DEAR WALTER:

It is pleasant to think that, within a few days, you will be

occupying the “ambassadorial suite” in which I am writing these

lines (Davis of London had it also). We leave day after tomorrow

and shall be very happy to see you all when you come to Rome. We

are looking forward with pride and agreeable anticipation to the

invasion of Italy by the Symphony and its director and the

assisting artists. We have no Embassy, alas! being “all dressed

up (or nearly so) with no place to go to” and so we shall slum

it at the Grand Hotel until the money seems to be giving out.

Don’t let any of your party perish by stumbling over the torn

carpet at the entrance to this apartment. I have tried to have

it mended, but my failure shows that I am no diplomat—yet.

Au revoir. Bientôt à Rome.

My first act was to have that carpet mended, and I immediately sent a

telegram to the American Embassy in Rome announcing the important news.

And then the affairs of the tour began to engulf me to such an extent

that until Mr. Engles arrived and relieved me with able hands of a great

deal of that burden, I thought that I was back again in the old days of

the Damrosch Opera Company, when I was owner, director, orchestral

conductor, stage-manager, and prima donna pacificator all in one.

To add to my worries, a railroad strike was announced for May 1, the day

on which the orchestra were to arrive at Le Havre, and not content with

that, the dock workers of Le Havre intended also to lay down their

“tools,” whatever they may be, and stop working on that date. When I

thought of the musical instruments and trunks of my orchestra in the

hold of the steamer _Rochambeau_, which was to arrive on or about May 1,

my heart stopped beating. However, I had been in too many close shaves

on my great Western orchestral tours to be altogether dismayed, for even

if the railroad stopped running there would always be motor-trucks and

airplanes. We had made arrangements with Thomas Cook and Sons to take

care of all transportation matters from the day the orchestra arrived in

France until their sailing for home from England, and they assured me

that, if necessary, they would have camions, such as were used during

the war, to carry my whole orchestra, together with their baggage and

musical instruments, from Le Havre to Paris.

Luckily the ship docked several hours before the dock workers’ strike

began, and double-basses, kettledrums, and innumerable music boxes were

safely landed from the hold of the ship. I had intended to go to Le

Havre to meet the orchestra, but the strike conditions were too

uncertain and I thought it better to remain in Paris and direct

operations from there.

The government was moving several trains, and the telegram that the

orchestra had started for Paris cheered me up considerably. I was at the

station at 3.30 that afternoon, to be met with the news that the train

was delayed and would be in at six. At six there was no sign of it, and,

as is usual at French stations, there was absolutely no one who had any

idea when it might arrive. I stayed there till eight o’clock—no train.

Finally there was a whistle. Every one dashed out. It was a

freight-train, but, like the dove from Noah’s Ark, I saw the “man from

Cook’s,” a little man, attired then and during the entire tour in a very

small derby hat and an exceedingly long double-breasted frock coat,

sitting on top of one of the cars. He was tired, dirty, but triumphant,

for all our musical instruments and music boxes were in these cars. He

had passed the orchestra half-way at Rouen, where they were held up by a

hot box. This sounded like home to me, as I had heard those magic words

only too often when our train, coming through Idaho or Arizona on our

way to or from California, would be held up for hours and we would

wonder whether we could “make” the concert that evening.

The orchestra had rehearsed our repertoire with me so thoroughly before

we sailed that but little more was necessary. I gave them three

rehearsals, however, before our first concert, the first two at the

_Salle du Conservatoire_, to shake them together again after their long

voyage, and the last on the afternoon of the concert, May 6, at the

Opera House in order to accustom them to its acoustics. The orchestra

played so superbly at the two first rehearsals that I was jubilant and

proud of them. The ensemble was perfect and each man played as if the

success of the concert depended on him—which it certainly did. But when

we began rehearsing at the Opera House the tone of the orchestra

suddenly seemed so thin and lifeless that I was nearly beside myself

with anxiety. The orchestra was placed on the stage, but the local

management had not seen fit to provide us with any proper scenic setting

or roof, so that the sound of our large and noble orchestra was

completely dissipated in the flies. When I remonstrated, I was told that

they had a roof for the stage but that it was in the storehouse,

situated beyond the fortifications of Paris, and that this was the first

time in many years the Opera House had been used for a concert. They

finally agreed to have at least half a roof up for our concert and to

set a smaller scene, which would contain the sound and throw it into the

audience-room in more compact fashion. After twenty minutes or so of

rehearsing, I threw down my stick and told the men to call it a day. I

went back to my hotel very depressed, as so much depended on the first

impression which our orchestra would make that evening.

The programme was as follows:

1. Overture, “Benvenuto Cellini”............................... Berlioz

2. Symphony No. 3, “Eroica”.................................... Beethoven

3. “Istar,” Variations symphoniques............................ d’Indy

4. “Daphnis et Chloe” (Fragments symphoniques)................. Ravel

The reader will notice that we placed on it two works by living French

composers, both of whom were to be at the concert. The house was

completely sold out, and greeted me in very friendly fashion when I came

on the stage.

From the very first chords of the “Eroica” Symphony, I noticed that the

slight improvements in our scenic surroundings, and above all the fact

that the house was filled with people, had acted like magic on the

acoustics. The tone of the orchestra had become full, clear, and

incisive. My spirits rose and I forgot everything except the orchestra

before me and Beethoven’s score. After each movement the applause was

deafening, and at the end of the symphony there was joyous shouting from

the galleries. We seemed to have played our way into their hearts, and

after the first part there was a steady stream of French musicians to my

dressing-room to congratulate me on our marvellous orchestra and its

ensemble, and to express their delight that we had come over on such a

friendly mission. Among them were: Vincent d’Indy, Gabriel Fauré, André

Messager, Gabriel Pierné, Theodore Dubois, Paul Vidal, Nadia Boulanger,

and many others.

As we turned into the French part of our programme the enthusiasm became

still greater, and at the conclusion of “Istar” some of my first violins

discovered the composer, d’Indy, in the audience and, pointing toward

him, stood up to applaud. In a minute not only the whole orchestra but

the audience were on their feet and with loud cries of “Auteur!”

“d’Indy!” the house was in an uproar until d’Indy, his face as red as a

beet, was compelled to rise and acknowledge this tribute.

The programme finished with the marvellous “Daphnis et Chloe,” by Ravel,

in which the luscious tone of the orchestra and its virtuosity

demonstrated themselves so successfully that not only did the concert

come to a tumultuous climax, but several of the French papers announced

afterward that this work had never had such a vivid and perfect

rendering before.

My interpretation of the Beethoven “Eroica” Symphony puzzled some of the

newspaper critics, as it did not conform to their French traditions.

These do not permit such slight occasional modifications of tempo as

modern conductors brought up in the German traditions of Beethoven

believe essential to a proper interpretation of this master. But I was

much pleased and honored to receive a complete approval of my

interpretation, not only verbally from several of my French colleagues,

but also from M. d’Indy in an article which he wrote on our concert and

in which he said:

Leaving aside everything that Walter Damrosch has done for our

country and the French musicians, generous acts for which our

gratitude has often been expressed, I wish mainly to pay my

tribute to the extremely expressive interpretation at the

concerts he has given lately at the Opera. Whether it is

classical, romantic, or modern music, Damrosch first of all

endeavors to set off and illustrate what we call the “melos,”

the element of expression, the voice that must rise above all

the other voices of the orchestra. He knows how to distribute

the agogic action, the dynamic power, and he is not afraid—even

in Beethoven’s works and in spite of the surprise this caused to

our public—to accelerate or slacken the movement when the

necessities of expression demand it.

The French are a courteous people, and at the end of the concert there

was an even greater crowd of musicians and friends behind the scenes to

express their pleasure at our success.

The programmes of the other two concerts were as follows:

MAY 8

1. Overture, “Le Roi d’Ys”................................... Lalo

2. Symphony, “From the New World”............................ Dvořák

3. Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in B Minor.............. Saint-Saëns

MR. SPALDING

4. _a._ “Pélléas et Mélisande” (Fileuse)..................... Fauré

_b._ Ma Mère L’Oye (Les Pagodes).......................... Ravel

5. Prelude to “Die Meistersinger”............................ Wagner

MAY 9

1. Symphony in C (Jupiter)................................... Mozart

2. Poems (d’après Verlaine).................................. Loeffler

3. Symphony in D Minor....................................... Franck

4. Negro Rhapsody for Piano and Orchestra.................... Powell

JOHN POWELL

The two young American artists, Albert Spalding and John Powell, made a

splendid impression, and of the orchestral works the Prelude to the

“Meistersingers” of Wagner and the Mozart and Franck Symphonies received

special acclaim.

