For all the tensions in the classical music community, the most celebrated wartime controversy occurred in Boston, where a toxic stew of anti-German hatred, hyperpatriotism, alleged espionage, and marital infidelity began simmering in late 1917. The unsavory mixture boiled over the following spring, scalding the Boston Symphony’s renowned maestro, Karl Muck. In the end, Muck would be thrown into prison at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, where he would spend the rest of the war and several months thereafter in the company of Ernst Kunwald and thousands of other enemy aliens, their alleged crimes often unspecified. When the war began in 1914, Muck, who was born in Darmstadt in 1859, was serving in Boston for the second time as the orchestra’s conductor, having first held the post from 1906 to 1908, after which he had returned to Berlin to work in the kaiser’s employ as conductor of the Royal Opera. In 1912, Muck again journeyed to Boston to renew his relationship with the local ensemble.
His partnership with the orchestra, founded by aristocrat Henry Higginson in 1881, had generated extraordinary music-making. As the critic Philip Hale observed, the orchestra is itself “a virtuoso. It is an instrument which, having been brought to a state of perfect mechanism by Dr. Muck, responds to his imaginative and poetic wishes.”58 By any measure, Muck’s gifts had turned an excellent ensemble into one many thought the finest in the United States and even in the world. But his accomplishment would afford him little protection from the toxins released by the war.
Karl Muck
For the opening concert of the 1914 season, the symphony offered an all-German program to great acclaim. No discomfort could be detected among the concertgoers in Symphony Hall, and while there had been some concern that the conflict would make it difficult for Muck and some of his musicians to return from the Continent, by opening night such fears had evaporated. According to one critic, the music of Beethoven, Brahms, Richard Strauss, and Weber was performed brilliantly, demonstrating the musical achievement of Muck’s homeland. The cognoscenti were “sufficiently interested in Germany’s music to sit undisturbed by any reflections for or against her European policies!” The only quibble was the reviewer’s doubting Muck’s decision to employ six horns in the trio of the scherzo in Beethoven’s Eroica, which had a “coarse” effect.59 Given what would eventually be written about Muck, this was tepid stuff. There was every reason to accept Henry Higginson’s prediction about American feelings toward Muck, which he expressed in a September 1914 letter: “nobody will take any attitude toward him but that of the kindest, most cordial appreciation.” But this veteran of the Civil War also betrayed a touch of foreboding about the country’s emotional equilibrium, observing that men’s passions had been “inflamed to a degree not seen in our lifetime.”60
When America entered the war, Boston was a city of some 750,000 people, nearly 240,000 of whom were foreign-born, while about the same number were American-born with foreign-born parents. Most of the city’s immigrants were of Irish, Italian, or Russian heritage, and a small number were of German background.61 In many ways, Boston was a place of culture, refinement, and gentility, with superb musical organizations like its distinguished symphony orchestra and cherished Handel and Haydn Society, and its noted museums, which, together, implied a devotion to the arts and an appreciation for beauty. Unlike New York, the city seemed driven less by commerce than by the life of the mind and the creative spirit, which suggested that Bostonians placed a premium on more aesthetically enriching and contemplative pursuits. Just across the Charles River, in Cambridge, lay Harvard University, founded in the seventeenth century. The institution supplied Boston with considerable intellectual vitality, the product of a distinguished faculty unmatched in the United States at that time.
