Читать книгу Two Worlds of Music - Berta Geissmar - Страница 10

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It is astonishing to me even now to look back and remember how1927 rich was the musical life in cities like Berlin and Vienna in the years after 1918, and how culture flourished in Germany and Austria. While in France and England the capitals were more or less the principal centers of all cultural and social life, in Germany, towns like Dresden, Leipzig, Munich, Hamburg, Cologne, and Breslau all had their own individual life. The musical field was full of men of outstanding merit, and there was ample opportunity for all of them.

While his activities were actually centered in Berlin and Leipzig, Furtwängler had for many years been a favorite in Vienna. The romantic Viennese worshipped the passionate young conductor, and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra always found a way to arrange an “extraordinary Philharmonic Concert” or “Furtwängler Concert” when he came to conduct his choral concerts with the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. The first performance with the Vienna Philharmonic in 1922—a Brahms Concert, a memorial on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Brahms’ death—had established a lifelong artistic relationship. In Berlin and Leipzig he was the successor to Arthur Nikisch. Now Vienna, too, claimed him for the post of first conductor of its orchestra, founded in 1842. The Vienna Philharmonic knew that in offering Furtwängler the position, it fulfilled the ardent wish of the Viennese.

Furtwängler could not resist the dream of every conductor on the Continent. The 1927-28 season found him in charge of the Berlin Philharmonic, the Leipzig Gewandhaus, and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, besides his other commitments.

In retrospect Furtwängler’s great success in Vienna can only be appreciated in the light of Vienna’s musical life at that period. He had come there in 1919, at a moment when its musical life had reached a new climax. The Vienna Opera, after years under the direction of Gustav Mahler, was now under the joint direction of Richard Strauss and Franz Schalk, and was considered one of the most distinguished Opera Houses in Europe. The Vienna Philharmonic, which was at the same time the Opera Orchestra, gave performances thrilling to any musician. Puccini had been moved to tears when he heard the orchestra play at the first Tosca performance in Vienna, November 20, 1907. The new great Strauss operas from Rosenkavalier to Ariadne auf Naxos had been first given there as “festival performances” during that period.

The Vienna Philharmonic, which, since Gustav Mahler’s day had played under the batons of Nikisch, Mottl, Muck, and Schuch, had for the last nineteen years been under the direction of Felix Weingartner. Weingartner had been a pupil of Liszt. When he conducted Brahms’ Second Symphony in the presence of the composer, he had been kissed in enthusiasm by Brahms, and he gave to the Vienna Philharmonic that great “everything” which only a classical conductor of his caliber could give. While he was their permanent chief, they had played under other conductors: Furtwängler, Kleiber, Krauss, Mengelberg, Nikisch, Schalk, Strauss, and Bruno Walter.

No wonder that this orchestra, with its outstanding artistry and unique tradition, enthralled a young conductor like Furtwängler. With enthusiasm he began his first Philharmonic Concert in the autumn of 1927 with the Freischutz Ouverture, and he felt keenly the historic atmosphere of the Musikvereinssaal where Brahms and Bruckner had so often attended concerts. This period, during which he occupied, besides his other commitments, two prominent positions in Vienna, was certainly a milestone in Furtwängler’s career, and definitely influenced his musical development.

Furtwängler’s activities in Vienna began another phase in my work with him. Of course the Vienna Philharmonic had its own office and management, but there was a large correspondence with Furtwängler when he was in Berlin. There were countless things to attend to, and a new world opened for me when dealing with the famous orchestra on his behalf.

The Rosé Quartet, a group of prominent members of the orchestra, whom I had known in Mannheim, were a link between me and the other players, and I soon became devoted to the chairman, the oboist Aleseander Wunderer, one of the most “Viennese” and lovable musicians imaginable.

Frequently Furtwängler required me to accompany him to Vienna,1928 and I was always delighted to go. We usually had to leave Berlin the morning after a Philharmonic Concert, on an 8 A.M. train. It was a peculiar old train with one old-fashioned Austrian carriage containing a half coupé, a one-sided compartment of three seats only. Since it was essential for Furtwängler to work undisturbed on these journeys, he always coveted that special compartment, and since by a bureaucratic decision it could not be reserved in advance, I used to get up early to be on the platform when the train pulled in to secure those seats.