It was delightful to hear the half-suppressed “Ah’s” and “Bravos!” so

characteristic of the French audience after the Andante of the Mozart

Symphony. I confess that the more spontaneous approval which European

audiences give in drama, opera, or concert is exceedingly gratifying and

stimulates the artist to the very best that is in him. Every artist who

is worth his salt will always approach an audience with the feeling that

they are as strangers whom through his art he must win over as friends.

This feeling exists whether he makes his first bow as a beginner or

appears for the three thousandth time after twenty years of public work.

It is a wonderful moment for him when, after having done his best and

given all there is in him, his audience show by the intensity of their

approval that the “song which he breathed into the air” has found its

home “in the heart of a friend.”

On Sunday morning, May 9, at eleven, the orchestra of the Conservatoire

gave a great party in our honor as a return courtesy for one that we had

given to the French Orchestra on their arrival in America in 1918. We

all met at the _Salle du Conservatoire_ where M. Leon, representing the

Ministry of Fine Arts, was waiting to receive me. With the Conservatoire

Orchestra were various French masters, including the venerable Gabriel

Fauré, and Messager, the conductor.

After various speeches of welcome, I was presented with a beautiful

engraving of Beethoven and made an honorary member of the Conservatoire

Orchestra. We then marched to the _Taverne du Nègre_, where luncheon was

served. There were so many different kinds of wine-glasses before each

plate that I asked permission to make a short speech in English to my

orchestra. It consisted of the following:

“Gentlemen, remember we have a concert this afternoon, so please mix

your wine with much water.”

Needless to say, in all the speeches the theme of the war was constantly

played upon by the French orators—how much France owed to our

intervention and to the bravery of our soldiers.

It would have been very pleasant to stay on in Paris, where our

orchestra were beginning to feel very much at home, and rest upon our

young laurels, but our tour had only begun and we had to carry on!

In the meantime Mr. Engles and our treasurer, Roger Townsend, had to

smooth out all kinds of new difficulties and complications, among which

the passport nuisance was the greatest. War conditions still prevailed

and passports had to be carefully viséd by the ambassadors of every

country we visited. All our orchestra were practically Americans, but

technically they belonged to America, France, Belgium, Italy, England,

Russia, Germany, Austria, and Czecho-Slovakia. Many of them had had only

their first American papers when the war broke out, and according to war

regulations could not yet obtain their American citizens’ papers. They

were therefore compelled to travel on foreign passports and some of

their visés were exceedingly difficult to obtain, as new countries like

Czecho-Slovakia, for instance, had not yet a properly organized

diplomatic service. Others, like Russia, were not recognized at all and

our Russians had to travel on Kerensky passports issued for them by the

Kerensky ambassador who was still “holding the fort” in Washington.

Through the kindly help of Mr. Grew, councillor at our embassy in Paris,

and other friends in high places, we finally obtained our hundred visés

and left Paris for Bordeaux on May 11, and—in spite of the railroad

strike—with the passage of our train assured as far as Bordeaux.

The only fly in the ointment was a little revolution before we left the

station. Some of the members of the orchestra had brought their wives

and even a few small children to Europe with them. They very naturally

desired to give their families a good time and wanted to have them with

them and in the orchestra cars on the entire trip. As railroad space was

exceedingly limited and the bachelor and straw-widower members of the

orchestra strenuously objected to this addition, I had to veto the plan,

and painted the difficulties of travel, hotels, passports, etc., in such

lurid fashion that I succeeded in preventing their departure from Paris

with us. The husbands promised to leave their families in Paris until

our return, about three weeks later, but as all the wives and children

came to the station to see their respective husbands and fathers off, I

was nervous until the last doors of the car were slammed to and the

whistle of the French locomotive, which always sounds like the shrill

wail of the damned, announced that we were really off.

The orchestra were in a very gay mood and insisted on getting out every

time the train stopped even a second, and then having to be pulled back

as the train started again without any warning. A passport picture of

one unfortunate little second violinist was sent through all the cars,

pasted on a piece of paper with the inscription: “Wanted for bigamy.

Member of the New York Symphony Orchestra. Reward of three francs if

returned dead or alive to George Engles, Manager.” This had been

perpetrated by Willem Willeke, who was not only a master violoncellist

but the master mind behind almost every practical joke indulged in

during the tour.

We arrived in Bordeaux that evening and were welcomed at our hotel by a

typical little hotel manager, with his head entirely bald on top but

beautifully covered with the long hair combed forward from the back of

his head. He also had a full beard neatly parted in the middle, and of

course a long double-breasted frock coat. He rubbed his hands with the

pleasure of welcoming us and assured us that all our rooms were properly

reserved. Actually it took us three-quarters of an hour to get ourselves

and our baggage straightened out in the proper rooms. Our party

consisted of Albert and Mrs. Spalding, John Powell, Mary Flagler, my

daughter Gretchen, and myself, and the highly efficient manager had sent

each one of us at first to the wrong rooms while our bags had still

further gone astray. But a good bath and a delicious dinner at the

famous _Chapon Fin_ put us all in good humor.

The theatre at which we were to play the following evening was directly

opposite to our hotel and its frontal façade is without doubt the most

beautiful I have ever seen. Such examples of the finest architecture of

the eighteenth century stand out in remarkable contrast to their more

modern surroundings and it is difficult to understand how French

architects, with such noble examples to follow and with a school in

Paris which is still considered the best in the world, should have

allowed their art to degenerate to such an extent within the last thirty

years. One has but to compare the noble façade of the Place de la

Concorde with such modern monstrosities as, for instance, the Hotel

Mercedes or the Palais de Justice at Tours, to realize that in their

endeavor to break away completely from their own noblest traditions they

have deliberately courted anarchy, for their architecture rests upon no

laws of beauty or symmetry. Many of our best American architects are

graduates from the École des Beaux Arts in Paris, but they have not

become revolutionaries and have understood how to adapt their

appreciation of the best French traditions to American needs. The

results demonstrate an art of which every American can be proud.

Our concert, which was given under the auspices of the local symphony

society, was received with great favor. The interior of the theatre is

delightfully intimate, and the audience gave the impression of belonging

to an old musical civilization. We were presented with huge bouquets of

flowers tied with the American colors. Albert Spalding’s performance

made a splendid impression, and the “Meistersinger” Overture came in for

special enthusiasm.

But what was my astonishment at suddenly beholding three of the

“orchestra wives,” who were supposed to have remained in Paris, seated

in one of the boxes. I do not know to this day whether they rode on the

bumpers or in one of the baggage-cars. However, they were charming

ladies; and, as a married man, I could not be too angry with them or

their indulgent husbands. We compromised in the matter by permitting

them to continue with us for the rest of the tour, provided that they

and their husbands occupied space elsewhere than that reserved for the

orchestra, and that they looked out for their own passports whenever we

approached the border.

As we returned to our hotel after the concert the smiling hotel manager

stood in the lobby to receive us and to express his congratulations at

the success of a _concert merveilleux_. As we entered the electric lift

to go to our respective rooms, he himself shut the grating on us and

pressed the button to send us slowly upward. (All French lifts move

slowly.) Its almost celestial calmness irresistibly brought the Finale

of Gounod’s “Faust” to my mind, when _Marguerite_ ascends heavenward. I

began to sing the melody of the “_Anges radieux_,” and just as we got up

to the first floor we suddenly heard the voice of the hotel manager, a

vibrant tenor, enthusiastically continuing the trio from below. I gazed

downward and there he was, his face raised ecstatically toward us and

his hand pressed to his double-breasted frock coat—perhaps a poor hotel

manager but certainly an enthusiastic lover of music.

The newspapers of Bordeaux were full of praise about our concert, but

one of them said: “The orchestra played with that dryness characteristic

of all North Americans.” Alack and alas! Had the Eighteenth Amendment,

which went into effect the previous January, already made its dreadful

influence felt?