Boston’s orchestra comprised one hundred members, of whom fifty-one were American citizens (seventeen native-born); twenty-two were German, nine of whom had taken out naturalization papers. Beyond that, there were eight Austrians and smaller numbers of British, Dutch, Russian, French, Bohemian, and Belgian musicians. Significantly, the citizenship of Karl Muck was complicated and would later become a source of contention, though it was agreed that he had been born in Darmstadt of German parents. As one observer rightly noted, “in blood and sympathy” Muck was German.62
On the evening of October 30, 1917, the Boston Symphony was scheduled to perform in Providence, Rhode Island. Before the players left Boston that afternoon, the orchestra manager C. A. Ellis received one telegram signed by the presidents of several Providence women’s groups, many of whom were prominent in local musical circles. A second wire arrived from the Liberty Loan Committee of Rhode Island. Both demanded that the orchestra play “The Star-Spangled Banner” before the evening performance. As Higginson recalled, the ensemble, which was to leave Boston just a few hours later, did not have the music on hand and had not rehearsed the national air, which he said made it impossible to meet the request.63 As the orchestra headed to Rhode Island, the Providence Evening Journal published an editorial, which also called on Muck to play “The Star-Spangled Banner” that night, declaring, “It is as good a time as any to put Professor Muck to the test.” Significantly, Muck was unaware of these developments—he had not heard of the telegrams or the editorial—and he led the orchestra in a successful concert that evening, which went off without incident.64 By the next day, the situation had begun spinning out of control.
One day after the Providence concert, the Rhode Island Council of Defense adopted a resolution condemning the orchestra and Muck for “his deliberately insulting attitude” evinced by their failure to play “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The resolution asked the Providence Police Commission to ban Muck’s future wartime performances. A special agent of the Department of Justice also weighed in from Providence, issuing a recommendation to Washington that the government should prohibit the orchestra from performing anywhere unless it agreed to play the national tune.65 Those associated with the orchestra—Higginson, Ellis, and Muck—did not remain silent, with Higginson claiming the piece had no place on a symphonic program and emphasizing that, at the start of the war, Muck had asked his men to put aside their national differences. Higginson rebuked those who had accused Muck of “un-Americanism,” asserting that he had communicated with the “highest authorities in Washington” and they had found “nothing against him.” Moreover, he said, if Muck should go, he would disband the orchestra.66 Ellis made the crucial point—which was consistently and perhaps intentionally forgotten—that Muck had been completely unaware of the request to play the anthem. He noted, too, that during the orchestra’s lengthy pops season, the group had played it every night, though Muck did not lead those concerts. Asked whether the maestro had ever conducted “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Ellis said he did not know.67
Muck also shared his thoughts on the growing controversy, offering wide-ranging remarks that did little to win him favor. Speaking as someone steeped in the universalist idea, Muck observed that art transcended national differences. He described the environment he had sought to create in his ensemble and rejected the notion that anyone, the American public, specifically, had the right to tamper with his accomplishment. “Why will people be so silly? Art is a thing by itself,” he declared, “and is not related to any particular nation or group.” He spoke, too, about the distinction between high and low art, arguing that the symphony orchestra was meant to attend to the former and steer clear of the latter. “It would be a gross mistake, a violation of artistic taste and principles for such an organization as ours to play patriotic airs.” The symphony orchestra was not “a military band or a ballroom orchestra.” To ask such accomplished musicians to play certain compositions “would be almost an insult.” Beyond that, he asserted, art was “international,” and his ensemble, comprising men from all the warring nations, had sought to avoid the bitter divisions that had marred world politics. For months, he had sought to “keep peace” among his musicians, and he refused to introduce anything that might undermine the “esprit de corps” that had taken so long to
build. He was determined to avoid any awareness of “national differences in the orchestra.” Playing the piece would destroy “the very thing the Symphony stands for—musical art.” And the American public had “no right to demand it.”68
Not surprisingly, Muck’s rhetoric unleashed considerable hostility across the country. The notion that a man of German birth, who had worked for the kaiser, had the effrontery to lecture the American people in wartime about the meaning of art and the need to separate creative achievement from politics was repugnant.