Later on Furtwängler always went by plane, but for years we used that 8 o’clock train. The day of such a long journey was always methodically planned. First we had breakfast, then there was “silence.” Furtwängler either read a new book or studied his program, taking advantage of the remoteness from the world for concentration. I remember that he read Spengler’s Decline of the West, which had just been published and stirred intellectual circles, and that he learned Stravinsky’s Sacre du Printemps on such a journey, while I—though a welcome guest in his compartment—was not allowed to break the spell of silence until he gave the sign. Lunch was always a happy interruption; usually we waited until we had passed the Czech frontier because the Czech diner gave such excellent fare. After lunch we relapsed again into silence until, towards evening, Furtwängler declared himself ready for talk.

The train, due in Vienna at 11 p.m., was often late, but never too late for some enthusiastic friend to be waiting for us on the station in Vienna, and by the time all news had been discussed it was certainly past midnight. Departures from Vienna, on the other hand, were frequently subject to all sorts of surprises. Once we left Vienna for Paris, and I was relieved at last to have Furtwängler to myself for a load of work when, at the last express stop for many hours to come, the door opened, and a radiant-faced Viennese admirer entered, informing Furtwängler that he had decided to travel with him. For a secretary, this kind of enthusiasm is not very welcome, and I was often upset by similar demonstrations by the effusive Viennese whom I otherwise loved dearly. The most trying experience of all, I remember, was having one of the Committee members of the Gesellschaft regularly appear when Furtwängler was at breakfast. In Vienna Furtwängler used to breakfast in his hotel sitting-room, and took the opportunity to give me the communications for Berlin and the general instructions for the day. The telephone operator was always instructed to put no calls through; the hall porter was always told that Furtwängler was still asleep. Nevertheless, to our surprise every morning without fail Herr X entered triumphantly with the breakfast tray. What was I to do? I did some diligent detective work to discover how he knew when Furtwängler had his breakfast and found that by some mysterious means he got the information from the floor waiter. Needless to say I managed to get the waiter on my side!

Vienna had a unique magic of its own. The interest of the population in everything connected with their musical and theatrical life seemed incredible to an outsider. The smallest detail of every performance was of the greatest importance, and everything concerned with their Opera House, their stars, and their orchestras was the passion of every Viennese.

For many years Furtwängler went to Vienna for concerts only, but he was always on intimate terms with the Staatsoper, and frequently went in during the evening, if he was free, if only for an act or two.

Then Franz Schalk, who since Strauss’ resignation in 1924 had been in sole charge of the Vienna State Opera, proposed that Furtwängler be invited as guest conductor. His first opera was Rheingold—such an outstanding performance of Rheingold that for days it was the sensation of the town. During a rehearsal I paid a visit to Schalk. His face inscrutable, he sat in his princely office. Although he, the bearer of the classical tradition of Hans Richter and Gustav Mahler, had himself invited Furtwängler to conduct at the Vienna Opera, he was obviously jealous of his youthful fame and did not appear at the rehearsals. “How are matters downstairs?” he asked me cautiously. “Don’t ask me,” I replied. “I don’t understand anything about it.” (For once in my life I was trying to be diplomatic.) “No more do I,” he answered.

But the season 1928-29 was Franz Schalk’s last as Director of the Vienna Opera and a successor had to be chosen. The intrigues growing out of such an occasion are indescribable, and the many official and semi-official people involved had the time of their lives. To cut a long story short—the direction of the Vienna State Opera was ultimately offered to Furtwängler. He was in Berlin at the time. Effusive letters arrived from his adherents, urging him to accept the offer and describing the situation, the attitude of the press, the public, the orchestra, the Ministry, the opera personnel, and the singers. Finally he left to negotiate in Vienna. I remained in Berlin, but promised to come on the next train, should he want me. Hardly had he arrived when he telegraphed me to come at once. The executive of the Berlin Philharmonic, terrified that Furtwängler might accept the offer, saw me off. In Vienna I found him in the Imperial Hotel, absolutely inundated with telephone calls, confidential letters, and visitors who had “important things” to discuss with him alone. Nobody who has not been in Vienna during an opera crisis can have the slightest idea what the Viennese can be like. I took over, to his great relief; but I would not say that my protective energy added to my popularity in Vienna.