Lyons was to be the next city on our itinerary, but unfortunately the

railroad strike had completely isolated it and there was no way of

reaching it from Bordeaux. We were therefore very reluctantly compelled

to cancel the concert. Every seat had been sold long before, and as

Lyons ranked next to Paris in musical importance the cancellation was a

great disappointment to us.

The next morning Engles brought me a telegram which he had just received

from our general manager in Paris, to the effect that at Marseilles the

hall in which we were to play had been condemned by the fire department

as unsafe, and that therefore the concert would have to be given at

another theatre and under different management. Engles did not like the

look of things and begged me, as he could not speak French, to go with

him to Marseilles and look over the ground with him. We were to have

played in Marseilles under the auspices and management of the local

symphonic organization, which, however, turned out to be but a small and

not very influential body of musicians, most of whom were amateurs.

Their secretary, who was to attend to the details of management, was a

newspaper man and an amateur double-bass player, of which instrument he

was very proud. When we arrived, only two days before the concert, we

found that absolutely nothing had been done to advertise it. There were

no posters, no advertisements, and the manager of the theatre to which

we had been transferred did not even know before our arrival whether we

were a jazz band of colored people from America or perhaps a troupe of

wandering minstrels.

We were to give two concerts, and at first it seemed as if, under such

disheartening circumstances, it were better to cancel them and proceed

to Monte Carlo and Italy, where already sold-out houses awaited us. The

newspaper man, who was the real delinquent, was nowhere to be found. He

had gone to the country “_pour se reposer_” and was not expected until

the following day. Luckily the theatre manager proved to be of the right

sort. When he saw what our organization really stood for he would not

hear of cancellation, and immediately went around to all the newspaper

offices with Engles. Posters, the principal method of advertising in

Europe, appeared on the street corners as if by magic; and while it was

too late to attract a large audience for the first concert, he assured

us that if this concert were the success which he expected, the theatre,

which held about twenty-four hundred people, would be entirely sold out

for the second concert on Sunday afternoon. His prophecy proved correct.

There were not more than eight hundred people at the first concert, but

as they were real sons of the _Midi_ and as they had never heard a

symphonic organization of such size and importance in their lives, they

went mad. They applauded with their hands, with both feet, with their

canes and umbrellas. They shouted in eight-part harmonies and the

rafters of the theatre trembled in sympathy. After the concert they

lined up at the box-office in a great crowd while the theatre manager,

grinning from ear to ear, said: “Did I not tell you?”

In the meantime the delinquent local secretary-manager turned up and I

was fully prepared to annihilate him for his lack of proper preliminary

advertising for our concert, but as he immediately called me “Cher

maître” and expressed his delight in such eloquent French at the coming

of so notable an organization as ours, he completely spiked my guns and

I found myself unable to get in a word edgewise, much less tell him what

I really thought of him.

I have told before that he was an amateur double-bass player in the

local orchestra, and this was evidently the ruling passion of his life,

although I never could understand why an amateur should choose this

particular instrument for his delectation. After the second concert and

while the hall was still ringing with the shouts of the fiery citizens

of Marseilles, he came into my dressing-room as I thought to add his

tribute of praise, but, alas, all he said was: “Cher maître, I could

hardly hear your double-bass players during the entire concert.” I

presume that at the concerts of his orchestra he was so taken up with

his own double-bass part that as he played he heard nothing of the other

instruments around and about him. He became, so to speak, intoxicated

with the resonance of his own instrument. At our concert, seated in the

audience, he suddenly found, poor man, that the double-bass was not the

only pebble on the orchestral beach, and that occasionally the violins,

the wood winds, or the brasses had also something of importance to

enunciate. It must have been a sad revelation to him, and I do not

wonder that he refused to accept it.

In the meantime the strike fever was spreading in every direction, and

there was not a trolley running through the town of Marseilles nor a

boat leaving the harbor. The effect was a very curious one, as the

streets were filled with great crowds restlessly moving up and down, and

seemingly without work or affairs of any kind to keep them busy. In

several of the streets small bands were playing in roped-off circles

while thirty couples or so were dancing madly around with hundreds of

others outside the ropes watching them. The huge audience who arrived

for our Sunday afternoon concert must have come on foot, as there was

not a wheel turning anywhere.

After we got back to the hotel the great iron doors were suddenly closed

and bolted, for quite a riot started in front of it. The trolley company

was trying to run a car through the city, manned by young mechanics from

the School of Technology, and every once in a while a mob of strikers

would rush at them, break the windows of the car, and pull off the young

strike-breakers. But it was all done in rather an amiable fashion, while

a crowd of men in light straw hats applauded with their hands and

shouted “Bravo,” all as if it were a performance gotten up for their

pleasure. Then a couple of amiable gendarmes would come along and in the

same placid fashion place the young men on the car again, which would

then proceed for another few yards or so. Suddenly, however, this

seeming comedy took a tragic turn. The mob made a vicious lunge; they

were stopped by the police who suddenly acted with great energy, and

soon there were several men seriously hurt. In the meantime the

strike-breakers had again connected their car with the electric wire,

and although the car with its broken windows looked a perfect wreck, it

moved triumphantly along the tracks and the strike was broken. Next

morning every car was running again.

Later that afternoon I received a visit from Morris Tivin, the first

double-bass player of our orchestra. He brought with him a boy of

fifteen, a little Russian Jew, who had a most remarkable history. He had

escaped from a prison in Russia and worked his way to Constantinople. As

he was a violinist of exceptional ability, he had made a meagre living

there playing in the cafés. Having read in some old Paris paper that we

were to give a concert in Marseilles he had quickly made up his mind to

get there and perhaps through our help reach the promised land of

America. He arrived in Marseilles as a stowaway after incredible

hardships, and when he introduced himself to some of his Russian

compatriots in my orchestra, he was literally starving and without a

cent in his pockets. Within a few hours our orchestra had subscribed

enough money to send him to New York with several letters to their

colleagues at the Musical Union, and within a week after his arrival he

was engaged as second concert master at a large salary in one of our

Western orchestras.

The generous spirit displayed by our men, which demonstrated itself in

so quick and practical a fashion, is characteristic of the rank and file

of our profession. I have never known a case of an orchestra musician or

chorus singer in need that his colleagues were not immediately ready to

help, and as their own earnings are comparatively small their generosity

is much greater in proportion than that of many a rich man whose name

figures largely among the subscribers to our charitable organizations.

Our next concert was to be in Monte Carlo, and I motored with my wife

from Marseilles along the Riviera, reaching Monte Carlo on the evening

of May 17. The orchestra had already arrived by train and were to be

found all over the town photographing points of interest, especially the

beautiful statue erected to Hector Berlioz, which we were all glad to

honor. Every orchestra musician adores this great master, who in his

scores has done more than any other to develop new tone combinations in

the symphonic orchestra since Beethoven and before Wagner.

A great many of our men naturally went to the Casino to behold the

world-famous gambling tables, but if I ever had any worries about their

squandering their earnings they quite disappeared. Many only watched at

the outer edge, or else bet one chip very timidly. An aged harpy, who

looked as though she had played at Monte Carlo since the time of

Napoleon III and who kept a note-book of her losses and winnings and

never bet less than a hundred francs at a time, took it upon herself to

teach one of our talented young flute players how to play with one white

chip. She kept him in a state of the most panting thrills, while she

placed his bets for him.

The next morning I found a note from Jean de Reszke telling me that he,

his wife, and Amhurst Webber would motor over from Nice for the concert,

and asking my wife and me to lunch with him at the Grand Hotel de Paris,

where we were staying. It was such a joy to see him again. We had not

met since 1902, when he had been at the Metropolitan at the height of

his fame and I had conducted many a glorious “Tristan” performance with

him in the title rôle. Amhurst Webber, a highly talented English

musician, had then been with him as pianist and I had helped him a

little with his studies in composition and instrumentation. Mme. de

Reszke I had never had the pleasure of meeting before. A great tragedy

had come upon her, as their only son had been killed in the first year

of the war. It was heart-breaking to see her, as her face told the story

of her irreparable loss.

The concert in the afternoon took place in the exquisite little theatre

at the Casino. It seats only about four hundred people and of course

every seat was occupied. Jean de Reszke was in the fifth row of the

parquet, and as I came to the “Prize Song” in the “Meistersinger”

Overture, which he had sung so often and so ravishingly in New York, I

could not help but turn around to look at him. He gave me an immediate

smile, but the tears were running down his face.

