Dangerous Melodies

by Jonathan Rosenberg

  Reaction to Muck’s unwillingness to play the patriotic tune was almost uniformly antagonistic, with few perceiving any merit in his stance. Two exceptions appeared in the first couple of weeks after the Providence story broke. The director of the Brooklyn Institute, Dr. Charles D. Atkins, observed that, while playing the national air at a symphony concert would cause “no great jar to the art sense,” Muck was correct that it was not “appropriate” at an orchestral performance.84 A more reflective letter, written by a Boston woman to Musical America, pointed to Higginson’s claim that Muck had been unaware of the initial request and had agreed to perform the piece thereafter. What more could he have done?85

  But such sentiments were whispers in a nationalistic storm. Patriotism and loyalty to America’s cause were central to the national discourse, and Muck had fallen far short of the mark. Writing to a New York paper in November 1917, John Macintyre pondered the sacred relationship between a people and their national hymn. For Macintyre, the piece had the power to “inspire in the hearts . . . of every true man, woman, and child a feeling of love, loyalty and reverence for the[ir] country.” A work of art of the “most sacred order,” it could “stir people to the very foundation of their being” and caused them to undertake “heroic deeds and give up life itself.” He went on to say as Muck was sympathetic to German, not American, ideals, the United States should expel him.86

  A Princeton professor spoke to a Brooklyn audience about Muck’s “refusal” to play the piece, which had quickly become the accepted version of the event. The conductor’s excuse, Professor Myers observed, was that it was an inferior composition, a stance the Princetonian rejected. The anthem is “good music. It expresses one of the noblest of the human emotions, patriotism,” which is superior to any emotion expressed in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.87

  The daughter of Brigham Young, one of the Mormon leader’s fifty-six children, also ruminated upon the Muck question and the link between patriotism and music. Writing from Salt Lake City to Musical America, Susa Young Gates, an author and educator, acknowledged Muck’s “generous character,” which she had come to know from two of her children who had worked with him in Berlin. But the country needed the “patriotic stimulation” that certain music provided, so that Americans might be inspired to back the war “with treasure and life.” According to Gates, the boys at the front “need music, but they need [the national hymn] a whole lot more than they need” Beethoven’s Third Symphony.88

  In “Music and Patriotism,” the Outlook acknowledged that America would survive Muck’s failure to play the national tune, but suggested it could not “survive the failure . . . to hold the symbols of its sovereignty and freedom in reverence.” Rejecting Muck’s view, the piece contended that art did not stand alone. Instead, art expressed “human ideals,” and when honest, was certain to be “national.” In fact, there was “no better way to study the ideals of a nation than through its art.”89 Germany’s repugnant values were embedded in much, if not all, German music, the article declared, which meant it was prudent to proscribe it. But if contemporary Germany’s ideals must be shunned, its older values might still be embraced. Americans could listen to Brahms, as he had never subscribed to Prussianism. Nor did Bach and Beethoven threaten America. But Wagner, Strauss, and Muck were entirely different, for they were energized by the toxic German ideals against which the United States was fighting.90

  A more feverish piece appeared in late 1917 in a Philadelphia paper. Penned by the writer and pianist Francis Grierson, the article claimed the notion that art and nationality were separate was “a dangerous lie wrapped in a tissue of sentimentality.” German music was every bit as dangerous as the utterances of German propagandists, Grierson asserted, and those experiencing it in a concert hall would come under its “psychological influence.” He spoke of Germany’s decades-long plot in the United States, which, he alleged, sent dozens of German music directors to America to convince concertgoers that German and Austrian music was the only sort worth hearing. Since the start of the war, Grierson insisted, the “Prussians and the Austrians [had] maintained . . . a system of musical propaganda and espionage,” and Teutonic spies had been funneled to the United States on “peculiar missions” covering art, science, politics, and philosophy.91 Grierson was convinced that the Muck affair exemplified the danger America faced. As for German music, it made no difference how long a composer had been dead, for all such compositions would “suggest to the listener a trend of sympathy toward Germany.” This bizarre insight led Grierson to assert that German music would have a “traitorous” impact on American audiences, which meant it should be ruthlessly quashed.92

