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The document provides links to various solution manuals and test banks for textbooks related to JavaScript, PHP, ecology, anatomy, statistics, and accounting. It includes checkpoints and programming exercises related to JavaScript, as well as a narrative about the establishment and funding of a symphony orchestra in New York. The text highlights the challenges faced in integrating foreign musicians into the union and the artistic achievements of the orchestra under its conductor.
Uploaded by
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Solution Manual for Introduction to JavaScript
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Checkpoint for Section 1.4
1.13 This is a way to break a program into smaller pieces, with each piece accomplishing a task.
1.14 Pseudocode uses English phrases instead of actual code to design a program. It allows the
programmer to think through the logic of the program design without worrying about specific
syntax.
1.15 The diamond
1.16 Answers will vary
Checkpoint for Section 1.5
1.17 The type (type = javascript)
1.18 It will display alternate content for users who have disabled JavaScript.
1.19 nothing
1.20 An alert will pop up which will say Boo!
1.21 An alert will pop up that will say Ouch! Be gentle, friend!
1.22 When you want some JavaScript code to occur as soon as the page is finished loading.
Checkpoint for Section 1.6
1.23 properties and methods or attributes and functions
1.24 write()
1.25 document.write("<h2>Welcome to my world!</h2>");
Use the following code for Checkpoints 1.26 and 1.27
<html>
<head>
<title>Checkpoints 1.26 and 1.27</title>
<script type="text/javascript">
function getValue()
{
fill in the blank for Checkpoint 1.26
document.write("Your car is a <br />");
fill in the blank for Checkpoint 1.27
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3 id="cars" onclick="getValue()">Lamborghini</h3>
</body>
</html>
1.26 var auto=document.getElementById("cars");
1.27 document.write(auto.innerHTML);
1.28 document.window.open("","extraInfo", "width=400, height=600");
Checkpoint for Section 1.7
1.29 A group of instructions that can be used by other parts of a program.
1.30 function warning()
{
document.write("<h3>Don't go there! You have been
warned.</h3>");
}
1.31 Values that are passed into a function
1.32 parameters are first and last
1.33 <html>
<head>
<title> JavaScript Events</title>
<script type="text/javascript">
function ouch()
{
document.write("<h2>Don't be so pushy!<br />One click is
enough.</h2>");
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h2 id ="hello"2>Who are you?</h2>
<button type="button" ondblclick="ouch()">Enter your name</button>
</body>
</html>
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could join the union, and that until he became a member no other
member of the union would be allowed to play with him. As all
orchestral engagements in opera, concert, or theatre were in the
hands of union men, this meant that the newcomer would have to
starve for six months before he could begin to earn a dollar toward
his maintenance. This law was not enforced by the union men for
patriotic reasons, as most of them had been born in Europe, but
because they feared the possible competition for the positions they
monopolized. The best wood-wind players at that time—and,
generally speaking, this applies to-day—were French or Belgian. The
Conservatoire of Paris has for years produced very superior artists on
these instruments. The Boston Orchestra, which is non-union, had
several among its members, and their exquisite tone and beautiful
phrasing always particularly enraged me because, owing to the
union restrictions, I could not have players of equal merit.
I determined therefore to throw down the gantlet to the union by
deliberately going to France to engage the five best artists I could
find in flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and trumpet, demonstrate their
superior excellence to anything we could obtain in New York at that
time, and through the pressure of public opinion—and, above all, the
necessity of artistic competition with the Boston Symphony—force
the union to accept these men as members. When the Frenchmen
arrived, the rage among the members of the New York union knew
no bounds. I had a summer engagement for the orchestra on one of
the roof gardens, but the union refused to let them play with us
except as “soloists,” and I determined to take the matter higher up
to the annual convention of the National Federation of Musicians,
which was held in Detroit in the summer of 1905.
I found the national delegates much more amenable to reason
than my New York colleagues. There were more real Americans
among them and many of them listened to my pleadings with
interest and sympathy. The president of the federation, Joseph N.
Weber, is a man of real intellectual ability; and while he and I have
had some violent quarrels and disagreements during these many
years, and while I have sometimes denounced him to his face as a
fanatic and he has given me tit for tat, I must acknowledge that he
not only has had the ability to build up a remarkable organization of
great power, but has often acted with great fairness in disputes that
have come up between the directors of the New York Musical Union
and myself.
The National Federation decided in my favor and gave me the
permission to incorporate these five Frenchmen in my orchestra and
to enroll them as members of the New York union, but as I had
“sinned against the laws of the federation in bringing them over
from a foreign country,” I was fined one thousand dollars. It was,
however, intimated to me privately that if I would return to the next
convention of the federation, which was to be held in Boston the
following summer, I would in all probability receive a remission of
the greater part of this fine. It is needless for me to say that I never
saw any part of that one thousand dollars again.
I returned to New York jubilant and my French players proved
themselves such superior artists that, together with our other
excellent members, many of whom had been with me for years, the
orchestra quickly took rank among the best in the country.
The leader of my first violins was Mr. David Mannes. I had
discovered him a few years before at one of the New York theatres,
where he was a member of the little orchestra and where I heard
him play a solo charmingly between the first and second acts. The
beautiful quality of his tone, and a fine sensitiveness to the melos of
the work he was playing, attracted me and I engaged him for the
last stand of the first violins. From there he was quickly promoted
until he occupied the position at the first stand of concert master. He
married my sister Clara, a pianist of fine accomplishment. Their
sonata recitals have become models of intimate unity in chamber-
music playing, and several years ago they founded the David
Mannes Music School. This encroached so much upon his time and
energy as to compel him to resign his position in the New York
Symphony Orchestra, which he had held so honorably for many
years.
Each year the guarantee fund for the maintenance of the
orchestra was increased by the supporters of the New York
Symphony Society, and more and more men were engaged on
regular weekly salaries. At last my dream was realized, and New
York had an orchestra organized on the same lines as the Boston
and Chicago Orchestras, devoted exclusively to symphonic music
and assembling daily for rehearsal.
