Dissolving Music In Mind Chapter 6

Millions of people were unable to complete the first ten years of the long-awaited new century.

I was twenty-three when the century turned. It was a time of bold expectations, when many believed that a new era was about to begin, that the dawn of the twentieth century would be a turning point for humanity. They predicted great social progress in the future, citing the latest scientific advances. In the coming age, they said, poverty and hunger would finally disappear. Just as the world sets new hopes at the beginning of a new year, at the beginning of a new century the world seemed determined to change for the better. Who could have foreseen the unimaginable horrors of two world wars, concentration camps, and the atomic bomb that would follow in the decades that followed?

For me, the future was full of promise. After the concert with Lamoureu, I became recognized almost overnight. I was overwhelmed with invitations to perform in concerts or recitals. Suddenly, all doors were open to me. For a young person at the beginning of his career, it was an intoxicating wine, but I knew that fate made it possible. I worked hard, but I was also very lucky. In addition to my innate talent, I was blessed with extraordinary parents, a friendship with Queen Christina, and teachers like Count Oliver, Monasterio, Britten and Garcia. No matter who I am, each of them is a part of me, and without any of them, I would not be who I am today. This was true not only then, but it is also true now. That is why I always have gratitude in my heart and remember the debts I owe.

Paris proved to be for me exactly what François Herfart had said it would be. It was the Belle Époque, and Paris was truly the center of world culture. It was a mecca of creativity, and a sea of artistic people made it their home and their work. It was a city of busy streets, outdoor cafes, chestnut vendors, and houses softened by the patina of antiquity. In a place where my mother and I had experienced such hardship only a few short years before, I now found a cheerful atmosphere, new interests, and the company of excellent men and women. 

Of course, my music brought me into close contact with my fellow musicians. My circle of friends soon included many musicians, such as violinists Eugene Ysaÿe and Jacques Thibaud, pianists Bauer and Alfred Cortot, and composers Vincent Dendy, Georges Enescu, Maurice Ravel, Arnold Schoenberg, and Saint-Saëns. But my associations were by no means limited to musicians. I met artists like Edgar Degas and Eugène Carrière, politicians like Georges Clemenceau and Aristide Briand, writer Romain Rolland, philosopher Henri Bergson - fascinating people from whom I could learn a lot.

I found my conversations with Bergson particularly interesting. We admired each other and I often went to see him at that time. At first I did not understand why this famous philosopher would take the time to talk to a young man like me. I knew how busy he was with his writing and lecturing at the university, and I felt that my knowledge was so limited while he was so knowledgeable. But he assured me that he learned a lot from our conversations. "Intuition" was a topic we often talked about, and of course he had written many articles on this subject. 

He was particularly curious about intuition in music. I have always believed that intuition is the decisive factor, whether in composing or performing music. Technique and intelligence are of course indispensable, one must be able to master the technique of playing an instrument in order to use its full potential, and one must use his intelligence to explore every aspect of music, but in the end, intuition is the most important. For me, musical instinct is the key factor in creating and giving life to a work.

I cannot say that I learned all the pleasant things during my early years in Paris. The highest human achievements are often accompanied by human weaknesses. Paris shone with art and learning, but there were also signs of ignorance and social injustice that were disturbing. One shocking example was the scandal of the "Dreyfus Affair". 

I was familiar with this case because of my friendship with Colonel Georges Piccard. I met Colonel Piccard soon after arriving in Paris. He was a very unusual officer, tall, handsome, with a gray mustache, very elegant, gentle and charming, versatile, a good amateur pianist, and full of justice. His motto was: "Strive for perfection in art, justice in life." It was this love of justice that led him to the "Dreyfus Affair" and he became the real hero of the case. He was too modest to call himself a hero, but it was true. I learned the inside story of the case through him.