  Amidst the anti-Muck furor, it was occasionally possible to hear a temperate voice. Among this less inflammatory cohort was Henry Krehbiel, the distinguished music critic for the New York Tribune.93 According to Krehbiel, the issue of whether symphonic concerts should begin with the national anthem was of “no significance artistically and little value patriotically.” If the story of Muck’s travails was “unfortunate,” Krehbiel thought the fault lay with the maestro. In measured language, he observed that Muck’s hostility toward the United States should cause no dread, nor could his pro-German feeling cause any harm. There was nothing to fear from Muck, though Krehbiel thought he should have kept his mouth shut. Both Muck and the public had behaved imprudently, the critic believed, but Muck would have little impact on the war.94

  After the uproar over the Providence incident, Muck continued to conduct effectively in Boston, and not until the early months of 1918 did his difficulties emerge again, as New York became the center of an anti-Muck tempest that threatened to topple his career. Muck’s well-received November concerts in Carnegie Hall and at the Brooklyn Academy of Music offered little hint of further trouble, though an occasional catcall from the audience indicated a small segment of New York’s concertgoing public was unwilling to let the affair die. When the conductor began the Prelude to Parsifal in Carnegie, the cry of “Boche!” rang out, suggesting that some were determined to pillory Muck for his transgressions, real or imagined, although that particular exclamation (a contemptuous term for the Germans) was followed by the equally loud shout of “Yokel!” and a hostile glare.95

  In late January, Lucie Jay again threw herself into the fray, writing to Henry Higginson to express her dismay that he had retained Muck, a decision that she and three other signatories to the letter opposed. Her position was based on the “intense feeling” that the conductor, “whose sympathies [were] most palpably opposed to the United States” and had been decorated by the German emperor, had generated among the American public. Moreover, Jay explained, his performances in New York had become a meeting place for those desiring a German victory. If some believed in the international character of art, a position she scorned, Jay claimed it was imperative for “art [to] stand aside” in order to do everything possible to end the war victoriously. As she was wont to do, Jay linked extirpating German musical culture to winning the war, claiming the quickest way to highlight the depth of America’s wartime commitment was to end Germany’s “influence in musical affairs.” It was essential to dismiss Muck, she insisted, since the public would interpret his withdrawal as proof that for the sake of patriotism, the American listener was prepared to “sacrifice his enjoyment of German music.”96

  Writing to Jay at her Park Avenue address, Higginson was direct, telling her that Muck had behaved as a “gentleman” and had offered to resign to ease Higginson’s situation. While acknowledging that the conductor was “probably German in feeling,” Higginson said the musician had done nothing wrong, either on the podium or as a man; moreover, his “industry, knowledge, and power” would be impossible to replace. Higginson rejected Jay’s contention that the orchestra’s New York concerts had become gathering places for those who wished to defeat the Allies, noting that those who attended were unchanged from before. “Unless the audiences of many years [were] disloyal” to America, he observed tartly, “I quest
ion [your] statement.” The vast majority of those who had contacted him supported the decision to retain Muck, while the few letters objecting were either anonymous or abusive. In justifying his position, Higginson conveyed a touch of class solidarity with Jay, writing that his audiences depended on the concerts for “refreshment,” and that many led dull lives, which made the performances far “more important for them than . . . to you and me.” Dismissing Muck, Higginson wrote, meant he would have to disband the orchestra, and his loyal ensemble relied on him “for their bread.”97