Days after the Providence episode, the orchestra was back in Boston for a Friday afternoon performance; Higginson asked Muck to include “The Star-Spangled Banner” on that day’s program and those in the future. “What will they say to me at home?” the conductor wondered. Higginson recalled telling the maestro, “I do not know, but let me say this: when I am in a Catholic country and the Host is carried by, or a procession of churchmen comes along, I take off my hat out of consideration—not to the Host, but respect for the customs of the nation.” Muck agreed to the request, but added that he wished to tender his resignation, which Higginson said he was not inclined to accept. The musician was worried about his fate: “Suppose I should be interned?” Recounting the exchange, Higginson had replied, “That is most unlikely.” Shortly afterward, Higginson went on stage and announced that Muck had offered to resign, saying he would reflect on the matter. He told the audience Muck had agreed to play “The Star-Spangled Banner” as the closing piece at all subsequent concerts, which he did. The Friday performance (actually an open public rehearsal) and the concert the next night in Boston were highly successful, suggesting that the public continued to support Muck. Indeed, the audience response to the conductor’s work was enormously enthusiastic.69
Before the weekend was over, Higginson issued a statement calling Muck’s behavior exemplary, aiming to correct any misunderstandings about recent events. He pointed out that Muck had never refused to conduct “The Star-Spangled Banner,” noting that the first time he was asked to do so, he had complied. More broadly, Higginson asserted, the aim of the symphony concerts was to provide “enjoyment and education [for] our fellow-citizens.” In the founder’s view, Muck and the orchestra, whom he described as “this band of many nationalities,” had “worked . . . loyally under trying circumstances,” and had given the American public “comfort and happiness.” The conductor and his players deserved thanks not abuse.70 The affair might have ended there, but the orchestra’s upcoming out-of-town performances proved otherwise.
The concerts in Philadelphia, Washington, New York, and Brooklyn went well, with a performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner” in every venue. Thousands responded enthusiastically to Muck’s work with the orchestra, despite some tension in the air. But the Baltimore concert, scheduled for November 7, was a different matter entirely.71 The man who spearheaded the opposition to Muck, the former governor of Maryland, Edwin Warfield, lashed out at the maestro, using incendiary language consistent with the brutish mentality that had gripped the Maryland city. Muck would not be permitted to perform in Baltimore, Warfield said, telling the police board that the conductor “would not be allowed to insult the people of the birthplace of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ” He considered forcefully keeping Muck off the stage: “I [will] gladly lead the mob to prevent the insult to my country and my flag.”72
Interweaving ideas about loyalty and patriotism with feelings about the flag, Warfield reflected on the excellence of America’s national air (which was not yet the country’s official anthem). Americans would not “tolerate any dictation as to the patriotic feeling for our flag.” Betraying his musical ignorance, or at least the spirit of hypernationalism, Warfield said the anthem was “greater than anything composed in Germany,” and claimed it was “more glorious and befitting the hearing of true Americans than the works of any composer living or dead.” Indeed, Warfield asserted, “The Star-Spangled Banner” would be “sung when the others are long forgotten.” Warfield’s perspicacity as a musicologist was questionable, but he captured the feelings of a city agitated by Muck’s alleged perfidy.73
With the threat of violence in the air, a grand jury ordered the police board to bar Muck and the orchestra from performing in Baltimore. The concert, scheduled for November 7, 1917, was cancelled due to the fear of public disorder or even bloodshed. The former governor pointed out that he favored the decision, but emphasized that whether or not Muck had formally been prohibited from performing, he would “never have conducted” that night because he “would never have reached the theater.” Warfield made clear that he did not oppose the orchestra’s appearance; the “man we were after was the Prussian who said, ‘To hell with your flag and your national anthem.’ ”74 Muck had said no such thing, of course, but from the outset, fidelity to the truth played little role in the affair. There were some, a minority, who were disheartened that music lovers would be denied the chance to hear one of the country’s great ensembles. Their collective disappointment was expressed by the director of the Peabody Conservatory of Music, who said it was worth keeping in mind “that the Boston Symphony is strictly a reputable organization,” and that one should distinguish between the orchestra and its conductor. Cancelling the concert was “a catastrophe.”75