At the close of the concert I was solemnly informed by the very polite

little intendant of the theatre that M. Blanc, the principal owner of

the Casino, the opera, the gambling tables, the Hotel de Paris, in fact

everything which draws the hundred-franc notes from the grateful

tourist, had expressed a desire to meet me and to thank me for the

“_concert exquis_.” I was accordingly piloted to another part of the

building, where, in an anteroom, five or six people were waiting as if

in a doctor’s outer office, while flunkies in livery were silently

walking around or delivering whispered messages to this or that man. One

of these approached my little intendant with a message, who turned to me

and, with a face radiant with pride, said: “Think of it! He will see us

first before all the others!”

We followed the flunky into an inner room where I found a tired-looking,

gray-mustached little man whom I had noticed sleeping in one of the

boxes during about half an hour of the concert. He congratulated me on

the “splendid concert and the exquisite playing of the orchestra,” and

as I sat there I marvelled at it all. Here was a man whom we in America

would call a gambling-house keeper, but he is certainly a king among

them. He has provided his gambling tables with a setting so exquisite

that words cannot describe it. Nature in her most charming mood,

beautiful architecture, delightful music, exquisite cooking—all these

so skilfully combined as to create an agreeable atmosphere for the

thousands who come every year with full pockets and generally leave with

empty ones. Incidentally he makes millions by thus cleverly pandering to

the gambling instincts which are inherent in almost every man (and

woman).

To me the most delightful feature of the concert, except of course the

visit of Jean de Reszke, was a large audience of seventy-five who sat

behind the scenes as there was no room for them in front. They were the

orchestra of the Monte Carlo Opera, an excellent body of men who

embraced us in true southern fashion between the parts and at the end of

the concert.

The next morning I continued the trip by motor to Genoa. As there had

been no strike of any kind in Monte Carlo I thought that our hoodoo had

lifted, but, lo and behold, at Genoa we found only one old, gray-bearded

portier at our hotel to greet us. All the waiters, porters,

chambermaids, cooks, scullions, in fact everything that could strike in

connection with a hotel, were on strike and the discomfort was

considerable. We had looked forward with pleasurable anticipation to our

first Italian dinner. We had dreamed of fritto misto, spaghetti, and of

delicious Italian ices, but these dreams quickly vanished. There was not

even a crust of bread to be obtained at the hotel. Finally we were

furtively conducted through an alley into the back entrance of a little

restaurant by way of the kitchen, and there we obtained some food, but

of the simplest and poorest variety. The next morning a cup of wretched

coffee and a piece of stale bread at the railroad station made our

breakfast, but luckily for us a kind young American, Mr. Allan, called

on us and whisked us off in his car to his house, where a delicious

luncheon made us forget our deprivations of the night before.

I was again amazed at the cleverness with which the members of our

orchestra adapted themselves to European travelling conditions. They had

all found excellent restaurants and had really fared much better than

we.

We gave our concert at the _Teatro Carlo Felice_, and our first Italian

audience proved to be even more noisy in their demonstrations of

pleasure than the _Midi_. I was very much touched to receive a large

wreath tied with the stars and stripes, from the American

Consul-General, who told me after the concert that he considered such a

cultural mission as we were engaged in of as much importance for cordial

relations between our country and Italy as any business enterprise. He

said that music meant so much to the Italian that he was amazed and

delighted to find that Americans did not only interest themselves in

business but also cultivated the arts. As the Italians had been so

bitterly disillusioned regarding President Wilson, after the

phenomenally enthusiastic acclaim which they had given him on his visit

to Rome only a year before, I was not surprised to have one old

gentleman say to me after the concert: “We do not like your President,

but we love the Americans.”

We left next morning by train for Rome. The highly talented young

composer, Signor Vincenzo Tommasini, had interested himself in our

concerts there and had enlisted the sympathies of the Accademia Santa

Cecilia, under whose auspices we were to play at the Augusteo. The Santa

Cecilia, which is composed of musicians and music lovers, is perhaps the

oldest musical organization in the world, as it was founded by

Palestrina. Under the presidency of Count San Martino it maintains a

symphony orchestra which gives a series of concerts during the winter

under its own conductor, Maestro Molinari, and various guest conductors.

All these concerts are given at the Augusteo, so called because it was

built by Augustus as a tomb for the Cæsars. It is a rotunda built of the

old Roman bricks, but balconies, a stage, and an organ have been added

to it in recent times to adapt it to modern concert needs. It very

likely was an excellent tomb, but its acoustics are hardly suited for an

orchestra. I do not know of any concert-hall built in circular shape

that is satisfactory in that respect. The sound vibrations seem to

travel around and around and great confusion of tones is the result,

especially in such music where changing harmonies succeed each other

rapidly. At our little preliminary rehearsal the hall was empty with the

exception of half a dozen members of the Santa Cecilia, and as we began

to play through a few bars of the symphony I thought I had suddenly

become deaf, as the sound of the orchestra did not reach me where I

stood. But I remembered our first experience at the Grand Opera House in

Paris and trusted to better conditions when the hall was full. This hope

was justified, as the tone of the orchestra was much clearer and better

balanced at the concert.

After the first and second movements of the “Eroica” Symphony there were

great applause and shouts of “Bravo!” from the boxes and parquet, but

this was immediately followed by very disconcerting whistling from the

top gallery, which seemed to develop into a kind of duel between the two

factions. I was somewhat disconcerted at this and thought that perhaps

something in our playing had not pleased the galleries, but my friends

of the Accademia Santa Cecilia assured me that this was nothing but a

characteristic little demonstration which often occurred at their

concerts. If the parquet and boxes approved of some particular

composition or rendition the galleries felt it incumbent upon them to

oppose it. I do not know how true this explanation is, but during the

concert the whistling suddenly ceased and after the “Riccardo Wagner.

Tristan e Isotta, Preludio e Morte di Isotta (Lipsia 1813—Venezia

1883),” as the Italian programme had it, the two factions seemed to have

buried their hatchets completely and were in absolute harmony as far as

their enthusiastic acclaim toward us was concerned.

During the two days following, the Romans overwhelmed us with

hospitalities. The heat was terrific, but the entire orchestra responded

to an invitation to be presented to the mayor and to visit the

Capitoline Museum, where they were offered a private view of its art

treasures, followed by a luncheon given by the municipality in the

adjoining ruins of the Tabolarium.

On the following morning Tommasini, Molinari, and a few others of my

musician colleagues sauntered into my salon and suggested that we go to

a concert given that morning at the Borghese Gardens by the famous Banda

Communale di Roma. The heat was so overwhelming that I shuddered at the

idea of standing under the blazing noonday sun listening to a concert,

especially as I had to conduct our own second concert on that afternoon.

“Please come,” said Tommasini.

“No, indeed,” I said. “It is far too hot and I want to do good work this

afternoon.”

“But the concert is given in your honor.”

“Good gracious! Why didn’t you tell me that immediately? Come along!”

I grabbed my hat and we drove to the Borghese Gardens, where a crowd of

several thousand people were gathered around the bandstand and where

Maestro Vecella was conducting his band in a beautiful rendition of the

Prelude to Wagner’s “Parsifal.” It was a wonderful performance. His

clarinets played the opening unison phrase with a vibrant and singing

quality that I have rarely heard equalled, and I was struck by the rapt

silence with which the huge audience of Italians listened to it. I,

unfortunately, arrived too late to hear the rendition of Beethoven’s

“Fifth Symphony,” which Vecella himself had arranged for military band

and which my musicians afterward told me had been beautifully performed.

The concert came to a close with a selection of airs from one of the

popular modern Italian operas. To my astonishment and delight, as the

band began to play this or that air, evidently well known to the

audience, groups of men around the bandstand joined in singing it with

the orchestra _mezza voce_, but with that perfect quality of tone which

is inborn in the Italian race. And then, as the sounds of one group

would die out, another from the other side would take it up, and this

continued until the end of the number. It was a delightful demonstration

of the innate musical genius of the Italian people.

I forgot temporarily that the sun was blazing down with a fierceness

almost unendurable, but after I had thanked Maestro Vecella for this

truly wonderful concert, I begged Molinari and Tommasini to take me back

to my hotel.

“Stay a little while longer,” said Tommasini.

“Impossible!” I answered. “I am melting away and there will be nothing

left of me if I do not get to some shaded spot soon.”

