Chapter C: Wagner

Bayreuth, 6 Juli, 1903.

Conried, however, obtained his parts elsewhere, and gave a stage performance that winter. Since then the copyright on “Parsifal” has run out and it has been produced all over the world.

During my search for modern works I endeavored also to keep alive the interest in the old oratorios. I owed much to them, and their dignity and genuine expression of religious feeling had been a most important factor in my early and earliest education. As a boy I sang alto in the Oratorio Society chorus and at sixteen was promoted to the dignity of accompanist at rehearsals. At this work I became quite an expert, and if my father stopped at a certain place to correct the chorus, I would, of course, know beforehand what he wanted, and would hammer out the right note for the altos or the tenors—it was usually the tenors—or would resort, even while they were singing, to all manner of expedients, such as playing the critical intervals an octave higher in order to keep up the pitch or to define them more clearly. As both my mother and Tante Marie sang in the chorus, there would be the four of us going home together after a rehearsal, discussing this or that point which needed more drilling, or a weakness that needed bolstering up, or we would express mutual enthusiasm over some chorus particularly well sung that evening. Naturally the refrain after almost every rehearsal was: “How can we get ten more first tenors?” America did not seem to grow them, and as even basses were not as plentiful as they should have been, it seemed almost as if the future American composer should write choruses for women only. If at the voice trial of new applicants, which usually took place before or after rehearsal, that _rara avis_, a tenor, was found, we glowed with delight and speculated as to whether he would really turn up at the next rehearsal and become a regular member. It cannot be claimed that tenors are to be found in profusion even to-day, but there has been an immense development in the quality of choral singers. Their voices are better trained, they read better at sight, and the general increase of interest in music manifests itself very strongly in this direction.

In 1892 I gave a Handel festival in honor of the one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the first performance of Handel’s “Messiah” in Dublin under his own direction, in 1742, followed by the one which King George II and his court attended, and when the crowd was so great that the management requested the gentlemen not to wear their swords nor the ladies their hoop-skirts, in order to enable as many as possible to hear the work of “Mr. Handel.” At this performance, when the Hallelujah chorus began, with its mighty climax, “King of Kings, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” King George, overcome with emotion, arose and remained standing until the end. Naturally the entire audience rose in imitation of their royal master, and Great Britain has continued this custom ever since. As this was a fitting homage both to the Almighty and to the composer who in this chorus so marvellously voiced man’s adoration for him, my father introduced the custom at his own first performance of the “Messiah,” in 1874, and the Oratorio Society audiences have followed it to this day.

An interesting account of the kind of orchestra Handel may have employed is given in a description of a memorial service of the “Messiah,” sung in Westminster Abbey shortly after his death. I decided to reproduce such an orchestra as far as possible at our festival performance. The main characteristics consisted in the doubling up of the string parts in the choruses with oboes and bassoons and in duplicating the trumpets and kettledrums in the choral climaxes. The effect of this was most remarkable. I had placed an additional oboe with every three violins and an additional bassoon for every three violoncellos, with a few contrabassoons and contrabass clarinets to strengthen the double-basses and to take the part of the serpent—an instrument which has become obsolete. The doubling up of trumpets and kettledrums in the climaxes did not make them sound louder, but more full. For the first time in my experience the sound of the orchestra was not completely buried in the avalanche of tone from a large chorus of three hundred and fifty voices. The orchestral accompaniments supported and supplemented the chorus in a way that perhaps only a very large and mellow church organ might.

In Handel’s time he himself usually sat at the organ and filled in with masterly improvisations many of the harmonies for which in his score he had written only the bass, with figures indicating the harmonies which the organist should improvise. Since then various musicians have endeavored to supply these harmonies in permanent fashion by writing them for other instruments in the orchestra, principally for clarinets and bassoons. As most concert-halls are but poorly supplied with organs, these arrangements offered a kind of substitute, and the one most in use was that of Robert Franz. He was a German composer of very lovely songs, and a great admirer of Handel, but, curiously enough, his arrangements were very bad and not in keeping with the Handelian spirit. Mozart also had written accompaniments to supply the missing harmonies for a performance of the “Messiah” in Vienna at a hall in which there was no church organ. His additions, especially in the air “The people that walked in darkness,” are of such transcendent beauty that when I proceeded in my work of restoring the Handelian orchestra to its original form my courage failed me completely as I came to this air. It was as if one master had found a painting by another and had encircled it in a frame of such beauty as to enhance the value of the original picture. I could not bear to disturb it, but the clarinets and bassoons of Robert Franz were thrown out by me with great gusto.

