Given the furor caused by the Muck saga, it was no surprise that the postwar status of their former conductor attracted the attention of Bostonians. In the summer of 1919, just before his release from Fort Oglethorpe, Muck spoke to a reporter and pondered his predicament, his uncertain future, and life in America. “My future? It may be anything,” he said, since he had nothing to go back to in Germany. “I have no home there, no connections there, nothing there, nor here now.” Reflecting on his time in Boston made him sad. “If you have spent four years in doing the best that you can for art . . . and never mixed in politics . . . the hardest part of all is to be suddenly taken out.” Having bought a house in Boston, he had intended to remain in the United States, and had planned to become an American citizen. But that was not possible, for in America, he claimed, there was no longer any place for a German. He was shocked by what had occurred, and had no idea such "discrimination could take place.” Even children had been “taught that a German is something to be despised.”37
On August 21, 1919, Karl Muck and his wife left the United States, sailing from Hoboken for Copenhagen. The couple was brought to the pier by an agent from the Department of Justice, who instructed the captain to make sure Muck did not leave the ship within the three-mile limit, though where he would have gone (and how he would have gotten there) is difficult to say. To a fellow passenger, he called himself “a man without a flag or a country.” America had become a land “controlled by sentiment that is closely bordering on mob rule.” Muck maintained that he had never refused to play “The Star-Spangled Banner,” calling the story a fabrication. Once, he had thought of Boston as his home. “Now . . . I don’t know what is to become of me.”38 As the Mucks sailed for Europe, their outbound ship passed the inbound French liner carrying Pierre Monteux, who would take the reins of Muck’s old ensemble.39
But Boston was not quite finished with its erstwhile conductor. In November 1919, a multipart series in the Boston Post made the case that Muck had served as an agent of the German government during the war, a charge that is not sustainable. Day after day, Boston readers encountered screaming headlines, which could not have been more damning: “Muck’s Hate is Fanatical”; “Muck an Official Spy for Germany”; “How Muck Fooled All His Friends.” Even Mrs. Muck was not immune: “Muck’s Wife Very Active Propagandist.”40 In story after story, the paper described in elaborate detail the alleged treachery the German had committed, which included everything from participating in secret meetings with German diplomats, to his alleged signaling of German ships at sea from his rented coastal cottage in Maine.41 The conductor, it was reported, had been working for the German government all along, in a despicable scheme to undermine the war effort.
Beyond such fantastic allegations about Muck’s pro-German activities, the Post also published a raft of love letters the musician had penned to the nineteen-year-old Rosamond Young, an aspiring soprano who happened to be a member of a prominent Boston family. The letters, which federal agents had seized from the young woman’s bedroom in 1918, revealed Muck to be both virulently anti-American and something of a scoundrel.
Upon encountering the conductor’s wartime correspondence, readers were undoubtedly outraged by his description of his German homeland, which he compared to “a noble stag which only cowardly hyenas and jackals attack,” or his declaration that the United States was “ruled by a crowd of bums,” whom he hoped the American people would hang “to the highest tree.” As for the American president, whom Muck thought (not unreasonably) was motivated by pro-British sentiment, he was the “English shoe shiner,” and the country he governed was a collection of “English colonies,” a servile condition the United States had entered willingly. The musician wrote that he did not know if he could “keep up any longer this horrible life in a country full of fanatical enemies,” and he even spoke of turning his Boston residence into a “fortress,” in which, with “a rifle . . . a six-shooter, and two automatic pistols,” he could hold the house “against a cowardly mob,” a challenge that “would be great sport.”42
What was surely worse than Muck’s disdain for life in America or his disgust with American diplomacy were the revelations about his personal behavior. Readers encountered his amorous notes to the young singer in which he arranged secret assignations and spoke of the need for concealing their ardent activities. “My Darling,” the conductor wrote, “I sympathize with you in your fear for the consequences of our very sweet relationship. We must not overlook any precaution that will save us both from a scandal.” The German worried about what his opponents would do to him were the affair revealed (as thousands of Bostonians followed along). “My enemies would rejoice in our dragging to vulgar public gaze our love that is sacred and which we alone understand.” The aging maestro sought to assure the young soprano that she would be fine whatever happened, as he would “shoulder it all.” One can only imagine the horror Bostonians experienced upon reading about the conductor’s plan for securing a place for the pair’s trysts. “I have made arrangements to secure a small apartment,” he wrote, “secret and secluded, where no vulgar footsteps will tread.” Thinking only of the needs of his young lover (so he claimed), the maestro wrote, “I will see to it that you have a duplicate key to the apartment,” for he wanted a safe place where they could meet—a “new nest.” And there, “we will snap our fingers to the herd of swine and drink the sweet cup to the last drop.”43