“Oh, but you will,” he said. “The Banda Communale are now going to

present you with the gold medal of the society, with a special

inscription.”

“Why in heaven’s name did you not tell me this sooner?” I said to my

friend, but he simply smiled his inscrutable Italian smile and lit

another cigarette. With the resolve to do or die, I marched along with

them to a private room in a restaurant adjoining the Gardens and there

ices and vermuth were served to the members of the two musical

organizations, and I was presented with the gold Roman medal, which I

treasure very highly as coming from so remarkable a body of players as

the Banda Communale di Roma.

For some years I have been interested in the new musical development

that is going on in Italy. There had been a period when her church music

led the world in the variety and beauty of its form. Later on,

especially in the eighteenth century, she had produced many composers of

distinction in instrumental music, but from then on and until very

recent times, opera had almost completely monopolized her writers. The

splendid opera-houses which are to be found in her smallest towns are

eloquent testimony to the important place which that form of art

occupies in the hearts of the Italian people. Every Italian can sing,

and the critics and lovers of opera are to be found just as much among

the poorer classes as among the aristocracy.

But all the testimony of older musicians with whom I have spoken and who

have travelled through Italy is to the effect that her orchestras

formerly were of a very poor quality. Their playing was slovenly and

rehearsals few and insufficient. Many of the players in the opera-houses

of even the larger cities followed some other calling in the daytime,

and there was many a tailor or shoemaker who played his violin in the

evening at the opera.

Within the last twenty-five years, however, a complete and almost

miraculous change has come over musical conditions throughout Italy. Its

conservatories in Rome, Milan, Bologna, and Naples turn out excellent

players, and several of her conductors rank with the best of other

countries. Signor Mancinelli, for instance, who was my colleague during

the years that I conducted at the Metropolitan for Maurice Grau, was a

first-class musician and conductor, well versed in more than Italian

music. He was a great lover of Mozart and gave beautiful performances of

the “Magic Flute” at the Metropolitan. He envied me my job of conducting

the Wagner operas and later on conducted many of them in Italy and

Spain.

Toscanini is one of the greatest conductors living to-day. His range

extends to the music of all countries, and I have heard him conduct

Mozart’s “Don Giovanni,” Verdi’s “Falstaff,” and Wagner’s

“Meistersinger” in one week with equal penetration into their beauties

and, incidentally, without an orchestral score in front of him. He has

made a virtue of necessity, as he is almost blind and has therefore

developed his power of memory to a greater extent than I have ever seen

in any other musician, not even excepting Hans von Bülow.

The result of Italy’s more serious attitude toward instrumental music

shows itself not only in the quality of Italian orchestras, but in a

group of highly talented young composers who devote their principal

efforts to symphonic music, and who are creating works that rank with

the best that other countries are now producing. Several years ago I

produced an orchestral suite written by a boy of sixteen, Victor di

Sabata, which showed remarkable talent and fine orchestral coloring.

Such men as Resphighi, Sinigaglia, Tommasini, Casella, Pizzetti, and

Malipiero have found frequent places on our programmes, and I expect

still further contributions, constantly growing in importance, from this

new development of the musical genius of Italy.

I was much touched by the interest which our ambassador, Mr. Johnson,

constantly showed in our success and well-being. He had invited the

Queen Mother and several of the young Princesses to our concerts, and at

the many official and governmental functions which I had to attend he

was a sympathetic companion and real brother artist. He always responded

very felicitously when occasion demanded, and all my Italian musician

friends loved him.

At a farewell supper which I gave on the last night John Powell, whose

negro Fantasy had interested our Italian audiences greatly, and the

composer, Malipiero, sat next to each other, but as John speaks English

and Malipiero Italian and French, the silence between them for about ten

minutes was deep and profound. Suddenly they broke into the most fluent

conversation and the words burst forth in torrents. They had suddenly

discovered to their mutual delight that the German language was a common

meeting-ground.

I left Rome very reluctantly. Quite apart from the many personal friends

that I had made there, its eternal beauty again enveloped me and bade me

stay.

I cannot imagine any movement or institution better calculated to help

young American artists to further develop and stimulate their creative

abilities than the American Academy in Rome. It has quite recently added

three music fellowships to those for painters, sculptors, architects,

and archæologists, and, as it has done me the honor to elect me as one

of the trustees and the still greater honor of giving my name to one of

the music fellowships, I revisited Rome in the spring of 1922 especially

to observe the workings of our academy. I was amazed and delighted

beyond words. The academy is intended for young artists who have already

acquired the technic of their profession. They are selected by

competition and are given absolute freedom from bread worries for three

years, the first two of which they spend at the home of the academy, the

Villa Aurelia. During the third year they may travel or live anywhere in

Europe where they think their artistic aims can be further advanced.

Rome and its surroundings are so romantic and its art treasures so

unique that the perception of beauty and its crystallization into works

of art cannot fail to be further stimulated in those of our American

boys who have the good fortune to achieve a fellowship.

It is, of course, impossible for any man-made institution to guarantee

that every incumbent will develop into a great genius, but it is certain

that as only the best are chosen, they will become still better through

such happy three years, and if among every two hundred only one real

genius is found and thus encouraged the academy will have justified its

existence.

Two of our music fellows had already arrived at the academy, Leo

Sowerby, of Chicago, and Howard Hanson, of San Jose, California, and had

immediately, with characteristic American energy, made themselves part

and parcel of Roman musical life. The Italian musicians had welcomed

them with open arms, and our boys were constantly found at the concerts

and rehearsals of the Santa Cecilia or having some of their Italian

musician friends at the Villa Aurelia for chamber-music, and a cup of

tea in the beautiful gardens surrounding the villa.

America owes a great debt of gratitude to Major Felix Lamond, through

whose single-mindedness of purpose and energy the fund has been

collected which has made the three music fellowships possible. He is now

continuing the work by giving his life to the music department of the

academy, and as its director acts as guide, counsellor, and friend to

its young incumbents. I must confess that during my visit I had the

constant yearning that I might be forty years younger and could spend

three wonderful years in Rome under such ideal conditions.

The last night Major Lamond, his wife, and I dined on the roof of the

Villa Aurelia with Director Stevens, who is in supreme charge of the

entire academy. According to Roman custom dinner began after nine

o’clock. Beneath us and stretching out toward the Campagna was the

entire city of Rome with its electric lights appearing like magic in

every direction. Beyond the Campagna rose the mountains, still visible

in the faint twilight. Opposite to us rose the hill of the Pincio

Gardens, and on the left, just visible over the tree tops, flamed the

cross of Saint Peter’s. The silence was profound until suddenly the

bells of Rome began to vibrate from all directions, and finally, faint

but clear, came the sound of a bugle from the military barracks, blowing

the retreat. By this time I was sunk in a silent ecstasy, but a further

climax was yet in store for me, for as the last notes of the bugle

trembled into silence a nightingale from the bushes directly below us

began to pour forth her song.

Florence came next on our orchestral tour and I looked forward with

eagerness after our crowded days of official receptions and concerts to

a day absolutely free from duties of any kind. We arrived on May 24, and

I hoped to sleep deep and late, but at nine o’clock next morning there

was a knock at my door, and without any further preliminary warning in

walked a young gentleman, who introduced himself as the representative

of the mayor of Florence, who “sends regrets that he cannot be here

himself but wishes me to give Maestro Damrosch the speech of welcome.” I

begged him to excuse me for a few minutes and attired myself so that I

could receive the mayor’s kind welcome in a more fitting garb and room.

Our concert was at the splendid Politeama Theatre, a great amphitheatre

with fine acoustics. Albert Spalding was our soloist, and as he had been

virtually brought up in Florence and the people there had watched his

career with eager interest, his appearance was a real homecoming and the

greeting affectionate in the extreme.

