Part 17

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.