When I arrived in Paris, the story was already a big deal. Everyone was talking about it. You go to a private concert, and in a blink of an eye, the music is forgotten and everyone is talking about Captain Dreyfus. Three or four years ago, this Jewish officer was accused of selling military secrets to the Germans. A military tribunal convicted him on fabricated evidence and sent him to prison for life on the infamous Devil's Island. He would have died on that island if Colonel Piccard hadn't come to his defense. 

Colonel Piccard was an officer in the French Ministry of Defense at the time, and he saw some confidential documents that convinced him that Dreyfus was innocent. He informed the members of the French General Staff, and they ordered him to drop the matter. Other officers might have obeyed, but Colonel Piccard didn't. He continued his investigation. Next, he was transferred to a remote military station in Africa. But before leaving France, he gave his revelations to a famous lawyer. The story was brought up in Parliament. At first, few people were willing to defend Dreyfus, and Colonel Piccard himself was accused of revealing military secrets and imprisoned. But as more of the truth came to light, the case became a national scandal. 

Writer Zola published his famous open letter, "I Accuse," accusing the government of covering up the truth. The protests grew louder and louder, and the authorities had to bring Dreyfus back to France for a second trial. New evidence, including information found by Colonel Piccard, clearly proved Dreyfus' innocence, and the colonel had been released at this time. But in order to save face, the military again found Dreyfus guilty, but said he had extenuating circumstances and reduced his sentence to ten years! Not long after, the government pardoned Dreyfus, but did not publicly admit his innocence. Colonel Piccard and others continued to fight to clear his name. Finally, several years later, Dreyfus was proven completely innocent and his position in the army was restored. Even then, Dreyfus' enemies were not satisfied with his suffering. Dreyfus was shot and injured by an anti-Semitic radical who wanted to assassinate him!
 
All of this horrifies me and disgusts me. I know some people believe that artists should live in an ivory tower, isolated from the struggles and sufferings of others. I have never been able to agree with this concept. An offense to human dignity is an offense to me, and protesting against injustice is a matter of conscience. Are human rights less important to an artist than to others? Does being an artist exempt you from your obligations as a human being? In fact, the artist has a special responsibility because he is endowed with special sensitivity and perception, and because his voice may be heard when others are not. Indeed, who could care more about defending freedom and pursuing the truth than the artist? It is so important to his own creativity?

For me, perhaps the most horrible aspect of the Dreyfus Affair is that so many people were against him because he was Jewish. I find it incredible that in Paris, with all its culture and noble traditions of advocating human rights, in this city called the "City of Lights", anti-Semitism could spread like an evil plague. What words can describe this disease that will one day infect an entire country, a country that believes it has the right to massacre millions of men, women and children on the grounds that they have "Jewish blood" flowing in their veins? The thought of such atrocities is shocking!

The hatred of Jews alone is beyond my comprehension. My own life has been enriched by my close friendship with Jewish artists and friends. The Jews have contributed as much to human culture as any other people! Of course they would be great musicians, because they have such a rich soul, yes, and such a brain! When I conduct, I tell the orchestra members: "Play like Jews." They know what I mean. My friend Schneider sometimes says to me: "Xavier, you know, you are really a Jew." I say that my parents are Catholics and I am Catalan, but he doesn't listen, and shakes his head kindly and says: "No, you are wrong. Maybe you were born to Catholic parents, maybe you were born in Catalonia, but you are actually a Jew. For one thing, if you were not Jewish, you would not be able to play like you do." I thank him for the compliment, but I tell him that there are exceptions to everything.

I first went to America in 1901, on a tour of eighty concerts with Nevada and a gifted young French pianist, Léon Moreau, whose tour manager was a man named Duncan, brother of the distinguished dancer, Miss Isadora Duncan.

I could not have foreseen that my life would be woven into the tapestry of this vast land, or that more than half a century later I would find my home in this hemisphere, but the country made a profound impression on me. I had heard a lot about America, especially from Nevada, after all, that was her home, but there were some things that you could not understand without experiencing them. 