At a charming reception given at the house of Albert’s father after the

concert, I met the historian Ferrero and a delightful acquaintance from

previous visits, Mrs. Janet Ross. She is a daughter of the beautiful

Lady Duff-Gordon, and when she was a child George Meredith had occupied

a cottage on her father’s estate in England. He had adored her and it

was said that she had been his inspiration for _Rose_ in “Evan

Harrington.” I had met her in Florence in 1913, when she already was

well over seventy and a woman of remarkable intellectual power and

physical activity. She lives in a delightful old villa with walls two

feet thick on a hill below Fiesole. Boccaccio had written part of his

“Decameron” there and the house was filled with interesting old Italian

furniture. She made her own olive-oil and vermuth on her farm and sold

large quantities of it to England. When I admired some exquisite

dining-room chairs, she told me she had found them in Pisa and that they

were good eighteenth-century models. She said: “I have a little Italian

carpenter who carves wood very well and if you like I can have these

copied for you and they will cost you very little.” I have these chairs

in my house to-day and value them doubly as having come to me through

the good offices of this interesting lady.

She had also made a remarkable collection of old Italian _stornelli_,

which she had heard through mingling with the Italian peasants and

farmers in Tuscany and elsewhere and had noted down. As this collection

numbers literally hundreds of folk-songs, many of them dating back

centuries, it should prove valuable to the connoisseur.

In Parma, the following day, I visited the Teatro Farnese. It is the

oldest theatre in Italy, and while it is in a somewhat dilapidated

condition and, of course, no longer used for performances, it is

fascinating as a relic, and one can well imagine what splendid pageants

and dramatic cantatas must have been performed there before the great

nobles of that day and their retinue. The Teatro Regio seemed to me the

most beautiful that we had played in. It seated over two thousand people

and we marvelled that so small a town as Parma should be the proud

possessor of such a home for music.

The heat was again intense, but as the audience were in an extremely

receptive and tumultuous mood, we did not mind it, and the orchestra

played superbly. I was sorry therefore to have been compelled to nip in

the bud a little plot which I luckily discovered that evening. Sixteen

adventurous young members of the orchestra had very quietly decided that

they would take a midnight train for Venice, spend a happy day there on

its lagoons, with perhaps even a swim on the Lido, and then take another

night train for Milan, arriving just in time for our concert there.

Milan is an important musical centre, and I did not wish to play there

with an orchestra partly tired out by two night trips, besides the

strong possibility of delayed Italian trains, which operate on the

principle of _chi va piano, va sano, ma non lontano_. I therefore had to

forbid this little excursion, although I sympathized strongly with our

men for wanting to carry it out.

I arrived in Milan two hours ahead of the orchestra and was met at the

station by a committee consisting of Signor Finci, the president of the

Milan Symphony Society, under whose auspices we were to play, Campanari,

brother of my old friend the barytone, and honorary secretary of the

Verdi Home for Aged Musicians, the prefect of the police, and several

others. All had pale and anxious faces, and had come to tell me that

there was not a room to be had in Milan, that several hotels had closed

their doors as there was a restaurant and waiters’ strike, and that they

wanted to consult with me what had better be done. That mischievous

strike devil evidently was to be a permanent member of our organization

on the entire tour. I retired with the committee to the room of the

prefect at the railroad station and discussed various plans, although in

the back of my mind was the firm conviction that my men would find

rooms, beds, and food if they were suddenly dumped in the middle of the

desert of Sahara. I finally asked Campanari if there were any spare

rooms in the Verdi Home for Aged Musicians, and he informed me that the

entire home was empty, as they had not been able to operate it at all

during the war, owing to lack of funds. There were plenty of beds,

blankets, and sheets, but no servants of any kind. This was at least

something, and I thought that my young men would not at all mind

sleeping in beds that were intended for aged musicians and doing their

own chamber work. The prefect also suggested several empty beds in the

city hospital, but this did not look to me so inviting. However, I

finally arranged with them to meet again at the station on the arrival

of the orchestra and I would put the matter before them, and then let

them go forth and fare for themselves. Any one who had not found a bed

should return to the station and report at the office of the prefect,

who would then see that some kind of accommodation was found. This plan

was carried out and my manager reported to me that at the final hour

only two of our orchestra reported at the station, the one to say that

he had found no room and the other that he had two. These two men went

off arm in arm therefore, and my faith in the orchestra was again

abundantly justified, although the hotel strike here was even worse than

in Genoa. I was quartered with my family at the Continental Hotel and,

with the exception of a few toothless old hags, who made a pretense of

taking care of the rooms, there was no service of any kind. The

principal cause of the strike seems to have been a realization on the

part of hotel employees that it was undignified for them to accept tips,

especially as the tipping system produced such unequal results, the

chambermaid on the first floor of a hotel receiving often ten times as

much in tips as the one who officiated on the fourth floor. They

therefore demanded that a tax of ten to fifteen per cent be added to the

bills of travellers, this amount then to be distributed among the

employees according to a certain schedule. In the meantime we sizzled in

the heat and suffered. To add to our discomfort, there was a great

scarcity in the city supply of water, and if one wanted a bath it could

only be obtained at six o’clock in the morning or after ten at night.

But again the discipline of the men and the determination to demonstrate

themselves as an artistic organization manifested itself in a remarkable

way, and both of our concerts were superbly played and enthusiastically

received. We considered Milan one of the most important cities of our

tour. Its opera at the famous La Scala is world-renowned, and of recent

years, especially through the efforts of Maestro Toscanini, a highly

cultivated audience for symphonic music has developed.

Toscanini, whom I had known and often admired in America, was rehearsing

and conducting in Padua. To my surprise and delight he took a night

train from there in order to be present at our Sunday afternoon concert

and to give me a brotherly greeting. After the concert he accompanied me

to the railroad station where he was to take the night train back to

Padua. As we arrived my orchestra, who were already in their respective

sleeping-cars, recognized him and with a great roar of welcome gave him

three American cheers.

Our three days in Milan had been very busy ones. On Friday afternoon the

Ricordi Music Publishing Company gave us a reception, showing the

orchestra through their enormous printing works. The first concert was

given that evening. On Saturday the mayor and commune of Milan gave us a

reception with a visit to the City Museum at the Castello Sforzesco.

This was followed by a concert given for us by the excellent municipal

band in the courtyard, and a “tea” which consisted of all manner of

sandwiches, ices, cakes, and, above all, innumerable bottles of

champagne. We were all glad that there was no concert that evening.

After the Sunday concert a number of motor-buses took the orchestra and

musical instruments quickly to the station, while our Italian friends

stood around and marvelled at what they called “American efficiency,”

and we rolled out of Milan and Italy on our way to Strassbourg,

exceedingly tired, but with a feeling that we had brought Italy and

America many steps nearer to each other by our visit. We had been simply

overwhelmed with demonstrations of affection from the moment we arrived

in Italy, and there is something in the almost childlike manner in which

the Italians demonstrate their feelings that endeared them very quickly

to us. They are seething with vitality, and the very intensity of their

emotions, which to the cooler North American temperament sometimes seems

exaggerated, is a force to be reckoned with in the future of the world.

While their civilization is the oldest in Europe they seem to be the

youngest people of to-day, and in my profession and the kindred arts I

expect great things from the Italian people as soon as the dreadful

aftermath of the World War shall have been cleared away.

I was much interested in Strassbourg and Metz in the curious mixture of

German and French civilization. In Strassbourg we were very cordially

received by the new director of the Conservatory, M. Ropartz, of Nancy,

one of France’s most distinguished musicians.

At Metz the mayor made a speech of welcome and with a group of citizens

gave us a “vin d’honneur” after the concert. Both cities gave us

audiences evidently accustomed to concerts of symphonic music and with a

fine appreciation of what we would offer them.

On the public square in Strassbourg I noticed a group of citizens

excitedly pointing toward a steeple on the opposite side and, lo and

behold, I saw a stork, the first one to get back from his winter sojourn

in Africa to spend the summer in his native haunts. The reader will

wonder that I have not something more exciting to relate, but I confess

that the complete freedom from the official and social engagements after

our hectic weeks in Italy came like a heavenly balm, not to mention the

agreeable change of living again in a hotel with real waiters,

chambermaids, and cooks to minister to one’s comfort.

I looked at that stork and suddenly an old doggerel jumped into my head

that I had sung with other children over fifty years before, and which

begins:

“Storch, Storch, Steiner, mit de langen Beiner”—

and here was perhaps a descendant of the very bird whom we had greeted

so long ago. I was inclined to become sentimental over this interesting

possibility, but the stork flew away without showing any reciprocal

interest and my mood did not last long.

We returned to Paris the following day, and on the morning of June 4

started in a special train to Fontainebleau, where the entire orchestra

were to be guests of the mayor and municipality for the day.