Another novel and interesting feature of our festival was a scenic stage performance of a charming pastoral of Handel’s “Acis and Galatea.” This proved to have dramatic qualities which in their appeal seemed way beyond that of the many Italian operas which Handel has written. The cast was excellent. The part of _Galatea_ was sung by Madame de Vere, a charming coloratura singer; the shepherd _Acis_ by William Rieger, one of our best young concert tenors; and _Polyphemus_, the giant, by that master artist, Emil Fischer. The scene represented a landscape of classic beauty, and all the participants were clad in very charming Greek shepherd costumes. The scene in which _Polyphemus_, coming upon the shepherd lovers, lifts a huge rock and in jealous rage kills Acis, was done with such dramatic intensity as to thrill our audiences. The performance was a real event, as this work had perhaps not been given in its dramatic form since the time of Handel; but, curiously enough, it roused but little interest, for, whereas all the other performances of the festival were crowded to the doors, we had but half an audience at our two performances of the pastoral. It came about twenty years too early, and I think that to-day, especially if given under the auspices of the Metropolitan Opera, it would arouse wide-spread interest.

This spring (1922) I was in Munich and the town was in great excitement over the approaching performance of Handel’s “Acis and Galatea” in dramatic form. Their conductor, Bruno Walter, said to me: “We are very proud of this stage performance, as it is the first since Handel’s time.” He was amazed and, as he told me, much chagrined when I informed him that I had given it in New York nearly thirty years ago. He gave it a beautiful performance. I had costumed my singers in classic Greek, but the Munich stage director had given the work an additional and rather piquant flavor by dressing the singers and dancers as in Handel’s time, when all performers, in no matter what age their plays were supposed to take place, wore the costumes and huge periwigs of their own period.

In the summer of 1898 we were much excited by the dramatic accounts of Admiral Dewey’s victory in Manila Bay, and it seemed to me fitting to celebrate it by composing a “Te Deum” for soloists, chorus, and orchestra. In order to give my “Manila Te Deum” an appropriate character, I used several of the bugle-calls of the American army and navy as a _cantus firmus_, around which I wove the fugal developments of the voices of the chorus. In the last chorus, “O Lord, in thee have I trusted; let me never be confounded,” I used the “Star-Spangled Banner” in similar fashion.

The work received its first performance at a concert of the Oratorio Society, December 3, 1898, and marked the introduction of my brother as regular conductor of the society. The following spring I was invited to conduct it at a Dewey celebration in Chicago, and on February 6, 1900, I directed it again at a special performance given in Carnegie Hall, the proceeds of which were to be used toward the building of an arch in honor of Admiral Dewey. This arch, however, was never built, and the several thousand dollars which resulted from our concert were finally donated by the Dewey Arch Committee to a philanthropic purpose. Our two guests of honor at this performance were Admiral Dewey, in a box on one side of the hall, and Theodore Roosevelt, at that time Governor of New York, in a box on the other side. Roosevelt was to make an appropriate address, and as the victor of Manila Bay was present and the entire occasion was one of jubilant admiration for our navy, we expected one of Roosevelt’s most flaming patriotic addresses on the glories of the American navy. But, alas, that evening his mind was completely occupied with things nearer home, and after a few very courteous remarks about my music, he launched forth into a terrific speech on the Street Cleaning Department of New York and the “duty of every citizen to vote at the primaries”!

In 1892 I gave the first performance in America of Saint-Saëns’s opera of “Samson and Delilah.” This work is admirably adapted for concert performance, and many portions of it are far more effective in this form than on the stage. The music is lovely and of great melodic simplicity, and many of the choruses are written in oratorio form. At stage performances the dramatic climax of the second act, in which _Delilah_ appears jubilantly at the door of her palace, shaking _Samson’s_ red wig triumphantly at the admiring high priest and soldiers, is really an anticlimax, and excites our risibilities much more than our sorrow that the God-given strength of the mighty soldier has left him.

From my father I have inherited a deep admiration for Hector Berlioz and have conducted many performances of his greater works—the “Damnation of Faust,” the “Requiem Mass,” “Romeo and Juliet,” and the first rendition in America of his “Te Deum.”

Another novelty which I produced with the Oratorio Society in 1889 was the “Missa Solemnis” of Edward Grell. This work created a sensation. Its composer was virtually unknown except locally in Berlin, where he had been a teacher of counterpoint and composition in the first half of the nineteenth century. He had lived himself so completely into the style of the Italian masters of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that modern harmonies simply did not exist for him, and his “Missa Solemnis” is conceived absolutely in the manner of the early masters of ecclesiastical music. It is written for four choruses of four parts each and four solo quartets. There is absolutely no accompaniment, and the purity of these sixteen-part harmonies without any admixture of instruments produces truly celestial effects. The four choruses which are generally used antiphonally with the solo quartets, produce thrilling climaxes, and the _Benedictus_ especially gives an impression of ecstatic beauty.

I have written elsewhere, of my first performance of the “Christus,” by Liszt. I also produced “St. Christopher,” by Horatio Parker, distinguished American musician and composer. This work, however, did not prove as effective as his “Hora Novissima.” It seemed to fall between two stools, as it was neither an opera nor an oratorio.

