But not everyone favored banning German opera. In numerous letters to the editor, an idealistic contingent eloquently repudiated the anti-Wagner clamor. A few days before the ban was announced, a New York Tribune letter writer from Princeton suggested it was essential to “keep our minds in a sound . . . condition.” This was not the moment to heed the words of the “Hysterical Patriot.” Wagner, this reader pointed out, provided pleasure to countless listeners, and during these gloomy times his music should be permitted to offer “solace to those who love him.”92 Another letter to the Tribune pointed to the universal character of music, which “knows no race or creed.” In terse prose this anonymous correspondent asserted, “I am not defending German principles, but I am defending art.”93 Reacting to the Met’s decision, an Ernest Skinner wondered what Wagner’s music had to do with the war. Wagner belonged to the entire world, he averred. “Wagner is dead. . . . His music lives: it has not . . . sunk any ships.”94
Others were far less enlightened. Several months after the Met’s decision, author and journalist Cleveland Moffett considered the subject of German music in The Chronicle, his prose dripping with hatred. The music should be driven from America’s “homes, churches, theaters, concert halls, [and] opera houses.” This was necessary to honor the “millions of dear and heroic ones,” who had died or would yet die, who had been mutilated or would be, who had been bereaved or would soon be, as a result of “Germany’s unspeakable wickedness.” German musicians spoke with the soul of their country, Moffett asserted, a soul responsible for ravishing Belgium and sinking the Lusitania. Their music threatened America. He asked: “Am I preaching hatred of Germany? Yes—for the present!” It was essential. “We must hate the Germans, just as we must use poison gas against them, and bombard their cities.”95
Across the country, discomfort and outrage bubbled up over the performance of German music. Worse still, rising antipathy flared toward German-speaking musicians. The German question caused a stir in the musical life of Chicago, which was not surprising, given the city’s large German population; the history of its orchestra; and the heritage of Frederick Stock, the Chicago Symphony’s conductor. In 1900, one in four Chicagoans had either been born in Germany or had a parent born there. By 1920, the proportion of those who acknowledged having a German background had dropped slightly to 22 percent, but the city, with a metropolitan area inhabited by more than three million people, had the second-largest German population in the country after New York. The rising tide of anti-German sentiment that swept over wartime Chicago was clear, as evidenced by two name changes: The Bismarck Hotel became the Hotel Randolph and another lodging, the Kaiserhop, became the Atlantic.96
Born in Germany in 1872, Frederick Stock began studying the violin with his father, an army bandmaster. At fourteen, Stock enrolled at the conservatory in Cologne, where he worked with the composer Engelbert Humperdinck. Upon graduating, he joined the orchestra in that city, playing under an array of legendary figures, including Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Richard Strauss. In this period, Stock encountered conductor Theodore Thomas, who invited him to come to the United States to join the string section of his ensemble in Chicago, which had been formed in 1891. When Thomas died in 1905, Stock was appointed conductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, which would soon become one of the finest symphonic organizations in the country.97
Concluding its season in late April 1917, less than three weeks after Woodrow Wilson had asked Congress for a declaration of war, the orchestra offered an all-German affair of Beethoven, Brahms, Wagner, and Richard Strauss, whose Till Eulenspiegel was played, one reviewer noted, with the requisite “rollicking fun and absurd humor.” According to one report, an enormous American flag covered the back of the stage, and the evening ended with a lusty rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” during which Stock turned to direct the audience from the podium, a German leading a throng of patriotic Americans. The only fly in the ointment that night was the behavior of three boys, described as “dreamers” and “pacifists,” who refused to stand during the performance of the patriotic tune, which led to their arrest and landed them in jail and then court, where they had to explain their actions, including the charge that they had made insulting remarks about the flag.98
But Chicago’s musical life faced greater travails than the dubious behavior of three dreamy adolescents. In the first month of the war, the maestro described how the men of his orchestra, 60 percent of whom were of German descent, were doing their best to keep their wits about them. While several German musicians had complained to Stock that they were being heckled, the conductor said the situation was to be expected. None had spoken of resigning, and all were loyal to the organization and to the United States, he said. Arguments about the war were not permitted in rehearsal, and if his players were inclined to discuss the conflict outside the concert hall, nothing could be done about it. And most important, he noted, the orchestra was “working better than ever.”99
This situation would prove difficult to maintain. In early 1918, Stock’s name appeared on a list of enemy aliens, the result of his failure to complete his citizenship papers, a process he had begun years before. As such, he was now prohibited from filing for citizenship. Consequently, Stock would remain an enemy alien until the war’s end.100 In April, the press reported that the Department of Justice would investigate stories claiming the conductor was “pro-German.” But the report proved inaccurate and no investigation occurred. Indeed, those connected to the orchestra offered ample testimony concerning Stock’s loyalty. It was generally agreed that he was unfailingly faithful to the United States, and the furor over his status dissipated.101