The suggestions which I had made to Francis Casadesus in Paris and

Chaumont during our long talks in 1918, while he and I were examining

the two hundred bandmasters of the A. E. F., had borne quick fruits.

Casadesus had communicated my suggestion of a summer school for American

musicians to his very musical friend, M. Fragnaud, the sous-préfet of

Fontainebleau. He in turn had interested M. Bonnet, the mayor, and in

consequence a quick decision had been reached that the summer school

should be placed at Fontainebleau and housed in an entire wing of the

historic Palais de Fontainebleau, which would be donated for this

purpose by the French Government. I was delighted at this happy outcome,

and, as the people concerned evidently wished to signalize it by some

special fête, I gladly accepted their invitation to give a concert there

with our orchestra and make this, so to speak, the beginning of

relations which will, I hope, help materially to bring France and

America musically closer together for many years to come.

Many French musicians and dignitaries were on the train to take part in

the day’s celebration. There were M. Paul Leon, representing the

Ministère des Beaux Arts; Alfred Cortot, distinguished pianist; Mangeot,

editor of the _Monde Musicale_ and founder of the École Normale de

Musique in Paris; Francis and Henri Casadesus, Mlle. Boulanger, Albert

Bruneau, composer of the opera “Le Rêve”; M. Dumesnil, deputy for

Fontainebleau, and many others.

The whole town had been declared “en fête.” Every shop was closed and

French and American flags, gaily intertwined, festooned all the

principal streets. The street leading to the Mairie was lined on both

sides by French troops, and we all tried to look as if we were delegates

to the Versailles Conference as we marched to the reception of the

mayor, and looked at this martial array.

The luncheon which followed was one of those typical French affairs in

which the gay was charmingly mingled with the more serious and

ceremonial. M. Dumesnil proved himself one of the greatest orators I

have ever heard and played upon every emotion of the human heart,

evoking tears and laughter with the voice and diction of a virtuoso.

He was succeeded by M. Bruneau arising and suddenly addressing me, and

at the close pinning the Legion d’Honneur on my coat, after which, to

the huge delight of my orchestra, he, in true French fashion, kissed me

on both cheeks. It is very agreeable to have one’s orchestra present

while such honors are conferred, as their approval demonstrates itself

in most noisy fashion, and my boys know that this particular decoration

is as much theirs as mine.

As there was no theatre in Fontainebleau large enough to hold the huge

audience, the concert was given in the Ménage d’Artillerie, which had

been hastily converted into a concert hall. It proved excellent for this

purpose, except that as soon as we began playing, hundreds of birds,

which had had undisturbed possession of the rafters and of the musical

privileges of this building for years, were evidently disturbed and

angered by our intrusion. They suddenly flew out from their nests and

burst into shrill songs of protest, which mingled, not without

interesting results, with the harmonies of the “New World Symphony,”

played by special request of the sous-préfet, M. Fragnaud, who is

himself an excellent amateur oboe player.

In the front rows of the audience were hundreds of school-children who

had been dressed “en Américaine,” with enormous bows and sashes composed

of the American stars and stripes. That there were several hundred of

these I can testify, as I had to shake hands with every one of them

after the concert.

The following day, before leaving for Belgium, I received the welcome

news that a rather disagreeable matter concerning our three concerts at

the Paris Opéra had been most amicably settled. The Opera House, which

is the property of the French Government, had been offered to us by the

Ministère des Beaux Arts “free of rent,” but we were to pay for the

actual expenses of light, heat, and service incurred. When I first

arrived in Paris our local manager informed us that the Director of the

Opera, who holds a lease of the building, intended to charge us thirty

thousand francs for his “expenses.” This seemed to me excessive, and I

remonstrated with M. Leon, the Director of the Beaux Arts. The Director

of the Opera, who had lost millions of francs at the opera during the

war, was a man of wealth to whom the opera was more or less of a

personal toy, but he evidently wished to recoup somewhat on us, for he

argued that, inasmuch as he might have given opera performances on the

days and hours when we had our concerts, we should be charged with the

pro-rata expense of his singers, orchestra, chorus, and ballet. This

argument, however, did not seem valid to us, as since time immemorial

there had never been any opera performances on those days of the week. I

presented our case to M. Leon and told him that as I had never had any

dealing or arrangement with the Director of the Opera but only with the

Ministère des Beaux Arts, I was compelled to leave the matter entirely

in their hands. We were their guests, and if they felt that we should

pay thirty thousand francs for “expenses” we would most certainly do so.

The results were most satisfactory, but not entirely unexpected by me,

and the sum which we finally paid was a perfectly fair amount.

We went to Brussels on June 3 by motor, through a great part of the

devastated regions and all the horror and misery of destroyed villages,

field after field pock-marked by shell explosions and dreary remains of

a few stumps of trees where had been acres and acres of forest.

On our arrival we were welcomed with open arms by our ambassador, Brand

Whitlock, and his wife. He told me that but two weeks before he had been

suddenly informed that we could not play at the Théâtre Royal de la

Monnaie because a socialist organization of Brussels claimed the right

to it for an entertainment of their own. There had been a mix-up because

the director of the opera, who had promised us the theatre, had died and

the new incumbent claimed to have no knowledge of our coming. They

intended to place us in a Flemish theatre, which of course did not have

the dignity of the Royal Opera House, and Mr. Whitlock promptly told

them that, as we were there by invitation of the Belgian Government and

as our coming had an international significance, he could not permit us

to be euchred out of our rightful possession of the Théâtre de la

Monnaie, and if we could not have that he would telegraph to me urging

us to cancel the concert. This evidently produced results. The socialist

organization was appealed to, and immediately and courteously said that

it would do anything for an American orchestra.

The same lack of what we would call proper management of concerts seemed

to exist in Brussels as in many cities of France and Italy. Large

advertisements, such as fill the amusement columns of American papers,

are hardly ever used. Two lines inserted only once or twice are the

rule. Reading notices, giving the programme or other information

regarding the concert, are printed only if paid for at so much a line.

Small posters, which are pasted on street corners for a week or two, are

almost the only advertising indulged in.

Transfer companies—such as in our country meet a musical or theatrical

organization at the station with a specified number of trucks to carry

the musical baggage or scenery to the theatre—are not known. We had put

this important part of our tour into the hands of Thomas Cook and Sons,

and their representative, on the arrival of the train, would negotiate

with this or that driver lounging around the station and lazily looking

for jobs. In Italy the porters again and again simply refused to

transport our stuff because the weather was too hot, and they would only

begin at six or seven o’clock in the evening, when thirty little

handcarts, pushed by as many men, would carry the musical instruments to

the theatre. Luckily concerts in Italy begin at nine or nine-thirty, so

we always managed in one way or another to get our instruments

transported. Several times, however, even soldiers and military camions

were bribed into service. This slovenliness, which is maddening to an

American, is so universal in Europe, especially since the war, that one

marvels how anything can be accomplished; and yet with the exception of

places where strikes interfered we got along, even though we were

sometimes wild with anxiety and foolishly furious at what we considered

to be their national characteristics.

Everybody in Belgium, however, seems to read the posters, for the demand

for seats in Brussels was so great that we could have filled the little

opera-house twice over. Its acoustics are marvellous, and the strings

vibrate like an old Cremona violin. They had specially requested that

the concert should be purely symphonic and without any soloist. I

therefore gave them the lovely Mozart “Jupiter” Symphony and the César

Franck D Minor. Franck had been born in Liège, and I wished to

demonstrate to them our love and understanding of this noble musician. I

do not think I have ever played before an audience more sensitive to the

beauties of music. As a special compliment to Brussels we played an

Adagio for strings by Lekeu, a modern, highly talented, young Belgian

composer, who unfortunately had died at the age of twenty-four. The

Adagio is a work of tender, melancholy beauty, and sounded so exquisite

in this building that the players and I were intensely moved by it

during the performance. This emotion was evidently communicated to the

audience, so that at the close their applause could not be quieted, and

I finally had to take the score of the composition from my desk and

point to it in silent pantomime.

After the concert, as I was preparing to leave the theatre, two ladies

came toward me with an old man who proved to be the father of Guillaume

Lekeu. He tried to thank me for our playing of his son’s composition,

but broke down completely as the tears poured down his face.

