Читать книгу Two Worlds of Music - Berta Geissmar - Страница 12

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After Furtwängler had resigned from Bayreuth, Berlin became1932 more and more the center of his life and activity, though he regularly went to Vienna as guest conductor. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra received his closest attention, and was improved more and more in every respect. The international tours, now undertaken twice a year in addition to the smaller tours within Germany itself, had become not only artistic but also financial successes. Although the political tide moved in a heavy ebb and flow, artistic life was strong and independent, and in Berlin, as in Vienna, much of the social life revolved around the Philharmonic concerts and the opera. The concerts were always sold out, and besides the great Philharmonic concerts, many other cycles with prominent conductors—Bruno Walter, for instance—had become a regular institution. Foreign conductors were also invited, and a special cycle was arranged for them.

I took an eager part in all these activities; the day was always too short for all that was to be done. Social life was brilliant, and there was a friendly relationship with many of the diplomats, who regularly came to the concerts. One of the most faithful visitors to the Berlin Philharmonic concerts was the British Ambassador, Sir Horace Rumbold, with his wife and daughters. Little did I realize the night I represented the Berlin Philharmonic at a reception for Sir Thomas Beecham at his British Embassy—before which Furtwängler, Sir Thomas and Sir Horace had been photographed together in the artists’ room—how the turn of events were to rearrange our lives.

The orchestra kept me busy enough, but Furtwängler required most of my time. He worked at the oddest hours. All clerical or organizing matters he of course considered of secondary importance, and so fitted them in when it suited him. Often he rang me up late at night to ask me to come to his flat “for a moment,” and it became more of a rule than an exception for me to get out of bed to work with him. Having himself concentrated on music as late as midnight, it never occurred to him that ordinary mortals often go to bed before that hour. I nearly always traveled with the orchestra, and I continued to accompany Furtwängler whenever he traveled or to join him somewhere on his journeys. Our friendship and mutual work for the cause of music had forged a wonderful bond between us. It was a relation built on mutual reliance, strengthened by my belief in him as an artist and by his confidence in me as friend and collaborator.

The year 1932 began with a rush, for we were approaching the culmination of our activities. At the beginning of the year I went to Rome to make arrangements for the Philharmonic spring tour which was to be the first extensive visit to Italy. My visit to Rome was most interesting. When I arrived I was told that Mussolini had expressed the wish to see the woman who was the tour manager of an orchestra. But he was away while I was there, and I had tea with his former secretary and biographer, Margherita Sarfatti, instead.

As soon as my task was completed I had to rush back to Berlin. No sooner had I arrived when I had to dash over to London to straighten out a difficulty that had arisen through the death of our agent, Lionel Powell, just as our English tour was impending.

In those days, concerts of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in England sold out soon after the booking had opened, and the advance booking for the 1932 English tour was excellent as usual. Then Lionel Powell died and his firm went bankrupt. It was said that his death at the height of the winter concert season had upset the finances of the firm, and that, had it happened in spring, no difficulty would have arisen. Be that as it may, at the time of Powell’s death all the proceeds were part of the bankrupt estate, and therefore the ready money out of which the expenses of the tour and the salaries of the orchestra were to be paid had vanished. We decided, if possible, not to cancel the tour, for we did not want to disappoint our British public.

I conferred with the lawyer at the German Embassy, who expounded the facts at length without being able to suggest any practical solution. It seemed hopeless. I did not see how we could get our money in the near future, nor did I see any chance of financing our ten concerts (two in London, eight in the provinces). I had just come to the conclusion that there was nothing left to do but to cancel the tour, when I received a message to go and see Sir Thomas Beecham’s solicitor. I immediately went. The solicitor spoke briefly and to the point. “I am instructed to inform you that Sir Thomas does not like this situation, and intends to see to the matter.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Sir Thomas does not want the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra to have any trouble in England, therefore he is going to guarantee the tour.” “He is what?” I asked. “He is going to back the tour, and I have been instructed to settle the details with you,” the solicitor repeated. The few formalities were quickly settled. My request to be allowed to thank Sir Thomas personally (he, after all, had deposited £3000 for us) was evaded, and towards the evening of the same day on which I had arrived, I took the train back to Berlin.