The fund at this time reached over fifty thousand dollars a year,
mainly subscribed by the directors of our organization. Several of
these had been supporters from my father’s time, among them Isaac
N. Seligman, who, with his family, had been interested in music in
New York for many years. Others had come into the organization
when I became its conductor and had remained loyal supporters and
close friends from that time on. Among them were: Richard Welling,
a director since 1886, a well-known lawyer and reformer in municipal
politics, and who as a member of the Naval Reserves promptly
enlisted as an ensign when we entered the Great War, although he
was then well over fifty years of age; Miss Mary R. Callender and
Miss Caroline de Forest who had been directors since 1885. Miss
Callender further signalized her affection for the orchestra by leaving
fifty thousand dollars to the pension and sick fund after her death in
1919. The complete list of the subscribers to the fund at the time
was as follows:
Mrs. H. A. Alexander Mme. Nordica
Mr. C. B. Alexander Mr. Stephen S. Palmer
Miss Kora F. Barnes Mrs. Trenor L. Park
Mrs. William H. Bliss Mr. Amos Pinchot
Miss Mary R. Callender Mrs. Joseph Pulitzer
Mr. Robert J. Collier Mr. Thomas F. Ryan
Mrs. Paul D. Cravath Mr. Charles E. Sampson
Mr. Paul D. Cravath Mr. Samuel S. Sanford
Miss Caroline de Forest Mr. R. E. Schirmer
Mr. Charles H. Ditson Mr. Henry Seligman
Mrs. S. Edgar Mrs. Henry Seligman
Miss A. C. Flagler Mr. Isaac N. Seligman
Mr. Harry Harkness Flagler Mr. Jefferson Seligman
Mr. Edward S. Flagler Mrs. Jesse Seligman
Mrs. Frances Hellman Mr. Frank H. Simmons
Mr. Otto H. Kahn Miss Clara B. Spence
Mr. A. W. Krech Mrs. F. T. Van Beuren
Mrs. Daniel Lamont Mr. Richard Welling
Mr. Albert Lewisohn Mrs. J. A. Zimmerman
Mr. Frank A. Munsey Mr. Paul Warburg
Mr. Emerson McMillin
The ideal conditions under which I now worked gave me the
opportunity to carry out several artistic plans which I had had for a
long time. The first of these was a Beethoven cycle, in which I gave
not only all the nine symphonies in chronological order, but other
compositions of Beethoven, some of which had not yet appeared on
the concert programmes of New York. Accordingly, in the winter of
1909, I prepared six programmes composed of Beethoven’s works,
and at the last concert gave a double performance of his “Ninth
Symphony.” This was a real tour de force, but not original with me.
During the summer of 1887, which I had spent with von Bülow in
study of the Beethoven symphonies, he had told me of having given
such a double performance in Berlin and that the results had been
very remarkable, inasmuch as at the second hearing, the audience
had been able the more perfectly to grasp many of the intricacies of
this “Hamlet” among symphonic dramas. Our double performance
caused a good deal of comment, most of which was very favorable.
Between the two performances the orchestra and chorus were
refreshed with hot coffee and sandwiches, and as the work takes
about an hour and ten minutes to perform, the repetition, together
with a half-hour of rest between, brought the final tumultuous
outburst of the choral “Ode to Joy” to eleven o’clock.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the audience began a
great demonstration of approval, applauding and shouting for many
minutes; but while I and my performers took some of this as ours by
right, I have always felt that the audience intended a good part of it
as directed toward themselves for having so nobly endured the great
strain which I had put upon them.
This was the first Beethoven Festival ever given in New York, and
a few years later I organized a Brahms Festival on similar lines. I
directed his four symphonies, the ingratiating Zimbalist playing the
“Violin Concerto,” Wilhelm Backhaus the great “B-Flat Piano
Concerto,” and my brother with the chorus of the Oratorio Society
conducting a very beautiful performance of the “Requiem.”
Such festivals devoted exclusively to the work of one composer
are a great lesson to the serious music lover, and I think that as
Beethoven represents almost the alpha and certainly the omega of
symphonic music, there should be repetitions of Beethoven cycles
every few years. I have never been able to understand why it should
not be similarly possible to give Shakespearian cycles in spring, in
which all of our best actors could combine to make up ideal casts.
We should certainly make American children as familiar with
Shakespeare’s great tragedies as, for instance, the children of
Germany, to whom Shakespeare is much more of a household word
than he is to those of this country or England. If music can find
Flaglers and Higginsons to endow it as an educational necessity, why
cannot similar men be found to do the same for the drama and thus
help to lift it as an educational factor from its painfully weak position
to which the necessities of making it a paying institution have driven
it.
During all these years my relations with Mr. and Mrs. Flagler
became more and more intimate. I had never met such people in my
entire life. Their devotion to and interest in the orchestra increased
constantly, and Mr. Flagler’s contributions to the fund became
greater and greater as the needs of the orchestra increased. But his
help was offered with a shyness, as if it had been the orchestra that
conferred the benefit upon him. He also took over a work which I
had always detested more than anything else, and that is the
collection of funds. As the expenses of the orchestra increased with
the years, it became necessary to collect money from outside
sources beyond the large sums already contributed by the directors
of the society. With constant good humor, patience, and infinite tact
Mr. Flagler, whose own donations to the fund were greater in
proportion to his income than those of many others, would write
letters or call personally on well-to-do musical patrons to collect
perhaps a few hundred dollars toward the fund, and he would be
inordinately proud of his success as a financier and collector.
Finally even his infinite patience wore out under this yearly strain
and this manifested itself in a very remarkable way.
In the spring of 1914 he quietly informed me that he had decided
to assume the entire financial responsibility of the orchestra himself
and to contribute all necessary funds for its proper maintenance.
This amount was double what would have been considered
necessary ten years before, but salaries of orchestral players and
other expenses in connection with the giving of concerts had
increased enormously and it was Mr. Flagler’s desire that, while there
should be no waste, the affairs of the orchestra should be managed
in such liberal fashion that the artistic needs could first be
considered in shaping its policy.
This magnificent and unique act naturally created a great
excitement in the musical circles of New York, and Mr. Flagler was
universally acclaimed as its foremost musical citizen.
I have a characteristic letter of his, dated August 31, 1914, in
which he says:
Indeed I am not overmodest about my gift to the Symphony Society. It is not that, but
what I am doing is so little in comparison with what the real makers of music, creators and
interpreters like yourself do for the betterment of the world through their art, that it doesn’t
deserve to be thought of. I am proud and happy in the thought that I may be the means of
helping you to put before the world your ideas in regard to the interpretations of the
masters and to bring the God-given art of music to many who would not otherwise have its
uplifting and consoling power, and that is what we are doing together. You shall be free as
never before to work out your own ideas unfettered by thoughts of the financial
necessities. . . .
Since then the society has pursued the even tenor of its way and,
freed from all financial worries, has contributed much to the cause of
music. The orchestra plays over a hundred symphony concerts
during the winter, in New York and elsewhere. These include a series
of Sunday-afternoon concerts at Æolian Hall, Thursday-afternoon
and Friday-evening concerts at Carnegie Hall, and a series of young
people’s concerts and another of children’s concerts. There are also
subscription concerts in Brooklyn, Philadelphia, Baltimore,
Washington, and Rochester, and several tours every winter to
Canada and the Middle West. During the war Mr. Flagler often gave
the services of the orchestra for charities connected with the war,
and several times donated the gross receipts of our regular concerts
to such organizations as the American Friends of Musicians in
France, in which he and his wife became very much interested. But
perhaps the climax in the history of the orchestra was reached in its
great European tour in the spring of 1920. To this I shall devote a
separate chapter following one on my experiences in France during
the Great War.
XV
THE GREAT WAR
When America finally entered the Great War I was, like most of
my fellow citizens, anxious to do something to help, and therefore
shared the restlessness and discontent which most men of maturer
years felt because they were not “too proud” but too old to fight.