It may seem hard to understand just why a decision of this kind should be so difficult, but for Furtwängler it was a difficult decision. Berlin had been the center of his activities for so many years, he had had sole control over the magnificent Philharmonic, who were free to travel as much as he wanted them to, and he could conduct in all the Berlin Opera Houses as much as he liked. Vienna, on the other hand, had the unique fascination and charm that it has for every musician. Furtwängler was already director of the Vienna Philharmonic and was, as well, a director of the Wiener Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde; the opera performances he had given so far had driven Vienna wild with enthusiasm. Vienna claimed him with equal rights and laid siege to him with all available means.

The official negotiations were in the hands of Herr Schneiderhan, Generaldirektor der Oesterreichischen Bundestheater, a skilled, sly diplomat of the old school. Furtwängler was pulled in two directions. He longed to accept the position. Every artist sometimes needs a change, and this was indeed a unique opportunity! Yet he had grave misgivings that the Viennese post would eat up all his energy. In any case, he cautiously decided that I was to accompany him to his first official interview.

Schneiderhan played variations on the whole scale of seduction and temptation. He even tried his best to tempt me. “You will come to our Opera House as Furtwängler’s general secretary, and you will be given the room that formerly belonged to Richard Strauss,” he told me. (All directorial offices were pompous and sumptuous and I loved the “air” of the inside of that famous Opera House.)

There had never been any question of Furtwängler’s giving up the Berlin Philharmonic entirely, but there was no doubt that once he became Opera Director in Vienna, he would have very little time left for Berlin. But Schneiderhan stressed that even I could easily go to Berlin for at least one week every month. More details were discussed, and finally Furtwängler and I left. He was to decide by next morning at nine o’clock.

We spent our evening alone weighing all the pros and cons. Neither of us closed an eye that night, and every two hours Furtwängler came to another decision, each of which he fully justified. Although I make up my mind rather quickly, I appreciated that this was a decision that affected his whole life and understood that he had to consider the matter from all angles. When he finally set out next morning for the conference I had not the slightest idea what Furtwängler was going to say. Schneiderhan, with diplomatic skill, opened the conversation. Furtwängler replied, but with a kind of lethargic apathy—as if he expected that the decision would fall from the sky from some deus ex machina. Suddenly Schneiderhan took Furtwängler’s hand, which hung listlessly by his side, and said, “I see that we are d’accord, so let us conclude our pact and sign the agreement.” Somehow I sensed that there was something wrong. Furtwängler was so exhausted that he had no strength left at the moment; he was being unfairly coerced. Certainly he was not ready for a decision of any kind. Instinctively I felt that I must protect him. Necessity gave me strength. I gave Schneiderhan’s hands, which were holding Furtwängler’s, a sharp slap. Both men dropped their hands. Furtwängler immediately got to his feet and we got away. He would make his decision when he was back in Berlin!

One doesn’t take an Operndirektor out of Vienna’s grasp with impunity. That same evening at a concert, Dr. Dlabac, General Secretary of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, informed me that everybody knew about my unpardonable behavior and, as my friend, he advised me to avoid Vienna for some time to come!

Next morning we left for Berlin. The station master personally conducted Furtwängler to his compartment. Was he not the future opera chief? The ticket controller confidentially addressed him as “Herr Direktor.” How tempting is this kind of intimate popularity! Vienna seemed to have got him!

At the moment of departure Furtwängler was, in fact, quite inclined to decide in favor of Vienna. But the farther we moved away, the more the scale tipped, and by the time we arrived in Berlin he knew that only under very special circumstances would he leave his work there—since it was clear that to combine the work in the two cities was out of the question.

Meanwhile the Berliners had not been asleep. All sorts of articles appeared in the papers, and one especially in the Vossische Zeitung: “Geht Furtwängler nach Wien?” had the effect of a bombshell. The Berlin Oberbürgermeister was being attacked, Prussia and the Reich were being attacked—and it was unanimously declared that what Austria could do, Berlin should certainly be able to do too.