Inevitably, the subject of the conductor’s wife arose, which the German assured his youthful companion should not be a concern. Sounding the timeless note of a man in his position, Muck said all would work out. “You are right in saying so, darling, that my marital entanglements make it very hard for you.” He pointed out that he, too, confronted a challenging situation, asking, “Can’t you see, darling, how much harder it is for me to renounce the love that grew between us?” Maintaining his effort to keep the affair alive, he pleaded, “Must we, for the sake of foolish sentiments . . . imposed on us by others, foreswear the love that is divine and inexpressible?” He answered resoundingly: “No, a thousand times no! You are mine and I am your slave.” Muck then let his mistress (and all Boston) in on a secret: “It will perhaps surprise you to learn that to a certain extent Mrs. Muck knows our relationship.” He then bowed to his wife’s open-mindedness, which was “beyond the comprehension of the swine-like people among whom we must live a little while longer.” The conductor offered the final enticement to his young lover, which included the potential help of a celebrated figure. “Our gracious Kaiser” would surely respond to a request to return to Berlin, and once Muck was in Germany, the German leader would “see the benefit to the fatherland in my obtaining a divorce and making you my own.”44
Although Muck was back in Europe by the time the Boston Post series appeared, readers no doubt viewed the musician as reflecting exactly the sort of treachery “the Hun” was capable of perpetrating. On the one hand, he had allegedly sought to undermine America’s safety by meeting regularly with representatives of the German government, while he had also engaged in scandalous personal behavior, which revealed him to be a faithless husband and the seducer of an innocent young woman. Thus, Muck perfectly embodied what the US government had convinced millions of Americans they had been fighting against: the subject of an outlaw state made up of people whose public and private behavior was sordid, immoral, and, ultimately, un-American. The exposé on Muck’s extramusical activities surely played into the fear and loathing Americans had been instructed to have toward Germany and its people. As the Boston Post reminded readers, Muck was “typical” of those who are thought “superior beings in Germany,” a group that saw “treachery . . . as a virtue.”45
As for Muck’s fellow internee Ernst Kunwald, after his release from Fort Oglethorpe in June 1919, he made his way to New York and sailed for Europe to resume his career.46 The following year, Kunwald reflected on American musical life in an interview that appeared in the United States, offering unflattering comparisons betwe
en classical-music culture in Europe and in the United States. American orchestras, unlike those in Europe, had not developed over the centuries out of local traditions of fiddlers or pipers, he said, but had sprung fully formed from the directives of local magnates. As for the musicians, in the American setting, this was not typically an occupation passed down from father to son; instead, they were often recruited from overseas, making the ensembles resemble a “vari-colored mosaic.” Kunwald claimed that orchestras in the United States had “no roots in the life of the American people” and answered no “crying aesthetic or emotional need.” Nor did the state support the arts in the United States; rather, it was often women who helped maintain the orchestral tradition. Kunwald did acknowledge some positive aspects of American musical life: good pay, ample rehearsal time, and conductors devoted to their ensembles.47
Reflecting on the war years, Kunwald noted that German music had been the centerpiece of America’s classical music culture, at least until the United States entered the war. Even on the day after the British passenger ship Lusitania was sunk by a German U-boat in 1915, killing innocent Americans, Kunwald recalled hearing Muck conduct Wagner, Beethoven, Liszt, and Strauss in Boston to great acclaim. In Cincinnati, Kunwald had had no trouble performing or lecturing on German music until America went to war, at which point the “feeling which had been glowing faintly under the cover of . . . love for art, broke out into a flame of hatred.” Then there was no stopping the tide, and the “war against German music” began. He described standing before his orchestra one night and basking in the applause, only to be taken off to prison the next morning. Concluding, Kunwald said he had heard that conditions had not improved in America, and that the antipathy toward “everything German continue[d].” Germans could derive hope from the fact that in their own country “musical art” still flourished. And soon, when the “war madness” subsided and gave way to “sanity in the minds of our enemies,” Kunwald declared, German music would again serve as the most powerful “asset in the balance between other countries and our Fatherland.”48
With the war’s end, the highlight of the 1918–1919 Chicago concert season was the return of Frederick Stock, who had submitted his resignation in August 1918. Early the next year, on February 28, the much-admired maestro strode onto the stage to conduct the Chicago Symphony in a program that included standard orchestral fare and the premiere of a piece from Stock’s hand, the March and Hymn to Democracy, which, according to the program notes, reflected the glory of “democracy as the salvation of humanity.” Notwithstanding Stock’s grandiose expressions of patriotism, the piece was destined for musical obscurity. But that mattered little, as the audience welcomed Stock to the stage with tumultuous applause, while his musicians stood and played a fanfare.49
Before raising his baton, the conductor, who had never fallen out of favor, spoke from the stage, expressing appreciation for the city’s support and his love for America. Recalling the words of a writer who had urged “a man to hitch his wagon to a star,” the conductor asserted, “I have hitched my wagon to the Stars and Stripes.” However questionable the rhetorical merit of his words, the concert by conductor and orchestra reminded listeners what a potent duo they were.50 Stock’s uplifting return suggested that Chicago’s musical life would shortly regain its prewar luster; emphasizing his patriotism (he had taken out his citizenship papers), the Musical Courier declared, “Fredrick Stock Is One of Us.”51