A number of music lovers had formed an organization, “American
Friends of Musicians in France,” the object of which was to collect
money with which to help the families of musicians in France who
were suffering or destitute because of the war. Through my French
colleagues we had heard of many such cases—some of the most
famous musicians were at the front, in the trenches, and in the
hospitals, doing their share just as did the men in all the other
professions and callings. Several organizations had been formed in
France to help toward maintaining their families, but much remained
to be done, and through our society, which aroused immediate
response in America, we were raising considerable sums and
expected to continue this work until the end of the war.
I had been elected president, and while discussing with our
committee the best ways and means of helping the older French
musicians, it was brought out that many of them were too proud to
accept alms. What they really wanted was opportunity to work in
their profession, as the constant air raids and bombardments of Paris
had almost entirely stopped the giving of lessons and concerts.
During our discussion Henri Casadesus, a French musician who was
then on a concert tour in America with his Society of Ancient
Instruments, and who had given us much valuable information
regarding conditions in France, suggested that an orchestra could be
formed of such musicians as were still in Paris, which might be used
to travel around the country to the various camps in which our huge
army was forming and drilling, and to give our soldiers good popular
music during their hours of rest and recreation.
It was suggested that a French conductor be engaged to lead
this orchestra, but Casadesus asked whether it would not be possible
for me to go over and take charge personally. He thought that the
French Government would look on this idea very favorably, and
through the Ministère des Beaux Arts would give us every assistance
possible toward the forming of the orchestra and its transportation
through the country. Needless to say, my heart leaped with joy at
this suggestion. One step led to another, and Mr. Harry Harkness
Flagler immediately and with characteristic generosity donated a
check large enough to pay the entire expenses and salaries of a
French orchestra of fifty men for six weeks.
The plan was outlined to the National War Work Council of the
Young Men’s Christian Association, who accepted it with enthusiasm,
and to the French High Commission in Washington, of which Mr.
Tardieu was at that time the chief. He sent one of his staff, the
Marquis de Polignac, to New York to discuss and arrange details, and
immediately cabled to Paris to obtain for me the necessary authority
to enter France and to proceed with the plan. The acting director of
the Ministère des Beaux Arts was at that time M. Alfred Cortot, the
distinguished pianist, and within a week he cabled us that he could
place at my disposal the Pasdeloup Orchestra of fifty men who would
be ready on my arrival to travel throughout our recreation centres,
camps, and hospitals.
As no civilian who was not in government employ could sail for
France except under the auspices of one of the welfare
organizations, I was to sail as a war worker for the Y. M. C. A.,
whose entertainment division was under the direction of Mr. Thomas
McLane, an earnest, patriotic citizen of New York who gave his entire
time enthusiastically to this arduous work. A few weeks before
sailing, however, the war situation became so serious that the
possibility of carrying out our scheme seemed very doubtful, but Mr.
McLane and his chief, Mr. William Sloane, felt strongly that I should
go over anyhow, look over the field, and make myself useful in one
way or another.
The regulations of the Y. M. C. A. demanded that each one of
their workers should submit an indorsement by three well-known
American citizens, and as I had the honor of many years’
acquaintance with Theodore Roosevelt, I gave his name as one who
might be willing to testify to my Americanism. The letter which he
wrote is so characteristic that I am vain enough to reprint it here.
Sagamore Hill, May 4th, 1918.
Dear Mr. McLane:
Mr. Walter Damrosch is one of the very best Americans and citizens in this entire land.
In character, ability, loyalty, and fervid Americanism he, and his, stand second to none in
the land. I have known him thirty years; I vouch for him as if he were my brother.
Faithfully
(Signed) Theodore Roosevelt.
The assurance of a safe-conduct from the Ministère des
Etrangères was a rather important item as I had been born in
Germany, even though only the first nine years of my life had been
spent there. My father emigrated to America in 1871, and as I had
received my education here, had lived in America ever since, and
had married an American, I had never felt myself anything but an
American and of the most enthusiastic variety. When the Germans
invaded Belgium, when they sank the Lusitania, and when they
seemed to have broken all laws of international relations, I
expressed myself, both personally and in newspaper interviews, so
strongly that long before we entered the war several Berlin
newspapers violently took me to task and honored me by calling me
a renegade and a traitor to the country of my birth.
There was an understanding between our country and France
that no American civilian of German birth should be permitted to
enter France except by special permission of either M. Clemenceau
or M. Pichon, then Minister of Foreign Affairs. The French high
commissioner cabled to the latter and in most cordial terms
recommended that I be permitted to enter France, both because of
my office as president of the Society of American Friends of
Musicians in France, and because of a life-long admiration for French
music, which I had demonstrated for thirty-three years by producing
in our country nearly every important symphonic work that French
composers had written before and within that time.
M. Pichon promptly cabled the necessary visé and with all proper
credentials I set sail on June 15, 1918, on the French steamship La
Lorraine.
The ship’s passengers were almost entirely soldiers and war
workers. There were two hundred and fifty Belgian soldiers with
their officers returning to France after three years spent in Russia,
and who, when the revolution broke out, had after incredible
hardships reached Vladivostok, sailing from there to California. There
were Polish soldiers on their way to join the Foreign Legion of the
French army and there were dozens of Red Cross, Y. M. C. A., K. of
C., and S. A. workers. There were not more than a dozen civilians,
among them my friend, Melville Stone, director of the Associated
Press, and M. Sulzer, the Swiss minister then accredited to our
country. It was strange to be on a transatlantic steamer without any
idle rich, tourists, or commercial travellers; and the large guns
mounted fore and aft with a gun crew watching, ready day and
night, gave one a grim foretaste of the war raging on the other side.
On the first day out Stone told me that M. Sulzer would like to
meet me. I expressed my pleasure and laughingly said: “I will
promise not to ask him any questions regarding the Swiss citizenship
of Doctor Karl Muck.” Stone must have repeated this to Sulzer, for
immediately after our introduction he said: “I want to tell you that
Doctor Muck had no more claim to Swiss citizenship than you have.
The facts are as follows: After the Franco-Prussian war, Muck’s father
—a Bavarian living in Munich—was afraid that Bavaria would become
completely Prussianized, and, as he had no liking for that country, he
preferred to emigrate to Switzerland, where he acquired citizenship
which at that time was very easy, as Switzerland was glad to receive
the intelligentsia of other countries. His son Karl left Switzerland as a
boy to be educated in Germany, and never returned. He went to a
German university, studied music, became an orchestral conductor,
and as such officiated in various German opera-houses, until he
became conductor and Generalmusikdirektor at the Royal Opera in
Berlin. There he remained for many years and when the war broke
out offered his services to the German Ministry of War in a clerical
capacity. The Swiss Government does not recognize him as a citizen
and refuses him the protection which such citizenship would afford
him.”