To me, America was very special. It was so different from the European countries I knew! We visited dozens of towns and cities and crossed the entire continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Even so, as the land opened up before me, vast grasslands, towering mountains and awe-inspiring deserts, I knew that I had only seen a small part of this vast land. Never before had I been so shocked by the magnificence and variety of nature, nor had I realized so clearly the fearless spirit of mankind, who had invaded these spaces and made them his home. You felt that there was nothing that could be impossible for the happiness of mankind.

The "New World" was no longer just a word to me. There was something new everywhere, and you felt a country taking shape, like a great symphony still in rehearsal.

Of course, the America of 1901 was not the America of today. There were big cities, but there were also small pioneer towns. There were areas of wilderness that had not yet been conquered, and there were places where I felt as if I were a pioneer! Even the cities were very different from what they are today. Back then you could still see the sky, there were no smog and skyscrapers, and occasionally you would come across a strange machine called a car. I have to admit that when I visit New York or Chicago today, I sometimes miss the old days when there were no taxis plodding through the traffic, and a comfortable horse-drawn carriage could take you wherever you wanted to go without delay...

At that time, some European intellectuals had a disdainful attitude toward the United States, saying that it lacked cultural and artistic achievements. But during my first visit and subsequent trips, I was impressed by the broad interest Americans had in culture, especially music. I was struck by the importance of music education in schools, with bands, orchestras, and choirs, and by the interest in music and musical facilities in remote places and remote towns, although this interest was often very crude.

But I think what impressed me most was the equality of all men. I was used to the class distinctions of Europe, and because of my education and beliefs I supported the republican system, I always found these class distinctions absurd and offensive. I have never recognized any distinctions between people, nor did I think that some people should enjoy privileges because of the accident of birth or the accumulation of wealth. At this moment, I felt that I was in a society where merit was judged according to character and ability, without caring about what inequalities were still to be resolved.

To me, a twenty-four-year-old, America was a liberation…

My fellow touring member, Leon Moreau, was a bold man always ready for new adventures. I was full of curiosity, and we wanted to see as much as possible of this strange and exciting country, not to be confined to hotel rooms and concert halls. Once we arrived in a new town and unpacked our bags, we went out to explore, often having absurd experiences.

I remember when we arrived in the small mining town of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, we decided to visit a mine. It was almost evening, but that didn't stop us. We asked for directions and set off in a hurry. At the mine, we were taken into the pits, a mysterious and fascinating place, in fact, as we explored the tunnels and talked to the miners, we forgot everything else. Suddenly, Leon Moreau said, "What about the concert? What time is it?" It was almost time for the concert! We didn't have time to go back to the hotel to change clothes, but went straight to the concert hall without even washing our hands and faces. When we arrived, we looked more like miners than musicians! However, we cleaned ourselves as best we could and started the performance.

The Wild West was still a real way of life back then, and when I see cowboy shows on television today, I think of some of the small western towns where we played concerts during that tour. Our presence excited the locals, and there were big banners advertising the concerts in the streets, and posters were posted on the walls of buildings, sometimes next to a reward for the capture of an outlaw. The halls where we played were usually built roughly, but they were always packed with people. The concerts were conducted in a cheerful and lively atmosphere, and during the intermissions, ushers would walk up and down the aisles, selling peanuts and candy. 

One day, Leon Morrow and I were out wandering in a small western town and wandered into a saloon. Soon we were playing poker with some cowboys, big, muscular men with pistols in their belts. My gambling experience was limited, but I was lucky enough, or should I say unlucky enough, to win money from the beginning. As the silver coins piled up in front of me, I noticed that the faces of the other players were getting more and more gloomy. An atmosphere of tension enveloped the game. I looked at the revolvers on my opponents and thought that our concert tour might end unexpectedly and suddenly! Everybody was drinking whiskey, and one of the cowboys offered me a glass. 