The next day a sizable crowd turned out for a meeting called by Warfield to register opposition to a Muck performance in Baltimore. A regimental band from a local military camp and a company of soldiers were there, and thunderous applause followed the reading of resolutions declaring that Muck should be prohibited from performing in the city, whether he played the anthem or not. When one speaker declared that Muck should be “in an internment camp,” the crowd cheered lustily, after which a man cried out, “a wooden box would be better,” and a woman shouted, it was time to shoot “all traitors.” If the general level of discourse transcended such outbursts, it was not by much, with Warfield proclaiming the day was coming “when that anthem will be sung by every nation on the globe.” Referring to Muck’s earlier comments, Warfield continued, “Talk about your musical art—what does art amount to when it is in competition with patriotism?” His words were in keeping with the sentiments of the mob.76
After reading from a sheaf of correspondence, the former politician shared with the crowd a letter written by the local cardinal, which illustrated the sanctified way those energized by the Muck affair had come to view the flag and the national tune. Underscoring his support for the rally’s goal of surrounding the flag with “all the respect it should command,” the cardinal declared that “he who sings this anthem” is professing his “fidelity” to America. Not surprisingly, the cardinal infused his gendered nationalism with a shot of religious fervor, wrapping the entire concoction in the flag, which he called “the embodiment of our political faith.” As with “the Ark of the old covenant,” he said, “he who touches it with profane hands shall suffer.”77
Newspapers and magazines were replete with letters, editorials, and columns revealing a range of responses to the Providence episode and its aftermath, which considered the relationship between art and politics, along with the meaning of loyalty and patriotism. The reaction of the New York Symphony’s Walter Damrosch is intriguing. Initially, Damrosch, a native of Silesia, spoke about Muck with a degree of forbearance. Calling him a loyal Prussian, Damrosch said it would be unjust to expect Muck to conduct the piece at this moment. Perhaps an assistant conductor could lead the work. Nevertheless, to Damrosch, Muck’s perspective was misguided, for it should be played not because it was a “work of art,” but because it symbolized Americans’ “loyalty and love” of country.78
By the next day, in the wake of the furious opposition to Muck’s alleged transgressions, Damrosch was a bit more stern, asserting that Muck should have asked how “a loyal citizen of Germany” could be expected to conduct the piece when everyone understood his sentiments were sympathetic to his own country. “Fair minded Americans would have accepted his attitude.” It is har
d to imagine Damrosch believed such nonsense, as the notion that the American people were in a “fair-minded” mood was belied by the toxic atmosphere permeating the country.79 Damrosch skewered Muck for his reaction to the Providence event, after which Muck had said, “Art is a thing in itself” and is not connected to a particular people or country. The New York maestro asked whether Muck really believed that only “military bands and ballroom orchestras” should play the national tune. The piece, noted Damrosch, a naturalized American, symbolized “our patriotism and loyalty” in wartime; furthermore, Muck’s orchestra “is, or should be . . . an American organization,” which should play the air any time the “patriotic emotions” of the American people demanded it.80
New York’s other leading maestro, Josef Stransky, said Muck had been placed in a difficult position, though Stransky showed his peer little generosity. “If I did not like the conditions under which I had to do my work I should get out. . . . I would say to Dr. Muck: ‘If you don’t like it,’ ” you can leave. Moreover, as Stransky pointed out, he, along with the members of his New York ensemble, were paid by the American people, and resided in the United States, savoring its “hospitality” and living “under the protection of its government.” If asked to play the anthem, “why should I” refuse?81
Among those sharing Stransky’s views was Theodore Roosevelt, who was never reluctant to thrust himself into the middle of a public debate. Speaking at a New York school, the former president observed that seeing these “youngsters singing so patriotically reminds me by contrast of Karl Muck.” Any man who refused “to play ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ in this time of national crisis, should be forced to pack up and return to the country he came from.”82 Elsewhere, Roosevelt was still more punitive, claiming Muck should be “interned at once, as should any one who refused to play” the anthem. At the current moment, Roosevelt derided, no one had any business being “engaged in anything that is not subordinated to patriotism.” As for the Boston ensemble, if it would “not play the national anthem, it ought to be shut up.”83
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