Our journey was uneventful. We saw no submarines and, what
was still more important, no submarines saw us. When we reached
the “danger zone” some hundred miles from the coast of France, I
was solemnly appointed a committee of one to inform M. Sulzer that
as he was the Swiss minister and as such the representative of
German interests in the United States during the war, we intended to
bind him to the foremast and play a searchlight on him and on a
large Swiss flag hanging over his head, during the two or three
nights before we dropped anchor in the Gironde. He smilingly
expressed himself as so willing to act in this capacity as our guardian
angel, that we refrained and trusted to luck, which indeed never
failed us.
We dropped anchor at the mouth of the Gironde to take on the
usual officials, among them the secret-service men who were to look
over the passengers while we waited the turn of the tide before
proceeding up-stream to Bordeaux.
It was a beautiful sunlit evening, and as I was standing at the rail
watching the tide, which ran out to sea like a mill-race, suddenly
there was a splash and we saw one of the Belgian soldiers lying on
the water, his face downward and his arms and legs outstretched
and motionless. He was being carried out to sea with incredible
speed by the tide, and it was evident that he was trying to commit
suicide, as he made no effort to struggle. The sailors were all busy
elsewhere getting out the mail-bags and trunks, and for a few
minutes nothing seemed to be done. Suddenly there was another
splash as, from the deck above, a man dove after the Belgian. It was
Lieutenant Shirk, an aviator in our marines, who had not even taken
the time to throw off his coat or leather puttees. A life-saving belt
had been thrown just previously and floated with the tide several
yards ahead of the Belgian soldier, but both were carried along so
swiftly that it was some time before Lieutenant Shirk could reach
him. As he approached, the Belgian promptly kicked at him, and it
took several moments before he was overpowered and dragged
toward the life-belt. In the meantime a boat had been lowered, but
so swift is the tide in these waters that when the boat reached the
two men, they seemed like two small black spots in the distance.
The excitement and enthusiasm when they were brought back to the
ship may easily be imagined.
Lieutenant Shirk proved to be a well-to-do young business man
from Indianapolis, who when the war broke out had immediately
enlisted, leaving a wife and children and large important business
interests to give himself whole-heartedly to the service of his
country.
If you “tell this story to the marines” they will refuse to
acknowledge that it is anything extraordinary, and they will also tell
you that that is just a way they have of dealing with any emergency
on land or sea.
The sad part of this heroic rescue is that a few days afterward,
meeting one of the Belgian officers in Paris, he told me that the
soldier, soon after landing, had succeeded in his effort at self-
destruction, and had shot himself in a fit of despondency. He had
been away from Belgium for four years, and during all that time had
had no news of his wife or children; his little farm was in the hands
of the Germans, and there was neither hope nor desire to live left in
him.
We all had to assemble in the saloon of the ship to present our
passports, and when it came to my turn I was politely told to go to
my cabin with two secret-service men, that they might question me
further regarding my mission. One of these men was silent, but the
other a very voluble, polite Frenchman. But even the visé by the
Minister of Foreign Affairs and the French High Commission did not
seem quite to satisfy him. The fact that I had been born in Germany
evidently impressed him unfavorably. He asked me finally: “Do you
intend to take any money out of France?” “On the contrary,” I
replied, “here is a letter of credit, every cent of which is to be used
on French orchestra musicians.” In corroboration I showed him the
cable from the Ministère des Beaux Arts offering me the use of the
Pasdeloup Orchestra, the conductor of which was M. Rhene Baton.
The face of my secret-service man suddenly became wreathed in
smiles. “Ah!” he said, “M. Baton! Why, before the war I used to play
third horn in his orchestra in Bordeaux. Everything is all right.” With
a bow he handed me back my passport, and at this point his silent
companion suddenly gave me a most genial wink, the nationality of
which could not be mistaken. I said: “You are American.” “Sure!” he
answered, and thus I was enabled to land at last in France with
colors flying.
The next morning saw me in Paris at the little hotel “France et
Choiseul,” to which I had always gone on my visits to Paris during
twenty-five years preceding. I found the same courteous, smiling
directeur, M. Mantel, to receive me. Even the old canary-bird,
hanging in the courtyard, was still living, but either corpulence or old
age had stopped his musical demonstrations.
It would take a man of much greater eloquence than I can claim,
to give an adequate picture of Paris at that time. It seemed to me
more beautiful and more noble than I had ever seen it during my
many visits in times of peace. The streets were almost empty, there
were no tourists, no pleasure-seekers, no idlers, and therefore that
part of Parisian life which usually stands out so prominently and
which, alas, is generally the only part that the average visitor sees,
was entirely absent. One saw only the French people going about
their daily tasks and the soldiers of France and her allies. The
Champs-Élysées, the Tuileries, and, above all, the Jardin de
Luxembourg seemed more charming than ever, but the tragic note
was that the lovely children who in former times crowded these
gardens were all gone. Constant air raids and the frequent
bombardments by the “Big Bertha” had driven them away. It was
said that a million and a half people had left Paris, and that, owing
to the nearness of the German armies, the entire evacuation of the
civilian population was imminent. Rumors had it, furthermore, that
all the banks had sent their securities to Orleans and that the
embassies and various relief organizations were ready to leave Paris
at a few hours’ notice. There was not the least sign of panic, but an
indescribable sadness brooded over the city.
During the long twilight, which is the most beautiful time to see
Paris, when the sky and the clouds seem to hover most intimately
and caressingly over its wonderful vistas, I used to take long walks
along the banks of the Seine. Even the complete darkness at night,
the absence of all electric lights or signs, with only an occasional
half-hidden blue lamp here and there, made the city more
picturesque and wonderful. It was almost as if the centuries of
civilization and modern inventions had been swept away and we
were back again in the time of the Grand Monarque, when Paris was
only dimly lighted by faintly flickering oil lamps.
Of course, I soon made the acquaintance of the nocturnal air
raids, and when the sirens placed at various high buildings of the
city sounded their horrible warning that the German Gothas were
approaching, every inhabitant was supposed to seek shelter in the
cellars. I did this dutifully for two or three nights, but as it meant
leaving one’s bed at about 11.30 or 12 and returning at about 1.30
or 2 A. M., I gradually realized that my own pet cowardice was more
the fear of not getting enough sleep, as I was completely knocked
out during the daytime by the lack of it. After weighing the
alternatives carefully I decided to take the small risk of remaining in
my bed and getting a good night’s rest in consequence; and having
solved this question to my complete satisfaction, I used to wake up
on hearing the warning of the sirens, stretch myself comfortably, and
immediately go to sleep again.
The gatherings in the abri of our hotel were, however, quite
amusing. The guests used to assemble in the wine-cellar, which was
protected by walls several feet thick, and in which we could further
fortify ourselves by sampling a bottle or two of the excellent claret
and burgundy which it contained. If one of our little number was an
army officer we would make him tell us his experiences at the front,
and listen with awe and eager interest until the bugles of the fire
department outside sounded the “all-clear” signal. Then the old
portier, whom we used to call “Papa Joffre,” would come down and,
with the sweetest smile on his dear old face, assure us that all was
safe and we could creep back again to our beds.