Though Chicago’s conductor had come back in triumph, moments of cultural uncertainty persisted, as the musical public pondered what to do about German music.52 A few weeks after Stock returned, audiences heard the orchestra perform Wagner for the first time that season. Under the direction of the Italian Georgio Polacco, the ensemble played the Prelude and the “Love Death” from Tristan and Isolde in late March, in two performances received without protest. The critic for the Herald and Examiner observed that the “skies did not fall nor did the walls of Orchestra Hall cave in.” Indeed, the newspaper highlighted the audience’s enthusiastic reaction.53 While this was the lone Wagner offering heard during the 1918–1919 season, the following year, excerpts from eight Wagner operas would be performed, though Richard Strauss’s compositions would not be played in either season, as living German composers remained off-limits.54
Elsewhere in the city, musical life began to resemble its prewar character. In May 1919, a wounded soldier strolling through the streets paused in front of a downtown theater to listen to the strains of a German folk song, “Die Lorelai,” sung in German, drifting through an open door. “And in the loop, too,” he said. “Well, I’ll be d–––.” But the mayor had earlier offered his approval, and his representative told the large German audience that evening, “I take pleasure in assuring you of the city’s warm welcome upon the return of your music.” According to the press, many distinguished Germans were on hand for the music, including Oscar Mayer, “of meat fame.”55
Despite such tolerant moments, concerns echoed across the city about the reappearance of German music, especially performances in German. Commenting on the German tongue, Chicago Daily Tribune critic Frederick Donaghey declared, “I am with those who believe that its public use, in speech or print, ought to be prohibited for eternity by federal statute.” To say German is “essential to Wagner’s operas is blah!” Nothing in Wagner mattered “save the music.” Continuing, he labeled Wagner “a third-rate play-write, and a joke as a stage director.” For Donaghey, who betrayed a remarkable ignorance about the Wagner canon, the operas, once shorn of the German language, could be heard without reservation.56
As Wagner returned to the repertoire of Chicago’s orchestra, and devotees could again hear his operas, Donaghey was surely heartened that, for a time, they could do so only in English. In the 1920–1921 season, Lohengrin and Die Walküre (in English) were welcomed back to the Chicago Opera Association’s repertoire.57 But the following year, in November 1921, a milestone was reached, as Wagner was performed in German for the first time since the war, with Tannhäuser making a triumphant reappearance. The local press praised the cast, with the Tribune proclaiming, “Peace was officially declared by the Chicago Opera . . . last night.”58 And in 1922, for the first time since the war, Parsifal was offered in German, a performance, one critic wrote, which reminded opera lovers of its beauty.59
With the return of Wagner to Chicago, an episode involving Johanna Gadski, the noted German soprano, rekindled some of the unpleasant passions of the war. In early November 1921, Gadski was engaged by the Chicago Opera Association to sing in Tristan and in Tannhäuser during the coming season; but within weeks, the company’s board decided to bar her from appearing. Given a check for $7,500, Gadski was told her services were no longer needed.60 In response, she brought a $500,000 lawsuit against the company, alleging slander. One will recall that Gadski’s German husband, Captain Hans Tauscher, had been tried and acquitted for plotting to commit an act of terrorism prior to America’s entry into the war. Equally disturbing was the rumor that after the Lusitania sinking, German baritone Otto Goritz had performed at Gadski’s New York home, singing a derisive ditty about the horrific episode that had killed more than a hundred Americans. This was a story Gadski repeatedly denied. While the singer would lose her suit, the fact that three years after the war’s end a German engaged to sing Wagner could be dismissed because of local opposition, suggests that anti-German feeling still had traction.61
Johanna Gadski
Out west, the debate about Gadski became still more contentious, though she was welcomed enthusiastically in Seattle and San Francisco in November 1922, where she offered Wagner, as she had the previous year in well-received performances in Carnegie Hall and in Washington, DC.62 But Los Angeles was a different matter entirely. In early December, Gadski denied the allegations directed at her and her husband, noting that he was seeking US citizenship. She was determined to perform in Los Angeles, and claimed there was not “one iota of evidence” against her.63
A we
ek before the December 11 recital, a meeting of the local American Legion council, with support from representatives of local women’s auxiliary groups and veterans’ organizations, passed a resolution protesting Gadski’s upcoming appearance. The decision, her opponents claimed, was a result of Gadski’s questionable wartime activities, all of which she denied.64 Her manager called the Legion’s allegations a rehashing of unsubstantiated charges, and Gadski asserted that her wartime behavior had been above reproach.65
It remained unclear whether there would be a concert, with some from the Legion claiming the event might endanger the public safety.66 Ultimately, the office of the attorney general was asked to weigh in when the parties agreed that Washington would be contacted to see if Gadski had done anything wrong. If she had, she would cancel.67
Despite the Justice Department’s sterling report, which cleared Gadski of any improper behavior, those opposing her Los Angeles appearance were unmoved. The facts were irrelevant. “It is not what the Justice Department has against Mme. Gadski that influences the Legion,” but local public opinion, remarked a Legion member.68 Disregarding the report, Gadski’s opponents now claimed to be worried that, were she to appear, “grave disorders” might result.69
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