The following day at Antwerp I saw again to my great delight the famous

old tenor, Van Dyk, with whom I had given many a Wagner opera during our

engagement at the Metropolitan with the Maurice Grau Opera Company. His

villa, near Antwerp, had been occupied by a German general and his staff

during the four years of the war. They had drunk up his entire

wine-cellar, consisting of many hundred bottles of choice vintages, and

had also removed every bit of copper from his door-knobs and kitchen.

Otherwise they had left his house intact, and, with imperturbable good

humor and courage, Van Dyk had taken up again the work of gaining an

existence for his family. Twice a week he went to Brussels, where he had

an interesting class in dramatic singing at the Royal Conservatory, and

besides this he was busily engaged as a director of an insurance

company.

In Antwerp, as well as in Liège and Ghent, we found the same

discriminating and educated audiences as in Brussels.

Hardly anywhere did we see the ravages of war, and what little there

were were being quickly repaired by the industrious inhabitants.

We left Belgium on June 10, to enter Holland, playing at The Hague that

evening and in Amsterdam the day after.

In Holland our American diplomatic representative, William Phillips,

Minister to The Hague, had been active in assuring us a welcome. He was

an old friend and had invited not only the Queen Mother, who is the only

musical member of the royal household, but a distinguished party of

nearly one hundred, including all the diplomatic representatives and the

highest officials of the court and governments, to be his guests at the

concert.

After the first part he introduced me to the Queen Mother, who proved to

be very charming and much interested in music, and who also possessed

that delightful royal quality of putting you “at your ease.” This

consists in asking a question and then not waiting for you to answer,

but answering it in all its possibilities and bearings herself.

Conversation is thus made rather one-sided but agreeable, even though

all the brilliant things one might have said remain unuttered.

After the concert the entire distinguished party assembled at the

legation for a delicious supper, at which I met a great many charming

Dutch ladies who, fortunately for me, spoke English or French.

The next day Mr. Phillips motored me to Amsterdam. There the members of

the local orchestra immediately poured into the willing ears of my men

dreadful stories of local jealousy of our coming, that several of the

newspapers had been told to criticise us severely, and that all the

adherents of the local orchestra had ostentatiously decided to absent

themselves from our concert. Very little of this proved to be true. The

huge hall in which we played, the Concertgebow, has a stage perched up

so high that the people in the parquet literally have to strain their

necks to see the performers, and the reverberation of sound is

excessive. The hall seats three thousand people, and there were not more

than fourteen hundred at our concert. However, they certainly made up in

enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers. All previous notions of the

phlegm of the Dutch people were completely dissipated. Not being a prima

donna, I did not keep count of the many times I was recalled after the

“Eroica” Symphony, but, as I had to march down and up a platform of

about fifty steps each time, the exercise in connection with it was

considerable. The newspapers next morning, in spite of all the dark

rumors, were enthusiastic in our praise and generous in their comparison

of our orchestra with their own splendid organization.

London marked the last lap of our musical race through Europe. We stayed

a week and gave five concerts, four at Queens’ Hall on June 14, 15, 16,

and 19, and one on June 20 at the huge Royal Albert Hall. The lucky star

which had accompanied us during the entire tour shone for us with

steadfast light during this last week. The orchestra never played better

and the newspapers heartily echoed the reception we received from the

public.

I had not conducted in London since a concert mentioned elsewhere in

these reminiscences, given at Princes’ Hall by Ovide Musin in 1888, when

I was but twenty-six years of age. Since then great changes have come

over the musical life of England. At that time music was to a great

extent in the hands of foreigners, and one has only to see the old

pictures by Du Maurier in _Punch_ to realize that the musician in

English drawing-rooms was generally a long-haired German or Italian.

Hans Richter was the great popular conductor in London and there were

many foreigners in the British orchestras.

Since then the Anglicization of music had been going on rapidly, thanks

principally to great music-schools such as the Royal College of Music,

under Sir Charles Villiers Stanford and Sir Hugh Allen, and the Royal

Academy of Music, under Sir Alexander MacKenzie. These schools educate

great numbers of orchestral musicians, and to-day the personnel of

British orchestras is composed almost entirely of native-born. Many of

us consider Sir Edward Elgar the greatest symphonic composer since

Brahms, and his education has been altogether British. A group of

English conductors, of whom Sir Henry Wood is the dean and Albert Coates

and Eugene Goosens among the most gifted, have made for themselves an

international reputation. England has now the material for a strong

national musical life. With such conductors as she possesses and her

splendid orchestral material, her orchestras would soon rival those of

America if her citizens would give them the same generous support which

our organizations receive, but in this respect the condition of London

is very much what it was in New York preceding and during the first half

of my career.

Her orchestras are to a great extent co-operative. The concerts are

projected and given by the members of the orchestra and they divide the

profits among themselves. These profits are exceedingly small and do not

really pay them for the time given to the rehearsals and concerts. The

London Symphony, for instance, gives only eight concerts during the

winter, and rarely has more than three rehearsals to a concert. In

consequence of this, while the players have developed a great facility

in reading at sight and making the most of the limited rehearsal time,

the results cannot be as finely worked out as is possible in the

generously endowed orchestras of America, which assemble their players

every morning for rehearsal and give more than one hundred symphonic

concerts during a winter.

We lay great stress on unanimity of bowing, for proper phrasing can only

be secured if the sixteen first violins, for instance, who have to play

a phrase in unison, play as one. To the educated ear there is a great

difference in the effect if one or two or more notes are played on the

same bow or if a phrase is begun with an up or a down bow. Generally

speaking, this unanimity in our playing impressed and delighted our

London audiences and critics, but one of the latter was evidently

annoyed by it as he began his analysis of our concert with the

head-line: “Orchestra Too Perfect to be Good.” His eye had evidently

been accustomed to the more “free and easy” bowing at some of their own

concerts, and he thought that a more emotionally inspired effect was

produced if the individual member of the orchestra is not restricted by

too much discipline. It must be acknowledged, however, that a good

conductor must guard himself from the temptation to make a god out of

technic, which should, after all, be merely a means to an end.

Because of our undoubted superiority in orchestras and opera we cannot,

however, claim to be a more musical people than the British. Their love

and cultivation of choral music is far greater than ours and they have a

small group of composers whose work is more important and interesting

than the aggregate we can as yet produce.

Augustus Littleton and his friends arranged many affairs for our

pleasure, among them a ceremonial luncheon at the Mansion House by the

Lord Mayor of London. This luncheon was attended also by the American

ambassador, Mr. Davis, Viscount Bryce, and many of the foremost English

musicians. My orchestra was hugely delighted and impressed with the

quaint mediæval ceremonies, the gorgeous uniforms and liveries, and the

prodigal hospitality displayed by our kind host. As a mark of special

friendliness toward the New York Symphony Orchestra and its first visit

to Great Britain I was made a member of the “Worshipfull Company of

Musicians,” founded by James I in 1604, and was presented with the

silver medal of that ancient organization.

Our ambassador proved himself just as able to discourse eloquently on

the importance of music as on any other theme which might tend to

strengthen cultural bonds between the two nations. Both he and his wife

had evidently endeared themselves to the English people, and many were

the regrets when, with the change of party in Washington, he tendered

his resignation.

Throughout the luncheon Lord Bryce beamed his approval of the

proceedings, as he had given nearly all of his energies during the later

years of his life toward a better understanding between the two

English-speaking countries.

The orchestra sailed for America on the _Olympic_ on the Tuesday

following our last concert, and I bade them good-by with my heart in my

mouth; they had done such honor to our president, Mr. Flagler, to our

country, and to their conductor. During the entire tour of seven weeks

there had not been one lapse from perfect discipline, a discipline

largely self-imposed. Each one had felt his responsibility and had acted

accordingly. Their playing had been at high-water mark continually and

they had borne the inevitable fatigues and annoyances of constant travel

with unfailing good humor. On the other hand, their delights had been

many. They had seen the great art treasures and scenic beauties of five

countries, and with that quick perception which is one of the

characteristics of American life, they had taken full advantage of their

opportunities. If they gave of their best with both hands, Europe

certainly returned with equal prodigality, and there is not one of my

men who would not jump at the chance to repeat our experiences at the

first opportunity, naturally still further extending the tour to include

Germany, Austria, Poland, and Czecho-Slovakia. We are still somewhat shy

of Russia, however, as the reports which my Russian musicians get from

their former country are too dismal and uninviting.