I declined as politely as I could, saying that I didn't drink when I was gambling, and I almost added that I rarely drank when I wasn't gambling. The cowboy retorted, "Here we drink and gamble." Finally, the luck changed, and I started to lose money. Suddenly the atmosphere improved, and everyone started to smile. When Leon Moreau and I left the hotel, we hugged each other like old friends.

Another time, a passenger on a train asked me if I had ever been to the desert in the United States. I said no, and he told me, "You really should go. It's something you'll never forget." He was right. The opportunity came when we stopped in a small desert town in Texas for a performance. Even Leon Morrow had some doubts about going into the barren land that surrounded the town, but I was determined. The desert is really amazing, and once you are in it, you feel like you are on another planet. 

After a while, Leon Morrow said, "Don't you think we have walked far enough? Let's go back." But just then, I saw something in the distance that looked like a house. "Wait here," I said to Leon Morrow, "I want to go over and see what kind of building it is, and I'll be back in a moment." He didn't want me to walk alone, so we walked together for about half an hour until we reached the building. It was a small, wind-beaten wooden house that seemed uninhabited at first glance, but we found a man and a woman inside. We were hot and tired, and they gave us something to drink. The man was dressed like a cowboy, but I noticed that his accent was a bit strange.

"You are not from this country," I said to him.

He replied, "No, I'm from the other side of the ocean."

"Where did it come from?"

"Oh, a place you've never heard of."

"What's the name of that place?" I asked.

"Its name," he said, "is Catalonia."

Look, two Catalans in the middle of the American desert!

It is a fact that you will find Catalans everywhere.

Indeed, other travelers from Catalonia had left their footprints in America long before that strange encounter in the Texas desert. In Barcelona, there is a column overlooking the harbor, topped by a statue of Columbus, with his hand reaching out to the west. After discovering the New World, he first returned to Barcelona to report his discovery to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. 

The only letter Columbus left behind was not written in Italian but in Catalan, signed Colom, which means "dove" in Catalan. Going to California for the first time, I also learned that the first European to explore this area in a big way was Brother Serra of the Franciscan Order, who founded the Mission of San Francisco in the year of the American Revolution. Brother Serra was born on the Catalan island of Mallorca...

In San Francisco I experienced an event that not only brought my first tour of the United States to an abrupt end, but also nearly ended my career as a cellist. I was fascinated by the scenery of San Francisco and the surrounding countryside, and I was delighted when some new young friends invited me to join them on an adventure across the bay to climb Mount Tamalpais. I have always loved climbing mountains. We took a ferry across the bay, the most magnificent ship I had ever seen, a veritable castle on the water.

The accident happened when we were coming down Mount Tamalpais. One of my companions suddenly shouted, "Xavier, look out!" I looked up and saw a large boulder rolling down the hillside towards me. I ducked my head and was lucky not to be killed, but the rock hit and crushed my left hand, which is my fingering hand. My friends were horrified, but when I looked at my own torn fingers, I had a strange reaction. My first thought was, "Thank God, I never have to play the cello again!" A psychoanalyst would surely have some profound explanation for this. Devotion to your art does indeed lead to a kind of enslavement, and I always feel unbearable anxiety before going on stage.

I stayed in San Francisco, while Nevada and Leon Morrow continued to tour. The doctors predicted that I would never be able to use my left hand fully, but doctors are sometimes wrong. With continued treatment and exercise, my hand healed completely after four months, and I began practicing again. I fell in love with San Francisco - who wouldn't? - and I continued to love it for many years. 

I stayed in the home of Isaac Stein, the president of the San Francisco Cable Car Company, a very cultured man, a patron of the arts, and a very hospitable person. His house was filled with paintings, books, and magazines in every language, and the family seemed to be always reading, taking copious notes, and their conversations were always about art. He had a sister who was studying medicine, a strong woman in her twenties with a large, powerful face. She was very smart and had a very vivid way of expressing her thoughts. Her name was Gertrude. Of course, Gertrude Stein[1] was not yet a world-famous person.
 
Once, as I was sitting there with my hand in a cast, Gertrude said, "You look like the man in El Greco's 'The Nobleman with his Hand on his Breast.'"