This stirred things up with a vengeance—as soon as we got back, they really began to move. I remember taking a most active part in all the maneuvers behind the scenes and having a telephone conversation as early as 7 a.m. with Berlin’s Lord Mayor who was horrified by the idea that Berlin might lose Furtwängler during his regime. Meanwhile Schneiderhan, just as horrified at the idea that he might fail, arrived on the night train from Vienna in order to be on the spot.

At last things came to a head.

Furtwängler declared that if the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra were granted the necessary subsidy, promised for so long by the Prussian authorities, the Berlin municipality, and the Reich, and if he was enabled to issue the players contracts necessary to maintain the standard of the orchestra, he was willing to stay—otherwise he would accept the post in Vienna.

The ultimatum was accepted. Furtwängler remained in Berlin, and went to Vienna only as a guest conductor. The Reich, Prussia, and Berlin undertook to guarantee the orchestra’s budget, and the Reichsrundfunk pledged itself to engage them for a certain number of broadcasts per annum, thus adding to their solvency. The guarantee required was modest, since the orchestra’s income from the Berlin Philharmonic Concerts alone was considerable, yet the feeling of security after nearly fifty years of struggle gave them a renewed zest for their work.

From that time on, the activities of each year were more or less regular. Furtwängler traveled between Berlin and Vienna, he went on tours with the Berlin Philharmonic and conducted some operas as a guest, among them the usual German Opera Season in spring in Paris. At the end of the 1927-28 season he had left the Leipzig Gewandhaus. He felt that it needed a man able to devote himself more fully to that particular task than was possible for him with all the growing demands on his time.

The next milestone in the history of the Berlin Philharmonic was their first visit to Paris in the spring of 1928. It ranked with their first London venture as one of the highlights of their whole career.

I had met M. Robert Brussel, the director of the Association Française de l’Expansion et d’Echange Artistique, the French cultural propaganda department, when he represented the French Government at the big exposition, “A Summer of Music” at Frankfurt in 1927. We had arranged a visit of the Berlin Philharmonic to Paris for 1928 and soon afterwards he had invited the Orchestra to give their first Paris concert under the auspices of the Association Française, which was a department of the Ministère des Affaires Etrangères et de l’Instruction Publique et des Beaux Arts.

My trip for preliminary discussions about all the arrangements for the French tour was my first to Paris. That in itself was an event. In addition the warm friendliness of the French, the excitement of preparing such an important concert on entirely new ground, my admiration of the excellent apparatus of the cultural department of the Ministry at the Palais Royal where all our work was done made it a wonderful experience. And I met the German Ambassador, von Hoesch, for the first time. He invited Furtwängler and me to stay at his Embassy while we were in Paris for the concert. Hoesch was an ideal example of what was done by pre-Hitler Germany for an artistic enterprise. He supported us primarily because he was sincerely interested. Nothing was dictated, there was no “foreign propaganda,” and there were no schemes and intrigues as there were later among the many political groups in Nazi times.

We had naturally wanted this first Paris concert to take place in the Opéra, but M. Rouche, its director and patron, was a curious man, and wanted to see what the Berlin Philharmonic was like before he gave us a date. So the concert was given at the Salle Pleyel. His caution proved quite unnecessary. The enthusiasm of the French knew no limits, and M. Herriot, then Ministre de l’Instruction Publique, who himself had written a book on Beethoven and who loved music, was so enthusiastic that he rushed onto the platform and shook hands with Furtwängler. From that moment on there was never any difficulty when we wanted a date at the Opéra.