I gave, of course, many renditions of the oratorios of Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn, and inaugurated the custom of an annual performance of Bach’s “St. Matthew’s Passion” during Holy Week. I am happy to say that I succeeded in “popularizing” this mighty work, so that now it draws a huge and devout audience whenever it is given. But, generally speaking, the interest in the older oratorios is waning, not only in New York but all over the country. The ears of our audiences have lost pleasure in the simpler harmonies of Handel and Haydn, and, accustomed to the richer orchestration of to-day, find the accompaniments of the Handelian orchestra thin and archaic. Something of the simple and naïve religious faith that inspired the old oratorios has also gone, and the composer has not yet been found who can voice the faith and aspirations of to-day. It is a pity that the old oratorio form should therefore be neglected. I think, however, that it is not dead but only sleeps, and will awaken again.

In 1898 I retired as conductor of the Oratorio Society, owing to the pressure of my operatic and orchestral work, and my brother Frank was elected as my successor. He is two years older than I and has always shared my love and enthusiasm for music in an equal degree. He studied the piano as a boy, but had always insisted that his talent was not great enough to warrant making music his profession; and therefore, at the age of seventeen, he with great courage determined to go out West and begin a business career. Arrived in Denver, Colorado, with one hundred dollars in his pocket, he proceeded, in the manner of our American young men who have no intention of becoming a burden on their parents, to earn his own living.

He began at the very bottom and slowly worked his way upward, but suffered intensely during his first years in Denver from the almost total lack of music there. He had drunk of it in such generous quantities in New York that it had become a larger part of his very life than he had realized; and in order to satisfy his need he founded a choral society with which he gave some of the old oratorios, and with characteristic audacity he supplemented this with an orchestra composed of a handful of professionals then playing at the Denver theatres and a few amateurs. The citizens of Denver, realizing that he was a real musician in spite of his modest estimate of himself, urged him to give up business and turn altogether to music.

At the time of my father’s death Frank had become virtually the moving force in all the higher musical enterprises of Denver. It seemed to me that the time had come to urge him to return to New York and together with me continue the work my father had begun. He was promptly engaged as chorus master at the Metropolitan Opera House, and also became more and more active in pedagogic work, for which he had a special enthusiasm which has never waned.

His activities extended in many directions. He founded the Young People’s Concerts at Carnegie Hall, and became supervisor of music in the public schools of New York, completely reforming the teaching of music. The good effects of this are felt to this day. He also founded the People’s Choral Union, in which working men and women were taught singing and the rudiments of music and then promoted into a chorus of twelve hundred voices which studied and performed the old oratorios of Handel and Haydn.

He officiated as conductor of the Oratorio Society from 1898 until 1912, and during this period conducted first performances in New York of Edward Elgar’s “The Dream of Gerontius” and “The Apostles,” Anton Dvořák’s “Stabat Mater,” Gabriel Pierné’s “Children’s Crusade,” Johannes Brahms’s “Song of Fate,” and Wolf-Ferrari’s “La Vita Nuova.”

His interest in the pedagogy of music culminated in the founding of a music-school—the Institute of Musical Art—which was liberally endowed by James Loeb and others, and which has developed into one of the few great music-schools of this country and Europe. This school soon began to assume such proportions as to demand all of his time and vitality. He therefore retired from other public work, with the exception of the conductorship of the Society of Musical Art, a unique chorus of sixty-five professional singers, giving only two concerts during the season, representing the highest that can be attained in choral singing. For its programmes he drew upon the rich and partly unknown treasures of the _a capella_ choruses of such masters as Palestrina, Orlando di Lasso, Cornelius, and Brahms; and as this chorus was composed of the very elect of New York’s church and concert singers he obtained results ravishing in their beauty.

When we were boys together we quarrelled dreadfully and outrageously. Frank would try to assert his two years’ seniority over me and I would resent this with both hands and feet. I remember my mother resolutely separating us and giving me a little room to myself, as that seemed the only way to achieve peace between us. But I am happy to say that since 1885, when Frank returned to New York, we have lived and worked together in absolute harmony and mutual helpfulness. In fact, the unity between us has been so complete that we are now inclined by contrast to consider each other as having been exceptionally devilish and nasty during those early boyhood years. I know, of course, that the blame was entirely his, as he was so overbearing and presuming because of the accident of his earlier birth, while he is equally convinced that I was altogether too cheeky for my age and it was absolutely necessary for my own good and future welfare to put me where I belonged.

In 1919 I was again asked to assume the direction of the Oratorio Society. Their affairs had not prospered after my brother had relinquished the conductorship. A huge debt threatened to engulf them, and, while I was overwhelmed with work in connection with the New York Symphony Orchestra, with which I gave over a hundred concerts every winter, I could not resist their appeal and promised to stay by them until they could find a permanent conductor to their liking.

I am glad to say that the man was found in Albert Stoessel. He had been a bandmaster in the A. E. F. during the war, had been chosen as teacher of conducting at the bandmaster’s school in Chaumont, which I had founded for General Pershing, and had become my assistant conductor at the rehearsals of the Oratorio Society. The chorus were delighted with him, and he was elected as regular conductor of the society in 1920. He has already conducted two highly successful seasons, and I think that our beloved old society will have many years of life and success under his direction.