I laughed and told her, "Even if I can't play, my fingers will be on the instrument that represents art and music."

In later years, Gertrude and her other brother, Leo Stein, moved to Paris, and I saw them often. In Paris, she became a legendary figure in the literary world, and Leo became a famous art critic. Whenever I visited Gertrude in her small apartment near the Luxembourg Gardens, I would find her reading and Leo painting. The walls of the apartment were covered with paintings. "These paintings," she told me, "are all by young painters who are unknown." They were works by Henri Matisse, Picasso, and other painters. I had seen Picasso in the late 1890s when he was an art student in Barcelona, and even then I admired his work very much, although we never met in Paris...

On my first visit to San Francisco, I struck up a precious friendship with a young woman named Theresa Herman, whose father was a rabbi. She played piano, her sister played violin, and she was part of that memorable climb up Mount Tamalpais. Our friendship lasted nearly seventy years. I saw her every time I went to California, and she attended the first Xavier Festival in Puerto Rico in the 1950s. I was saddened when she died recently.[3] She was one of the few remaining friends of my early years. Yes, many of the memories remain, but, alas, many of the friends are gone.

In 1904 I toured America for the second time. I made my debut with the Metropolitan Orchestra in New York, playing Saint-Saëns's Cello Concerto. That same season, Richard Strauss gave his first New York performance of his symphonic poem Don Quixote, with me as the cello soloist, conducted by the great composer himself. The performance was well received, but some of the publicity people thought I should be more dramatic. Drama was the fashion at the time, and a man's musical talent was even judged by the length of his hair. My hair had never been long, and in fact, I was beginning to lose it. My agent told me that if I wore a wig when I played, I would get several times more for my performances in America...

During that tour, I had a bad experience with my manager. In my career, I have avoided dealing with money as much as possible. Of course, money has to be used in life, and I know that money is sometimes used for altruistic purposes. But I find money a bit nasty and I don't like to deal with it myself. During the tour, my manager handled the financial affairs. They would collect the fees for me and deposit them into my account. My manager did the same thing on my second US tour. But that time, I found out that he was collecting far more money from each of my concerts than he told me I was being paid. I was very angry, not because of the money, but because the man was dishonest.

When the tour was over and I returned to New York, I called my manager and asked him to come to the hotel where I was staying. He suggested meeting in his office, but I said no, he should come to my place. I went to the lobby and set up a small table and two chairs by the revolving door at the entrance of the hotel and waited for him there. When he arrived, I asked him to take a seat there.

He asked, "How's the tour going?"

I said, "Everything is fine, except one thing."

"What is it?" he asked.

"My agent is a thief," I said.

His face turned pale, and his eyes opened wide. "What did you say?" he said.

"No," I told him, "there's no point in lying. I know exactly how much you get paid for each of my concerts."

He stood up, speechless.

Now I caught him and, as I had planned, threw him against the revolving door. I turned the door as fast as I could and he was tossed about by it. I pushed so hard that it broke. He staggered out and ran away down the street.

Of course I had to pay for the door, I expected that. I never got back the money he took, but I didn't really care. I wanted to teach him a lesson.

More than half a century later, I went to Washington to play for President Kennedy, and several newspapers reported that it was my first performance at the White House. In fact, I had played there before for President Roosevelt, not the younger Roosevelt, but the elder Roosevelt, when I visited the United States in 1904.

The performance was at a reception for the President. He had an infectiously cheerful disposition. After the concert, he put his arm around my shoulders and led me through the room, introducing me to everyone and talking nonstop. With his energy, strength and confidence, I felt that he was, in some ways, the embodiment of America. It was easy to imagine him on horseback or hunting big game, which was his hobby.

On another visit to the White House in 1961, I was introduced to a beautiful white-haired lady who told me that she had been there when I first played there as a young girl. Her name was Mrs. Alice Longworth, and she was the daughter of President Roosevelt.