After this Paris concert I had the worst moment in all my work with Furtwängler and the Berlin Philharmonic—the worst, that is, until the advent of Hitler. Gala concerts in Paris began at 9 in the evening, and finished late. A big reception had been held at the Embassy after the concert. We had had only a few hours’ rest before leaving on the eight o’clock train for Strasbourg en route to Freiburg, where the next concert was to take place. Furtwängler settled down to sleep in his reserved compartment, and I was dozing too, comfortably basking in the glow that follows a great success. We may have been traveling for about half an hour, when a member of the orchestra committee came into the corridor outside our compartment, and with all the signs of despair beckoned to me to come out and speak to him. “What shall we do, Fräulein Doktor?” the man exclaimed. “The instrument van is not attached to the train!” The implications were appalling: an instrument van with seventy-seven big cases, required for a concert on the same day, lost and separated from its owners, who have to maneuver it across a frontier where the officials might very well be far less friendly than the Parisians had been. Never had such a thing occurred before. The orchestra, thrilled and intoxicated with their success had, of course, explored Paris night-life after the concert, and our worthy orchestra attendant, Jastrau, had not stayed at home either. He had packed the instruments into the van after the concert and then gone off and enjoyed himself, and, after all, who can blame him!

For an endless half-hour, until we reached the next stop, from which we hoped to telegraph to Paris, we went through agony. At last the train drew into a station. We got out—Furtwängler still blissfully unaware of the impending tragedy—and while we were trying to explain our appalling dilemma to the station master, a train arrived at the next platform. Our van was there—attached to the wrong train. There are moments in life which one never forgets; that was one of them!

During the first half of 1930 there was quite an unusual accumulation1930 of touring orchestras on the Continent. The focus of interest was the New York Philharmonic which was to tour Europe under its director, Toscanini. All the big continental cities wanted to have the Americans. Since the traditional Berlin Philharmonic tour was taking place about the same time, Anita Colombo, Toscanini’s former secretary who was in charge of the American tour, and I had conferred at the Hotel Bristol in Vienna to compare notes and arrange that our concerts should not clash. At the end of the tours the two orchestras met in Berlin.

That same spring, before the tours of the Berlin and New York Philharmonic, the Vienna Philharmonic (to whom I was “graciously lent” by the Berliners to run their tour) went with Furtwängler via Germany to visit England. The visit had been planned for some time for there was always a great Austria-loving public in London.

The tour proved what that famous orchestra and Furtwängler were able to achieve together. Yet he realized that to take on the two Philharmonics permanently would, in the long run, be unfair to both, and after careful consideration, gave up his position as Director of the Vienna Philharmonic shortly after the tour. However, he did continue to appear with them as guest conductor.

The resignation of his prominent position in Vienna marked an important point in Furtwängler’s relations with Berlin. More and more Berlin did everything to satisfy and honor the famous artist who was by now in his forties. The Berlin Opera Houses opened their arms to him.

Work went on steadily for the next few years. The 1931 winter tour with the Berlin Philharmonic was especially successful. It included Germany, Belgium, England, and Holland, and a well-known photographer had offered to accompany us.

When we left England—after a happy and successful season—on the Hook of Holland train, the platform seemed unusually crowded. I said to myself, “Funny, this time the orchestra seems to have picked up an unusual number of admirers.” The admirers of the orchestra were sometimes an unmitigated nuisance, especially in Paris, where almost every member used to approach me with the demand that some enigmatic female relation of his had, without fail, to be got into the concert which had generally been sold out long ago.

In London it had never been quite so bad, and I was astonished to see the crowded platform. But I was soon to be enlightened. Charlie Chaplin was in the same train. Of course our photographer was excited, and at once proposed that Furtwängler and Chaplin be photographed together getting on the boat. I was dispatched to arrange the matter with Chaplin’s manager, but when I got to his compartment, he was by no means enthusiastic. Why should Chaplin be photographed with Furtwängler? Who was Furtwängler, after all, in comparison with Chaplin? Did he get four thousand love letters a day? Did he have to employ three secretaries to deal with his fan mail? I felt quite insignificant in face of these overwhelming assets and retreated. On the night boat there was no sign of the great man who had retired to his cabin immediately on coming aboard. However, next morning, at the unearthly hour at which the boat gets in at the Hook, Mr. Chaplin sent a message that he would like to meet Dr. Furtwängler. So the two men met at dawn, and I at first could not believe that the charming, kind-looking man was the Charlie Chaplin we had seen in The Gold Rush. The photo was duly taken. Chaplin left for Berlin, and we went on to the Hague.