In the meantime I began to investigate the conditions under
which to carry out our plan of giving orchestral concerts for our
soldiers at their rest camps and in the hospitals, and soon discovered
that the recent developments at the front would make it exceedingly
difficult, if not impossible. Paris was in a state of great depression.
The enemy were threatening the city, our rest camps were empty,
and our soldiers were being drilled furiously in order to put them as
soon as possible either in the line or behind the line as reserves.
Every available inch of space on the railroads had to be used for
military purposes, for the transportation of men and material, and to
have intruded an orchestra of fifty men with cumbersome luggage,
musical instruments, etc., would have been a nuisance instead of a
service.
The French Government, through its various departments with
which I came into contact, especially the Ministry of Fine Arts and
the French High Commission, received me with the greatest courtesy
and kindness. M. Cortot, at the Beaux Arts, had taken steps to
procure an orchestra for me and I was already getting the full
benefit of the friendliness for everything American which, after the
first entry of our troops into the fighting-line at Seicheprey, Belleau
Wood, and Château-Thierry developed into an enthusiasm, the like
of which cannot be imagined. I saw the change from deepest
despondency to greatest optimism come over the city like a wave,
and especially after the heroic stand of our men at Château-Thierry
there was nothing which an American could possibly want that a
Frenchman was not willing to give to him with both hands.
For the morning of the Fourth of July a Franco-American
demonstration had been arranged which was to culminate in a
parade of French and American troops from the Arc de Triomphe
down the Champs-Élysées to the Place de la Concorde. I was
naturally among the crowds of eager spectators who lined the
avenue to greet our troops, which included a company of our
marines who had fought at the front but a few days before. This was
literally the first time that I had seen a crowd of people in Paris, and
it marked in significant fashion the change from the gloom that had
hovered over the city when I first arrived.
Paris had been decorated as only the French know how, and the
noble vistas of the city looked their best under a glorious sky of blue
slightly flecked with white clouds. In the waiting crowd there were
no young men, not even middle-aged, for all these had been at the
front for four years, but there were old men, boys, and women of all
ages down to a charming little girl of twelve, evidently of the poorer
class, who was standing by my side on tip-toe with excitement. She
could speak a few words of English and every now and then, with
the sweetest and shyest glance at me, she would demonstrate her
knowledge of our tongue, and then supplement it with more voluble
French, as she pointed out to me the various wonders of the day.
Overhead some of the most expert of the French airmen were
flying backward and forward, looping the loop, dipping the dip, and
executing marvellous manœuvres as they swooped down,
sometimes almost brushing the trees on either side of the
magnificent avenue, all to the great delight of the crowds awaiting
the coming of our soldiers. As the mounted police of Paris, a
splendid body of men, came down the avenue, the excitement
became intense, and when our khaki-clad boys swept into view the
enthusiasm exceeded all bounds. Young girls, with their arms literally
banked with flowers, ran across the empty spaces cleared by the
police, and began to distribute them among our soldiers who,
looking straight ahead, awkwardly grabbed the flowers, stuck them
into the tunics, or held them in the hand not occupied with the rifle,
all the time keeping their alignment with the most rigid discipline,
just as if they were ignorant of the sweetest tribute that one nation
could offer another. The whole scene was so indescribably touching
that every one in the crowd, including myself, stood there with the
tears rolling down his cheeks.
On my other side stood an American bandmaster who recognized
me, and while we were waiting for the parade he implored me to do
something for the bandsmen in the American army in France. He
told me that he had drilled his little band of twenty-eight men for six
months before being sent overseas, that they had continued to work
faithfully during their stay in France, and that they had achieved a
good standard of efficiency. But, according to old American army
custom, they had been sent into the firing-line at Seicheprey as
stretcher-bearers, and in consequence so many had been either
killed, wounded, or shell-shocked that his band had become
completely disorganized. His regiment was in consequence without
music, and he had been detached and sent to Paris as general
purchasing agent for musical instruments. He said: “It takes at least
six months to train a good bandsman, while a stretcher-bearer can
be trained in as many hours. We serve a real purpose, while the men
are in camp, in taking their minds away from the drudgery and
monotony of army life. Our music cheers them; a silent camp is
almost unendurable. Can’t you persuade General Pershing to change
this custom, just as the British and other nations have done?” I told
him that I sympathized with his views, that it seemed to me wrong
to use the band for any other purpose than music, except in case of
absolute military necessity, but that I was without any official
connection with the army and so did not think that I could be of
much service to him.
When the parade was ended and the crowds dispersed, the little
French girl on my right said “Good-by” to me in English, ever so
prettily, and then very shyly pressed into my hand as a parting token
a tiny little American flag that she herself had painted on a bit of
cotton, the stars and stripes on one side and the French tricolor on
the other. Needless to say I still possess this charming symbol as a
porte-bonheur.
I had arranged to conduct two concerts in Paris, one on July 13
at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, exclusively for our soldiers and
Red Cross nurses stationed in and near Paris, and the other on the
following afternoon, Sunday, July 14 (the Fête Nationale of the
French), the entire proceeds of which were to be given to the Croix
Rouge Française. For the latter concert the French Government
immediately offered their historic Salle du Conservatoire, a courtesy
that had never been extended to a foreign conductor before. This
was to be a symphonic concert, entirely devoted in honor of the day
to works of the great French composers, but at the first rehearsal it
looked as if the concert would have to be cancelled because it
seemed impossible to collect a first-class orchestra of eighty men.
The four years of war had called almost every male citizen of France
into military service, and the recent evacuation of Paris had drawn
with it many of the musicians who had until then remained in the
city. At my first rehearsal only forty-three men appeared, and these
were divided in most abnormal fashion. There were five first violins,
ten seconds, two violas, one violoncello, and three double-basses.
There was no oboe or English horn; only two French horns, one
trumpet, etc. Of the forty-three men assembled seven were
members of the Garde Républicaine, the famous Paris military band,
but which unfortunately for me had to attend an official celebration
of the Fête Nationale at the Trocadéro on the Sunday afternoon. The
President of the republic was to be present with various other
dignitaries and a chorus of three thousand school-children.
I was in despair, and finally made an appeal to the orchestra in
very voluble but ungrammatical French, the gist of which was that
America had gladly sent one million soldiers to France and was
getting ready to send two millions more; all I asked in return was an
orchestra of eighty men! Could they not help me to supplement their
thin ranks with a sufficient number of trained musicians to complete
the orchestra? My little speech was received with an agitated
enthusiasm. They immediately began to gather in excited groups
and swore to me that the orchestra could and would be obtained.
