroys all taste for real music.” “Indeed I heartily

agree with you,” I answered. Whereupon my daughter Alice turned on me

and said, “Coward!” implying that as the admiral was the autocrat of

Brest I did not wish to brave his wrath even in order to please my

daughter. But indeed I was thoroughly in accord with him; and I wish

that either some popular substitute could be found for the interminable

jazz that is ravaging not only our country but all Europe, or that a

genius would come along who would pour into this very low form of art

some real emotion which, welling from the very heart of man, might give

life to what is at present but a nervous excitement.

That evening I went on board the transport _America_, and sailed for

home. I found the voyage exceedingly interesting. The ship had been a

Hamburg passenger liner, the _Amerika_, taken over after her internment

by our navy; the “k” having been carefully removed and an American “c”

substituted. Various German signs had been scratched out, but the table

and bed linen, as well as the knives and forks, still bore the mystic

initials, _H. A. P. A. G.—Hamburg Amerika Paketfahrt Actien

Gesellschaft_.

I was the proud occupant of a cabin and bathroom of the so-called

“Roosevelt” suite, which the ex-President had occupied during his trip

around the world, and the faucets over the bathtub still bore the signs

“Kalt,” “Warm,” and “Gemischt.” The various luxurious furnishings of the

ship showed the wear and tear of army-transport usage. The marble was

cracked and the electric bells did not ring.

The first-class cabins were occupied by several hundred officers, a

curious mixture of men, some returning on leave or to become instructors

in the officers’ camps, or being mustered out of service, either for ill

health, drunkenness, or incompetence. For days I was pursued, even into

my cabin, by a man from a Western city who had enlisted as a dentist. He

was evidently out of his mind and was to be mustered out of the service

on his return home. He had conceived the mysterious idea that I could

influence the powers that be to have him reinstated, and I finally found

the glitter in his eye so ominous that I reported him to the colonel in

command and he promptly had him put under medical observation. Two days

later his companions in the hospital ward, whom he had already annoyed

and frightened by suddenly grabbing their legs at night, found him in

the bathroom with his throat partly cut by his razor; and I confess that

I was glad when I heard that he had been put into a cabin by himself,

with a soldier guarding the door.

We were, of course, under army regulations and in many respects life was

much stricter than on the passenger liners. We were compelled to wear

life-preservers almost the entire voyage and no lights were permitted

after sundown. We were not told at which American port we were to land,

and I was much astonished one morning to find our ship anchored in

Boston Harbor alongside the old 1812 frigate _Constitution_, whose

broadside-guns looked delightfully picturesque and inefficient compared

with the modern monsters I had seen in France.

During the following winter my wife and I often received visits from

navy officers and sailors bearing greetings from our daughter Alice in

Brest, and I remember one red-cheeked youngster who made so agreeable an

impression on my wife that she invited him to return the following day,

which was Sunday, for luncheon. On that morning the telephone rang. It

was our old friend, Admiral William Rodgers, who asked whether he could

come to luncheon. My wife said we would be delighted, but my youngest

daughter Anita, who was well versed in the etiquette of the navy, called

out: “Oh, we can’t have the admiral lunching with us to-day. An admiral

can’t sit down at the same table with a gob!” My wife repeated this to

the admiral, who insisted that it made no difference and that in war

time everything was possible; that he certainly wanted to come and would

be very glad to meet the “gob” who had brought greetings from Alice, of

whom he was very fond. The sailor boy arrived first, and when we told

him that our other guest was to be an admiral he grew pale as death, but

when Rodgers arrived he was so kind to the boy that luncheon passed off

fairly well, except that the boy became rigid at attention whenever the

admiral spoke to him. During the luncheon Admiral Rodgers said to him:

“You have just seen Mrs. Pennington in Brest?” “Yes, sir.” “And what was

she doing when you saw her?” “She was selling postage-stamps, sir,” was

the answer. And I have no doubt this was true, as Alice in her capacity

of naval “Y” worker not only took the sailors out to picnics with

swimming contests, arranged vaudeville entertainments and concerts, but

in between times sold them chocolate, cigarettes, postage-stamps,

picture postal-cards, lemon-drops, and ginger ale.

After luncheon my daughters discreetly took the young sailor into the

front parlor in order to relieve the tension a little, and Rodgers asked

me about an orchestration of the “Star-Spangled Banner” which I had made

at the beginning of the war and which had aroused some attention. I had

always felt that this good old English tune had a fine ring to it,

provided it was played in the proper tempo, and I had given it an

orchestration which developed into quite a climax on the last two lines

of each verse. I sat down at the piano and played it for him, explaining

the difference between this version and the old one which had been

generally used before the war. He was much interested and wanted to

introduce it in the navy.

The sailor boy finally took his departure, and my daughters came smiling

into the music-room and told us that while they were sitting talking

with the sailor, he suddenly jumped up from his chair and stood at rigid

attention. He had heard the strains of the national anthem coming from

our room and, remembering the admiral, knew his duty! Who shall, after

that, deny the power of music in peace or in war?

[Illustration: LIEUTENANT WALKER BLAINE BEALE

Killed in the St. Mihiel drive, September 18, 1918]