  Unwilling to drop the matter, Jay noted that several cities had already banished Muck from their concert halls and that Higginson had acknowledged the conductor was pro-German. There was only one point to consider, she claimed. By retaining Muck, was Higginson not giving “aid and comfort” to the enemy? More sharply, she asked if the nation should pour forth its “blood and nerve and brain and treasure and still hold to German musical domination?” And then Jay issued her final plea: “Rather a thousand times that the orchestral traditions fade from our lives than one hour be added to the war’s duration by clinging to this last tentacle of the German octopus!”98

  In the eyes of Lucie Jay and many others, Muck’s continued leadership of the Boston Symphony made vanquishing the kaiser’s Germany more difficult. If this seems incomprehensible from a twenty-first century vantage point, in 1918, with the home front susceptible to the demonization of all things German, it is not difficult to imagine the persuasiveness of such an anemic argument. Indeed, the editors’ introduction to the Jay-Higginson correspondence, which The Chronicle published in March, insisted that Muck had been planted by the German government to engage in propaganda activities in the United States. Those wanting to retain Muck, the editors asserted, were “conniving at a German victory,” while those demanding his expulsion would contribute to Germany’s defeat. New York should do what several other American cities had done: banish him. With the Boston ensemble ready to give a final set of New York concerts that season, the city had its last opportunity to refuse to provide “aid and comfort to the enemy.”99

  As the Bostonians prepared to perform at Carnegie Hall and the Brooklyn Academy of Music in March 1918, the newspapers overflowed with discussion on whether the maestro should be permitted to lead his group in the city. Under a headline asking “Shall Doktor Karl Muck with His 23 Enemy Aliens Play in Concert To-Night?,” the New York Herald told its readers that Muck, “the Kaiser’s own musical director,” would lead his ensemble, which included twenty-three enemy aliens, unless something was done to stop them. Readers learned the city was witnessing a growing “storm of protest from patriotic organizations and individuals,” who opposed having the “Kaiser’s favorite” conduct.100 According to the Herald, the Daughters of the American Revolution supported the effort, while numerous letters aimed intense hostility at him. One correspondent said he had always patronized the Boston concerts in New York, but attending a Muck performance now would be tantamount to “proclaiming himself in sympathy with the German beasts.” Another letter, from “An American Mother” with a son in the service, asked (prophetically) if it was possible to allow “that Prussian . . . to stand there before all these American mothers and wives and insult us by his presence anywhere but behind the walls of an internment camp.” Yet another declaration resembled a slogan on a recruiting poster: “Our gallant lads over there are performing heroic deeds” so that “liberty, truth and justice may not, through the Prussian Beast’s foulness, perish from the earth.” New York should not allow Muck to conduct.101

  Though the Muck affair became a cause célèbre, the Carnegie and Brooklyn concerts would not be cancelled. The rector of Trinity Church, Dr. William T. Manning, backed Lucie Jay’s efforts, arguing that during this “greatest conflict in all history,” it was essential to fortify the American people’s “spirit.” While American soldiers were being “assailed by liquid fire, poison gas, and other like inventions of German Kultur,” it was unacceptable to attend concerts that might provide “support to the avowed friends . . . of the Kaiser.”102 Across the city, anyone exposed to a newspaper would have encountered the drumbeat of writing on Maestro Muck and his orchestra, as the saga grabbed the attention of both music devotees and those unfamiliar with the concert hall. As the date arrived for the first of the three New York concerts, a New York World headline captured the spirit of the moment: “War on Dr. Muck Growing Warmer.”103

  Under the watchful eyes of police officers in and around Carnegie Hall, including some twenty plainclothesmen in the auditorium, the opening concert went off without a hitch, as did the two subsequent performances, one at Carnegie and the other at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. The audience received Muck and his band enthusiastically, and the critics were mainly positive. Writing about the first Carnegie Hall concert, the Musical Courier remarked that obtaining tickets had been nearly impossible, and noted that Muck’s interpretation of Brahms’s Third Symphony was marked by the “exquisite clarity of tone, [and] beauty of style” that one would expect from this distinguished pairing. According to the Courier, those in attendance looking for an “expression of feeling” against Muck from the audience were “disappointed.” Indeed, after the final notes sounded, the audience registered its energetic support for the performers, which Muck acknowledged by asking his musicians to rise.104