One assured me of a fine oboe, another of a trumpeter, another of a
first violin, and so on. M. Cortot also got busy. He sent for Captain
Ballay, the conductor of the Garde Républicaine, and represented to
him in what seemed to me an eloquent oration worthy of the
Chambre des Députés, that after Seicheprey and Château-Thierry
France could not and would not refuse an American anything he
asked for. Captain Ballay enthusiastically agreed, and promised to
send the seven members of his band whom I needed for my concert
—in the swiftest taxi-cabs he could procure—from the Trocadéro,
where the governmental celebration was to begin at three o’clock,
immediately after they had played his opening overture, to the Salle
du Conservatoire at which my concert was scheduled for four. He
thought that the President of the republic was not musical enough to
notice the absence of these seven men, and that he would manage
to get along without them for the rest of his programme.
At the same time, noted French soloists who ordinarily did not
play in orchestras, offered their services—Captain Pollain, famous
violoncellist from Nancy and M. Hewitt (whose great-grandfather had
been an American but whose family had lived in France for three
generations), solo violinist of the Instruments Anciens. And at the
second rehearsal, whom should I see, but dear old Longy, for thirty
years celebrated oboe player of the Boston Symphony, who said to
me most touchingly: “I see you have no second oboe. I have no
instrument in France as I left mine in Boston, but I will borrow one
and play for you if you need me.”
At my second rehearsal an excellent orchestra of seventy-seven
men assembled, and at the third the orchestra was complete,
including many French soldiers in uniform, four or five distinguished
virtuosi who played in orchestra only for this occasion, and even one
of my own first violinists from the New York Symphony Orchestra,
Reber Johnson, who, having been rejected for the army as physically
not fit, had immediately volunteered in the American Red Cross, and
turned up at the rehearsal in his uniform in the most natural way, as
if this had been one of the regular daily rehearsals of the New York
Symphony.
My first trumpeter was a young French soldier who had played
clarinet before the war. His arm had been shot off only a year
before, and as soon as he left the hospital he studied the trumpet
and with his one arm not only held but fingered it with remarkable
facility.
I do not think that in all my long career I have ever conducted
concerts or rehearsals in which both conductor and players were
enveloped in such an atmosphere of emotional excitement. Our
young, handsome boys in khaki seemed like demigods to these tired
and worn people who had fought with such incredible tenacity for
four terrible years. The members of the orchestra received every
criticism which I made during the rehearsals with a quick nod or an
engaging smile, and every now and then some remark of mine
regarding the proper interpretation would be followed by a murmur
of approval, which would spread through the orchestra and
sometimes even vent itself in applause. I hope that my criticisms, as
well as my interpretations, pleased them, but I know that even if
they had not, it would have made no difference. I was an American
and that was enough.
At the Saturday-night concert, which was more popular in
character, I gave our American soldier audience Victor Herbert’s
clever medley on American airs, and those Frenchmen played as if
they had known them all their lives. The huge audience in khaki
fairly seethed with patriotic excitement, which of course found its
climax when we turned into “Dixie.” All jumped to their feet and
cheered and cheered, so that for ten bars or so literally nothing of
the music could be heard, and only by the waving of my stick and
the motions of the players could one tell that the music was going
on.
The following afternoon the programme was one of real
symphonic proportions, and included Saint-Saëns’s great “Symphony
No. 3” for orchestra, organ, and piano, Debussy’s “L’Après-midi d’un
Faune,” and the “Symphonic Variations” for piano with orchestra, by
César Franck.
The organ part in the symphony was played by Mlle. Nadia
Boulanger, without doubt the greatest woman musician I have ever
known, and the Franck “Variations” were superbly interpreted by
Alfred Cortot. M. Casadesus played an exquisite concerto for the
viola d’amour by Laurenziti.
The little Salle du Conservatoire, its quaint architecture dating
from the time of Louis XVI, with its tiny boxes and balconies, was
jammed to the doors—the janitor told me that it was the largest
audience he had ever seen there. Every available space was filled
twice over and the walls literally bulged outward. The audience was
a very interesting one. The French Government, with its usual
politeness, had sent official representatives from the Ministère des
Etrangères, the Ministère des Beaux Arts, and the French High
Commission—many of them in uniform. There were also many
French musicians of distinction, among them dear Maître Charles
Widor, the Secrétaire Perpétuel de l’Institut de France, and, of
course, many French, British, and American soldiers. A New York fire
commissioner would have gasped at the way in which all precautions
were disregarded, and the excitement in the audience, when at the
end of the concert we played the “Marseillaise” and the “Star-
Spangled Banner,” can be imagined.
To add to my pleasure my daughter Alice, who was doing war
work away down in Brest, had received permission to come up to
Paris for the great occasion. My old friend, Paul Cravath, vice-
president of the New York Symphony Society, who was at that time
at the head of our Finance Commission in London, had flown over in
an English airplane, and smiled upon me from a centre box in all his
splendor of six feet four as I turned around to make my bow to the
cheering audience.
I think we gave them an exceedingly good concert. The orchestra
were delightful in their keen desire to carry out my intentions; but I
think if we had played less well the enthusiasm would have been
just as great, for while we were playing, the names of Seicheprey
and Château-Thierry were vibrating in the hearts of all listeners, and
their enthusiasm was poured out upon me as if I, single-handed,
demonstrated the valor of our American troops.
At the end of the concert, the president of the Musical Orchestral
Union of Paris presented me with a large bouquet of roses tied with
the American colors, and in a very eloquent speech voiced the
gratitude of the French musicians for the assistance which had been
given them by our Society of American Friends of Musicians in
France. I was able to supplement my words of thanks with a further
substantial check, which had been sent by Mr. Flagler and which was
to be devoted to the families of orchestral musicians serving at the
front.
The week had been fully occupied with the preparations for these
two concerts, but notwithstanding the attendant excitements and
elations I had periods of great despondency. The possibility of
continuing my mission in France seemed less and less capable of
fulfilment, partly owing to the tense military situation and partly
because I did not seem to get the proper assistance from the Y. M.
C. A. Mr. McLane and Mr. Sloane, at the head of affairs in New York,
had given me their enthusiastic support, and I had sailed at their
urgent request. They had cabled and written full instructions to the
“Y” in France, and on my arrival Mr. Ernest Carter, the head worker,
whom I liked exceedingly, had promised me the fullest co-operation.
But he was evidently harassed and overworked and did not get the
efficient help which he should have had in the running of so large an
organization in war time. Many of the heads of departments were
ex-clergymen or church and Sunday-school workers who were
evidently inexperienced in the management of practical affairs. I am
told that later on this condition was much improved and that the
men who were subsequently sent out from America were chosen
more for their business ability, but at the time I mention, the
confusion at the headquarters in the Rue d’Agesseau was often great
and there seemed to be insufficient co-operation between the
different departments. In order to be able to travel around France
unmolested I had to have a carte rouge, and this card it seemed
impossible to obtain for me, notwithstanding all my proper and
complete credentials as an American, as a musician well known all
over our country, and, above all, as a persona grata with the French
Government.