The tranquility would be short-lived, however. In August, the Chicago Federation of Musicians, the local union, decided to expel all subjects of the kaiser, including enemy aliens. As union musicians could not play for more than two weeks under a nonunion conductor, and since Stock, as an alien, would no longer be a member of the union, his position as head of the symphony appeared precarious.102 Almost immediately, however, the union rescinded its initial position so that any member whose loyalty was compromised, regardless of citizenship status, could be subject to legal action. In theory, this change meant someone like Stock was not necessarily liable to dismissal, so long as he had done nothing that raised questions about his loyalty to the United States.103
While there was little concern about Stock’s loyalty, as Musical America pointed out, it was necessary in wartime to err on the side of caution. Most people thought Stock was the right kind of German, who bore no “secret grudge” against the United States. Nevertheless, while Stock had never uttered a harsh word against America, from the journal’s perspective, dangerous times made it essential to examine closely “the spirit” and “the letter of a man’s patriotism.”104 But Stock had his supporters. According to the Chicago Tribune, “He has carried himself . . . with poise [and] restraint,” and was completely devoted to the United States.105
Despite this support, on August 17, 1918, for the sake of the orchestra, the maestro submitted his resignation. The conductor spoke of his years of devotion to the ensemble, and to the United States and its values. He had come to America not merely to make a living, but because he believed its “air of freedom, buoyancy, and generosity” would allow his spirit to breathe and his art to evolve. As a youth in Germany, he had rejected autocratic government and worked against a “growing spirit of militarism.” He now felt the United States was his native land. Even before America went to war, Stock noted, he had declared that Germany was in the wrong and must be defeated. This belief had become a profound conviction, and one for which he was “as willing as any patriot” to give his “last drop of blood.”106
The trustees responded, expressing appreciation for Stock’s “noble motives” and acknowledging his loyalty to the United States. They noted that Stock had changed the language of symphony rehearsals from German to English and had regularly led all-American programs. After accepting his re
signation, the trustees told the conductor that they anticipated welcoming “Citizen Stock” back to the podium after the war.107
The maestro was not the only musician associated with Chicago’s orchestra to come under scrutiny. In the summer of 1918, questions intensified regarding the loyalty of a number of musicians, of German heritage, whose actions had caused concern. Seven players were hauled into the office of the assistant district attorney as a result of allegations brought to federal authorities by two “loyal” members of the orchestra. As the assistant district attorney observed, “if they engage in un-American words or acts, they will have to explain” themselves.108 According to press reports, the problem stemmed partly from the musicians’ “pro-Hun utterances,” including one player who had supposedly remarked, if Germany lost the war, he would kill himself.109
A complaint was also lodged against cellist Bruno Steindel, who, during an orchestral performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” allegedly replaced the standard lyrics with an obscene version of his own devising. A naturalized American who had emigrated from Germany in 1891, Steindel attracted the authorities’ attention, though he denied and tried to justify his behavior in light of the accusations leveled against him. It was said that Steindel had declared that Woodrow Wilson was working on behalf of England, and had claimed, if “not for the American dollar America could go to hell.” Queried about a performance of “The Marseillaise,” during which he had remained seated, Steindel suggested he had not been asked to rise. “Was it necessary that you should be asked?” the investigator wondered. Steindel said he was unsure what was expected, adding, “Besides, I could not stand and continue to play my cello.”110 Such was the level of discourse in wartime America, as accusations and explanations flew back and forth about why a distinguished cellist who had once played under Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Strauss had remained in his chair during the French national anthem. Was the explanation, as Steindel insisted, simply that one could not play the cello while standing?
Chicago Symphony Orchestra conductor Frederick Stock (standing) and cellist Bruno Steindel (third from left, with mustache).
In late August 1918, the symphony’s trustees responded to a Department of Justice inquiry concerning the allegiance of the orchestra’s players by adopting a series of resolutions pledging that the orchestra would ferret out disloyal members, which, it was hoped, would end the malign “gossip” that had swirled around some of the musicians.111 Praising the trustees’ action, the Chicago Tribune noted their good character guaranteed that no “disloyalist” would be permitted to remain in the ensemble once his actions were exposed.112
To make sure no orchestral musicians strayed, the orchestra manager spoke with the members of the ensemble, telling them he believed they were all loyal to the United States. Issuing a set of “don’ts” for his players, he declared: “Don’t use the German language in any public place. Don’t make thoughtless remarks. . . . Don’t forget it is every man’s duty to be loyal to America.” And don’t forget that management would report any member who showed the slightest sign of disloyalty. Concluding, the manager proclaimed, “We are all American citizens and are going to do what we can to help America and her allies win the war.”113
In October, Bruno Steindel, an American citizen and a member of the ensemble for more than a quarter century, was dismissed by the orchestra. According to the Tribune, the government had determined that his words had been “at variance with American ideas and the win-the-war spirit.”114 Musical America asserted that he was “distinctly disloyal,” the sort who lived in the United States and, whether citizens or not, had never “been Americans.” Such people had always been “ ‘Germans in America.’ ”115 That same month, an oboist, bassoonist, and trombonist, all with German surnames, were expelled for their alleged anti-American remarks.116