  Inevitably, there were naysayers, who disdained both conductor and audience. An overheated New York Telegram piece dubiously characterized those who heard Muck in Carnegie Hall as “German, German sympathizers and long haired and flowing tied musical fanatics.” The maestro’s appearance had “insulted the patriotism of New York” and dismayed Lucie Jay’s supporters, who had tried to “avert the disgrace from the city.” Telegram readers learned the concert hall was filled with plainclothes officers and government agents who were scattered amidst the throng of German and pro-German music lovers. But the show of force was unnecessary, for no patriots were in attendance (so the paper claimed). As Muck, the “Kaiser’s Own,” strode onto the stage, he was met with “tumultuous applause, cheers and whispered ‘Hochs’ ” (similar to “Bravo”), which rose up from a hall overflowing with pro-Germans. Once the music began, the Hungarian, Austrian, and Prussian “harmonies swelled in teutonic volume,” which thrilled the audience and transported them by bringing to New York “the atmosphere of the Fatherland.”105

  No less acerbic, the New York Herald observed that the Carnegie Hall concert saw New York bow its “head in shame as it stepped down from its proud position from the first rank” of America’s patriotic cities by allowing a performance by Muck and his collection of “enemy . . . associates.” As was true of the Telegram, the Herald made it sound as if those who applauded were mainly German. In this telling, not shared by other accounts, the enthusiasm came entirely from the “Teutonic element in the house,” while other listeners allegedly sat quietly and refused to applaud the enemy maestro. (Why someone who harbored antagonistic feelings toward Muck would have attended the concert the Herald did not say.) The paper asked an audience member from a nearby town to assess the evening’s developments. “I expected to see 5,000 people outside this hall ready to tear it down in order to prevent this enemy alien from appearing,” he said. Why New York allowed itself “to be so disgraced” was puzzling, he remarked, noting his local “vigilance committee” sought to keep enemy aliens off the stage. “What’s the matter with New York patriotism?”106

  While the three Muck performances saw no serious disruption, on the day of the final concert, the board of trustees of the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences, under whose auspices the Boston Symphony played in Brooklyn, announced that if Muck remained at the helm, they would not invite the ensemble back the following season. In the future, artists or speakers enlisted by the Institute must be in “sympathy” with America’s wartime ideals.107

  Despite New York’s distress, Muck’s real problems had just begun. Less than two weeks later, on March 25, 1918, Boston police
officers and agents from the Department of Justice arrested the conductor after he had concluded a dress rehearsal at Symphony Hall and carted him off to a Back Bay jail, where he would spend the night in a cell that typically housed con men, robbers, and murderers. Muck was arrested under the president’s enemy alien proclamation, which meant he could not be granted bail. A distraught Mrs. Muck declared, “My husband’s arrest is preposterous,” and claimed she had “no knowledge of what the charge could be.” She was confident he would soon be released.108

  The day after his arrest, Muck was scheduled to conduct Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, a performance he had been preparing for months, which would include a hundred musicians and nearly five hundred singers. That morning, while still in detention at the local police station, the maestro had a special breakfast brought to him by symphony officials, after which he was taken to the Federal Building, where he spent the day answering questions posed by Department of Justice officials. During the questioning, a contingent of ten Boston Symphony patrons visited the building, seeking his temporary release to conduct the evening concert he had prepared with such care. The request was turned down by unmoved (or unmusical) government officials, who would not allow Muck out of their sight, even under police supervision. Thus, the maestro would not ascend the podium to conduct the Bach, though the orchestra performed the piece nobly under the direction of assistant conductor Ernst Schmidt.109 Late that afternoon, while the performance was underway, Muck was moved to an East Cambridge jail, where he had the opportunity to visit briefly with his wife.110