A few days before my first concert I was informed that it was
impossible to procure this card for me, and that therefore I could not
be permitted to leave Paris. When I asked for an explanation, it was
refused by a rather sanctimonious person who put his arm around
me, called me brother, but expressed his regret at the unfortunate
fact of my having been born in Germany. I swallowed my rage as
best I could, but my chagrin was all the greater because in the
meantime M. Casadesus and four other distinguished French artists
had offered me their services to travel around with me in a motor-
car and give concerts in our camps and hospitals. I finally obtained
the information from a very nice young man who was in charge of
the entertainment division of the “Y” that he understood that the
objections came from the Intelligence Department of the A. E. F. I
immediately called on Major Cabot Ward, the head of the
Intelligence Division in Paris whom I had known in New York for
twenty-five years. I showed him my various credentials, and he
assured me that: “As far as the United States army is concerned, you
are as free as air.” I returned with this information to the Rue
d’Agesseau and was met by the same impenetrable wall of ignorance
or ill-will; and, as my friends at the French High Commission had
already assured me that as far as they were concerned all France
was open to me, I seemed to be at my wit’s end how to unravel this
riddle.
I finally called on my friend, Robert Bliss, counsellor of our
embassy in Paris. I can never forget his kindness and helpfulness
during this period. He and his charming wife had made their
apartment the very centre of American life during those trying times.
Mrs. Bliss had resolutely refused to leave Paris, and dispensed a
generous hospitality at their apartment in the Rue Henri Moissan.
When I told him of my troubles and that I, who had lived in America
forty-seven years, should now be thus treated, he smiled and said:
“We can do nothing for you at present, as you are still a part of the
organization of the Y. M. C. A., but as soon as you get that uniform
off, you will find every road open to you.”
That wretched uniform! It had annoyed me from the first
moment I had put it on because the tailor to whom the “Y” had sent
me had made a miserable job of it. It was too narrow between the
shoulders, which is fatal for an orchestral conductor, and the
trousers were a tragedy. But there was no time before sailing to
order a better-fitting uniform, and as I had been told that I could not
move an inch in France without it I had literally taken no civilian
clothes with me! I had ordered some new clothes in Paris, but there
was a tailors’ strike on and I was therefore, for decency’s sake,
compelled to hold on to that uniform, much as I longed to divest
myself of the symbol of the sacred triangle. However, I began to see
daylight, and as I hoped by the following Monday or Tuesday to get
my new civilian clothes, I decided to conduct the two concerts on
Saturday and Sunday and then magnificently hand in my resignation.
But I was not spared a last drop of bitterness, for on Saturday
morning I received a visit from a very stupid and exasperating
officier de liaison of the Y. M. C. A., who proceeded to inform me
that as I had been “born in Germany” and therefore could not obtain
my carte rouge, the committee of the “Y” thought that I should not
conduct the two concerts in their uniform. Again that accursed
uniform! I was so enraged that I said I would either conduct in it or
in my underclothes, that my resignation had already been written
and would be presented on Monday, and that I insisted on an
interview with Mr. Carter and his executive committee, as I wished
them to know how I had been treated. I knew that Mr. Carter, poor
man, had no knowledge of the entire affair, as he had been
zigzagging around France all this time to the various posts and
supply centres of the “Y,” trying to bring some kind of order out of
chaos. He immediately accorded me a meeting, and when I told my
story, made me an apology so ample and generous that I left him
with none but the kindliest feelings and really regretted that he, a
man of high ideals and spiritual power, should through the
exigencies of war have been so overburdened with practical affairs.
For a few of his aides I have nothing but absolute contempt, but
there were many among the men workers and certainly the majority
of the women who gave wonderful service and gladly suffered all
kinds of annoyances and deprivations in order to help the soldiers,
who were not all angels by any means.
But my real triumph was to come on the very Sunday morning of
my concert when General Charles Dawes, of the American army,
called on me at my hotel and, to my amazement, asked me whether
I could come to the general headquarters of the A. E. F. at
Chaumont, and confer with General Pershing regarding the possible
improvement of our army bands. I could not believe my ears that so
suddenly after my bitter experiences with the “Y,” the commander-in-
chief of the American army in France had personally sent for me.
General Dawes was at that time at the head of the army
supplies, with headquarters in Paris. A great lover of music, he had
contributed largely to its cultivation in his own city of Chicago. He
was an old and valued friend of General Pershing and I think that it
was he who had suggested my name to him. I can never thank
General Dawes enough for giving me, a musician and over fifty years
of age, this wonderful opportunity to touch even the outer hem of
the robes of the war goddess.
Needless to say, my despondent mood immediately changed to
one of elation. I accepted the invitation with alacrity and arranged
with General Dawes to go to Chaumont on the following Wednesday,
July 17.
In the meantime the air had been full of rumors regarding the
“Big Bertha” who had been conveniently silent ever since my arrival
in Paris. It was persistently said that on Monday morning seventeen
of these ladies bearing the same name would again begin a
bombardment of Paris, and I confess that it gave me something of a
shock, when, on the Monday morning after my concert while I was
still luxuriating in bed—thinking with pleasure of the triumphs of the
day before and with eager anticipation of my approaching trip to
Chaumont—I suddenly heard a curious reverberation, different from
the explosions of the Gothas or of the answering air-guns. It was the
first greeting of Madame Bertha, and this greeting was repeated
punctiliously every fifteen minutes throughout the day, the shells
striking in Paris in different quarters.
It was interesting to watch the French people. After every shot,
crowds of them would run into the streets, talking, gesticulating, and
speculating where that particular shell had fallen. This would go on
for thirteen or fourteen minutes and then all would scoot back into
their shops and houses as they knew that the next shell was about
due.
That evening I had been invited to dine at Mrs. Edith Wharton’s,
at her lovely apartment in the Rue de Varennes. Just as I got to her
door a Frenchman stopped and said to me that he had been at the
concert on the preceding day. He then added: “I see that you are
making the acquaintance of ‘La Grosse Berthe.’ ” Thinking that he
referred to the return of the bombardment, I smiled assent, and
then proceeded to Mrs. Wharton’s apartment. I found our great
novelist with two other ladies, an American officer, and an American
composer, my dear friend Blair Fairchild, who had been living in Paris
for several years and was acting most ably as distributing agent for
the money which our “Society of American Friends of Musicians in
France” was sending over. The dinner proceeded as if we lived in
times of deepest peace. It was served with punctilious efficiency, the
flowers were charming, and the conversation delightful, and it was
only when dinner was half over that I found out, quite casually, that
what my French gentleman at the door had referred to was, that
only two minutes before my arrival the last shell of the Big Bertha
had fallen on the roof of the house opposite, demolishing it and
parts of the upper story.