Elsewhere in the Midwest, the war was reshaping the contours of musical life. In Minneapolis, the symphony was directed by Emil Oberhoffer, a Munich-born maestro, who came to the United States at seventeen, becoming an American citizen soon after. Since 1903, the year the Minneapolis Symphony was founded, Oberhoffer had led the ensemble, which began each program during the war with “The Star-Spangled Banner” and concluded every wartime concert with “America.” Despite Oberhoffer’s German heritage, it was said that his south German background led him to abhor “Prussianism.” At Oberhoffer’s insistence, the language of the orchestra, in rehearsal, backstage, and in public settings, was English. And with the start of the 1918–1919 season, management required all members of the ensemble to sign an oath, which declared they would “pledge unswerving loyalty to the United States” and do all they could to help the government achieve “a complete victory.” The men of the orchestra also bought $20,000 worth of war bonds.117
In the spring of 1918, Oberhoffer sat down with a reporter to discuss his background, outlook, and views on music in wartime. Asked whether he was thought of as a German, Oberhoffer said, “Perhaps I am, as we are inclined to believe that only English, Scotch, and Irish names are American, but persons with names of other nationalities are Americans, too.” Sharing a personal anecdote, he recalled an exchange after a performance in Madison, Wisconsin, when a professor offered congratulations in German. Oberhoffer spoke of his distress, and his decision to reply in English, while his interlocutor attempted to continue the conversation in German. “I had to ask him to kindly speak in English,” the conductor said, adding that he no longer accepted social invitations, since he might unwittingly “make a faux pas by calling . . . on a pro-German.” Asked if he had any “alien enemies” in his orchestra, Oberhoffer indicated that some of the men, despite living in the United States for many years, had only taken out preliminary papers. That was not forgetfulness, he said. “One does not forget to swear allegiance to a country if one really desires to be a citizen of that country. . . . [A]s soon as I found out the United States was a good enough place for me,” he declared, “I made up my mind to be a citizen.”118
The conversation turned to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Asked if it was true that he had conducted the piece long before the United States went to war, Oberhoffer said that he had, noting the tune should be sung and played. The words are crucial, he observed, declaring, he wanted audiences to understand that singing the piece was a “sacred function.” Nor should it be followed by applause.119
Two thousand miles to the west, the war impinged on classical music in Los Angeles in ways large and small. Though it would not have a full-time symphony orchestra until 1919, there was still much talk about the place of German music in the California city, which possessed a lively classical music scene.120 In January 1918, several influential guests at a swanky Pasadena hotel walked out of the establishment’s evening orchestral concert upon learning German compositions would be played. The episode, in which Weber’s Invitation to the Dance was on the program, led to a movement among some California hotel owners to remove German music from concert programs in Los Angeles and San Francisco hotels. Spearheading the ban was hotelier D. M. Linnard, who said he aimed to proscribe German music for the rest of the war.121 Also weighing in was Leslie M. Shaw, a former Treasury secretary, who was among those who had left the Pasadena concert. Worried about the influence of German music in wartime, Shaw asserted, this was no time for “internationalism in art.”122 A like-minded Californian told the Los Angeles Times that no one should doubt the danger posed by German music. As it lulled Americans to sleep, “Prussian militarism [might] stalk rampant over us.”123
In looking through the Los Angeles press, one sees that anti-German sentiment was rife across the city. In early 1918, the Times reported that a local piano teacher decided to remove German music from her students’ recitals.124 In June, the board of education withdrew three thousand copies of the Elementary Song Book from the city’s schools, when it was discovered that nineteen of its sixty songs were of German origin. The volume had been compiled by Kathryn Stone, the supervisor of music, who was upset about the
fate of her book and about accusations of having German parentage. After perusing the work, the school superintendent ordered all three thousand copies destroyed.125
Defending the ban, the Los Angeles Times argued that a nation’s music and literature expressed its “ideals.” This was no time to cultivate in youngsters an appreciation for German compositions, which had contributed to “discord in the harmony of the world.” German music, the editors claimed, was the music of “conquest, the music of the storm, of disorder and devastation.” It combined “the howl of the cave man and the roaring of north winds.”126
With such sentiments in the air, it was not surprising when the musicians’ union in Los Angeles banned the performance of German music, with violators fined at escalating rates. There would be no Wagner, no Strauss (Johann or Richard), and no Léhar. Beethoven would remain untouched. And prospective newlyweds surely heaved a sigh of relief upon learning that the Wedding March from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream could still be performed, since, as was reported, the composer was a Polish Jew—which would likely have surprised the Hamburg-born musician.127 Praising the ban in a public address, Mr. Reynold E. Blight said it was sensible to ban German music, especially opera, which was used “to inculcate ideas of . . . world dominion.”128
Up the coast, the war darkened musical life in San Francisco, its impact felt earlier in the Bay Area than elsewhere. This was due, in part, to an absurd episode that occurred in August 1915, which made Alfred Hertz, the distinguished German conductor, the object of charges that were both unpleasant and unfounded. Born in Frankfurt, Hertz, who had just been appointed to head the San Francisco Symphony, had made a name for himself in the United States for his work at the Metropolitan Opera. In the summer of 1915, he was asked to conduct three concerts of German music with the Beethoven Festival Orchestra during San Francisco’s German American week, which was part of the Panama-Pacific International Exhibition, an extravaganza that had begun in February.
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