A fortnight later the tour began, and there was a full house at every concert. With box-office receipts unavailable, the accounts were complicated. The last concert was at the Albert Hall, and in the morning, during the rehearsal, we received the final statement. It showed a balance on the right side, even excluding the original advance receipts, so that we had no need to call on Sir Thomas’s generous guarantee. Just as we realized this, Sir Thomas appeared unexpectedly. I went on to the platform and told the orchestra what had happened; how Sir Thomas had come to our rescue and that fortunately all had ended well. The orchestra enthusiastically hailed him.

The financial difficulties of the orchestra were by then almost over. It had become a limited liability company. The orchestra itself, the city of Berlin, Prussia, the Reich, and the Rundfunk were represented on the board of seventeen directors. The chairman was Dr. Lange, the First Mayor of Berlin, directly in authority after the Lord Mayor. He devoted himself to the affairs of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra with energy and humor, and fought like a lion for its interests against the inevitable intrigues in the meetings of the city councils. During concerts, he liked to sit with the orchestra. He admired Furtwängler, towards whom he had adopted a protective fatherly attitude, gently steering him through the obstacles of bureaucracy.

To me he was the most understanding and kindly chief, always available to smooth away difficulties. And it was he who was largely responsible for the fulfillment of my dream of a real office for the orchestra, organized as I had planned it. I had found a flat near Furtwängler’s home and not far from the Philharmonie, big enough to house my own private apartment as well as the office. But the whole new arrangement had, of course, to be agreed to by the board of directors. For days before the meeting of the board I was distracted. I was quite sure of my supporters, but committees are unpredictable. Finally—late at night—Dr. Lange rang me up: “Go ahead and arrange your office.” How happy I was!

The office was charming. Except for the one room used as the general office, it did not look like a place of business at all. I furnished it with my old furniture and pictures. There was a music room for auditions (later used for our chamber-music evenings as well). A wonderful Bechstein was given to us for that purpose. My own office gradually assumed a delightful atmosphere, filled as it was with my books and my comfortable easy chairs, in which visitors from all over the world were soon sitting. A young East Prussian maid followed me from my former quarters and looked after me, and after the office as well. She always had lunch ready for anybody who wanted to have a meal in the office. Her cooking was perfect. “Trudchen,” as she was called, was most popular with the orchestra, and efficient with even the most illustrious telephone callers when I was out.

It was a full and active life, and when we started to make arrangements for the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, it was with the grateful feeling that the years of work and devotion had not been in vain, and that Furtwängler had been able to carry on the tradition started by Bülow and Nikisch.

The celebration consisted of two festival concerts, and was opened by an inaugural assembly at which all the persons of importance in Berlin’s public life were present. Diplomatic representatives of all countries sat in the front rows with Berlin’s Lord Mayor. Hindenburg sent as his deputy the Secretary of State of the Ministry of Interior, who made a speech and handed the Goethe Medaille to Furtwängler—a new decoration established by the Reichspräsident for men of science and art. And at the first concert a new composition of Hindemith’s, the Philharmonisches Konzert, dedicated to the orchestra and its conductor for the occasion, was played.

The fateful year 1932 went by. We toured Europe. Besides his concerts, Furtwängler conducted opera in Vienna and Paris. On his next birthday we gave a party in our office flat which was eminently suitable for such occasions. Members of the orchestra and famous soloists, dressed as children, performed Haydn’s Toy Symphony. Hindemith, who in those days was learning the bassoon, had composed an additional bassoon part and practiced it for weeks ahead to the despair of his wife.

Spirited musical jokes were in those days a favorite entertainment. Hindemith had composed a parody on the Wagner Fliegende Holländer overture, which some members of the Philharmonic played, dressed in dirty old-fashioned frock coats, with red handkerchiefs hanging out of their pockets. They were supposed to be village musicians playing the piece for the first time. They missed their cue, and quickly switched over to the safety of a Viennese waltz from which, with great virtuosity, they modulated back to the music expressing the ecstatic reunion of Senta and the Holländer in death.

Arthur Schnabel, who was one of the guests, told me that only a musician could appreciate the full joke and masterly arrangement of this parody.

It was a perfect, harmonious evening, a gathering of great artists and leading personalities. The orchestra was to leave for England immediately afterwards. Nobody had an inkling of how near was the thunderstorm—but when I recall those present on that evening, I find that hardly one of them has escaped a tragic change of existence. It was January 25, 1933.