On the following Wednesday, July 17, I took the morning train for
Chaumont, again comfortably clad in civilian clothes. I was met at
the station by a young officer, Lieutenant Wendell, nephew of my old
friend Evart Wendell, who took me to general headquarters and
introduced me to Lieutenant-Colonel Collins, secretary of the General
Staff, who explained to me in detail various points on which General
Pershing desired information and assistance. I was then most
comfortably put up at the guest-house, formerly a large private
residence in the town, which had been taken over by General
Pershing to accommodate his visitors. I was to dine at his château
that evening, and spent a great part of the afternoon walking
through the quaint old hill town situated on a high cliff overlooking
the valley of the Marne. It was during this walk that I saw the only
drunken American private during my three months’ stay in France. I
was following a picturesque road leading out of the town into the
country, when a colored boy in khaki reeled toward me and said:
“ ’Scuse me, sah. Are you a Frenchman?” I said “No,” and he replied:
“Then foh Gawd sake, will you please tell me whar ah can get a
drink?” I answered: “No. You have evidently had enough already.”
He tried to follow me and I, seeing two white soldiers approaching,
turned to them, and said: “I think you had better take care of this
boy. He has had too much to drink.” They briskly answered:
“Certainly, sir.” But as they went up to him he kept peering at me
and said: “I want to talk to that gen’leman. That’s Mr. Damrosch!” I
laughed out loud, for here I was, over three thousand miles from
home, and this boy, who perhaps had musical inclinations and had
heard me conduct in some concert, recognized me even through the
alcoholic vapors which surrounded him so thickly that one could
have cut them with a knife.
One of the other visitors at the guest-house was General Omar
Bundy, who commanded the first division and had come to
Chaumont to receive the congratulations of the commander-in-chief
on the splendid work of his division. He proved a delightful
gentleman, and we chatted together very amicably as a motor-car
took us that evening about five miles beyond Chaumont through
most lovely country to the château surrounded by exquisite gardens
and woods which General Pershing had taken for his personal
residence. A scene of greater peace and tranquillity could not be
imagined, and literally the only sign and symbol of war was the
solitary sentry pacing up and down before the entrance, with
bayonet fixed.
As this happened to be the first day of General Foch’s great
attack in which he pushed the Germans back six miles, General
Pershing, who had been at the front all day, had not yet returned,
and General Bundy and I walked through the grounds in the lovely
evening twilight for perhaps half an hour, when a motor-car drove up
and our great commander-in-chief, accompanied by his aide,
immediately came over to us and made us welcome in hearty and
simple fashion. He reminded me that we had met at the Presidio in
San Francisco during the great exhibition of 1915, and indeed I
remembered it well, for shortly afterward he had been sent to the
Mexican border in command of the troops, and while there had been
overwhelmed by the terrible tragedy of the death of his wife and
children, who were suffocated in a fire at night which destroyed their
home at the Presidio.
So much has been written regarding the wonderful impression
which General Pershing made in Europe on all who came in contact
with him that it is not necessary for me to more than echo the
general chorus of praise—soldierly, dignified, courteous, and simple
in his bearing, wearing a uniform as only a man can who has been a
soldier all his life.
We entered the house and shortly after sat down to dinner. The
party consisted of the commander-in-chief, General Bundy, and a
most delightful staff of eight officers—I being the only civilian. As
such I expected and half hoped that the talk would be all about the
wonderful success of the first day’s push by Foch, of which I had
already heard enthusiastic rumors in the town, or of great military
secrets, affairs of strategy, monster guns, thousands of airplanes,
and new, mysterious machines of destruction. But, to my surprise,
the conversation during almost the entire dinner was of music, of its
influence in raising the spirits of the soldier, in giving him the right
kind of recreation and the necessary relief from the monotony of
camp work or the horrors of battle. General Pershing told me that
after hearing some of the crack military bands of France and
England he had been so overwhelmed by the consciousness of our
inferiority that he was eager to know if something could not be done
to improve the general standard of our army bands, and, more
particularly, whether it might not be possible at least to take out the
best players from among the bands then in France and to form a
headquarters band of superior excellence, led by the best
bandmaster among them, and in this way form a model which the
others could endeavor to copy. This suggestion seemed to me
excellent, and I asked how many bandmasters there were at present
in France, as I would like to examine them as to their fitness.
General Pershing said, with a smile, that there were over two
hundred, but this did not phase me and I agreed to examine them
all, provided that proper arrangements could be made for a fitting
test of their qualifications. Various plans for such an examination
were discussed and General Pershing finally decided to send them all
to Paris in batches of fifty every week, together with a military band
which should be stationed there for the following four or five weeks,
thus giving me abundant opportunity to test their efficiency in
conducting as well as in harmony and orchestration. It seemed to
me at the time remarkable that, in the midst of war and with all its
many immediate necessities weighing upon him, General Pershing
should have had the acumen to perceive the value of music in war
time and to interest himself in its improvement.
As I sat there, the memory of the hollow-cheeked Bandmaster
Tyler who had stood next to me at the Fourth of July parade in Paris
suddenly came back. I thought to myself that here I was, the only
civilian at the table, and that therefore I might say anything I
pleased without being put up against a wall at sunrise and shot, for
at the worst they could only consider me as very ignorant of army
customs. Therefore I watched for my opportunity and suddenly
plunged in and spoke of my conversation with Bandmaster Tyler
while we were waiting for our marines to march down the Champs-
Élysées. I said that in my humble opinion it was a great mistake to
use musicians as stretcher-bearers in battle, not that their lives as
soldiers were any more valuable than those of any others in the
army, but that a stretcher-bearer could be trained in a very short
time while it took many months to train a bandsman; that the
Canadian regiments had followed the same custom during the first
months of the war, but the results had been so dire in destroying the
bands and their usefulness, that the soldiers themselves had
implored their commanding officers not to let their bandsmen be
sacrificed in this way, as there was nothing so terrible as coming
back after battle to a silent and therefore desolate camp. After I had
finished my rather impassioned peroration, General Bundy and
others heartily agreed with me, but General Pershing said nothing at
all, and I felt that I had perhaps talked too much and mal à propos.
But the following morning, as I was seated with Colonel Collins at
general headquarters arranging the details of my examinations, he
smilingly handed me an order from the commander-in-chief which
had just arrived and which was to be sent to the division
commanders, to the effect that “from now on bandsmen are not to
be used any longer as stretcher-bearers except in cases of extreme
military urgency.”
One of General Pershing’s remarks during the dinner is so
characteristic that I repeat it here. He said: “When peace is declared
and our bands march up Fifth Avenue I should like them to play so
well that it will be another proof of the advantage of military
training.” Subsequent developments and meetings with this
interesting man further deepened the impression which he made
upon me.
I returned to Paris and proceeded to make all necessary
arrangements for the examinations of the two hundred
bandmasters. Our army had leased a large hotel near the Bastille on
the banks of the Seine, and a large room on the ground floor served
admirably for my purpose. The band of the 329th infantry soon
arrived and was quartered in this hotel, and every morning at 9.30
the examinations began and continued from Monday to Thursday at
the rate of about fifty bandmasters a week, who arrived from all
quarters of France—from the seaport towns, from the training
camps, and some even from the very front line of the trenches.
Fridays I would usually return to headquarters and report on my
findings and begin recommendations, which gradually assumed
