Gramophone: Fred W. Gaisberg: Toscanini: the man behind the myth

[Frank Forman]

Toscanini was the first musician I collected, though I don't hold him in
the regard as I once did.

Why, why hasn't there ever been a first-rate discography of this
much-beloved artist?

Fred W. Gaisberg: Toscanini: the man behind the myth
http://www.gramophone.co.uk/feature/toscanini-the-man-behind-the-myth

A classic Gramophone article from June 1943, reposted 2017.1.7

Even on my first visit to Milan the name and genius of Arturo
Toscanini was impressed upon me. As early as 1902 I had heard him
conduct his Turin Orchestra in Elgar's Enigma Variations and before
that I witnessed his conducting of the premiere of the opera Germania
at La Scala, when I heard Caruso for the first time. Who could go to
Milan year after year, as I did for 40 years, without becoming
saturated with Toscanini lore. My friend Carlo Sabajno worshipped him
as a divinity. Carlo was his maestro substitute during the historic
Turin Exhibition of 1898 when the master staggered musical Italy by
conducting 43 concerts by memory. No wonder the youngsters of that
day worshipped and tried to emulate him. Future Weingartners and
Mengelbergs would hang around him to run his errands: 'Vai compratemi
un pacchetto di macedonia' or 'un Toscano' ('Go buy me a box of
cigarettes' or 'a Tuscan cigar'). He loved those black, vile-smelling
Italian cigars.

Many stories have been told ofToscanini's uncompromising attitude
towards singers. Undoubtedly many artists have had occasion to nurse
bruises after rehearsals, when things have not gone well. Yet he was
deeply appreciative of merit and intelligence in singers, amongst
whom he counted some of his truest friends. Strange bed-fellows,
Chaliapin and Toscanini, yet they got on well together in their many
performances of Boris and Mefistofele, both at the La Scala and the
Metropolitan before World War I.

Hardly had Chaliapin arrived in England after the Revolution in
Russia when he received a cable from Toscanini inviting him to sing
Boris at La Scala, where he was then in charge. The message was
couched in the most flattering and friendly terms and Chaliapin
regretted that commitments already entered into in America made it
impossible for him to accept. Whenever they met they were
demonstratively affectionate and genuinely relished each other's
company. The part of Boris was eventually given to Zilianski. At a
rehearsal this artist inserted an effect not in the score. Down came
Toscanini's stick with a slap-bang and sharply rang out the Maestro's
familiar 'Ma che! Ma che! cosa fai!' ('Now, now! What are you up
to!') and Zilianski's: 'Maestro, but that's the way Chaliapin does it
.' Then Toscanini's retort: 'Ma Chaliapin e un grande artista and who
are you?'

Toscanini seems to be chronically testy and always on his guard
against boring people and thick-skulled singers. To some of these who
would attempt to placate him with 'Commendatore' he would snap back
'Mi chiamo Maestro'. During his reign at La Scala the stage
doorkeeper would give out the barometer readings for the day as one
passed through the door: 'Oggi calmo' or 'Oggi tempesto' ('Today
calm' or 'Today storm'). All this could be attributed to health--he
is a lifelong sufferer from bad digestion, and his wife, Carlotta, is
always near him to prepare his special dishes and nurse him. A few
intelligent singers of the type of Pertile, Stabile, Dusolina
Giannini, Baccaloni, etc. receive consideration and kindness from
him. Many others would have a sadder story to tell.

Of the men of the orchestra, once they are accepted and established,
he kindly, almost fatherly, calls them 'figliuolo mio' ('my little
son'); they love this. To be thus addressed is to them like the kiss
of a relenting mistress. His reprimands are always merited and they
well know it.

I asked a very good friend of Toscanini's what made him so habitually
abrupt and unapproachable. He replied that he thought he was an
unhappy man by nature; then he changed his mind and said it may be
his chronically bad digestion.

There was a young German producer (Herr Lert) engaged specially from
Berlinl for the Scala production of Tristan. I met him early one
morning outside the theatre in tears. 'I can't stand it,' he said.
'Last night, after the performance, he had me on a lightning
rehearsal up to three this morning; then he telephoned to tell me how
bad I am and to meet him at 8 o'clock for more trials. Does he think
I don't know my job? I am getting out of here, back to Berlin.' As he
spoke the Maestro, bright and alert, appeared from behind the portio
where we were standing and, seeing the despondent Lert, he gave him
the 'figliuolo mio' and asked him to forgive the telephone call. He
added that he had been worked up and had to get his spleen off, and
Lert was the first one he lit upon. As the Maestro passed on, a flush
of pleasure spread over the German's face and he said to me, 'Oh, so
that's how it is!' and gave a sigh of relief.

Toscanini's reputation as an uncompromising disciplinarian at
rehearsals has justification, but it was earned in Italy, where
symphony orchestra concerts was an acquired taste and orchestral
standards had been allowed to slide. The habit of cajoling and
driving the players thus fastened itself on him. I noticed that there
was less of this when he directed the old Vienna Philharmonic
Orchestra and, upon sober reflection, it could have been for no other
reason than that this organisation was a very plastic body of long
tradition, even if their average age was considerably higher than any
other society he had ever confronted. Anton Weiss, their secretary,
gloated to me when he had secured Toscanini and shivered when he
reflected on the baptism of fire that awaited the men. When I met him
after the first rehearsal he was the most surprised man as he
reported to me that there had been no eruptions and, indeed,
throughout his collaboration with these experienced and responsive
veterans they worked in cordial relationship. Burghauser, the
President of the orchestra, and Anton Weiss assumed the credit for
prevailing on Toscanini to become the conductor and patron of their
orchestra, beginning with a series of symphonic concerts in Vienna
and later the Salzburg Festival Opera performances. The proceeds went
to increase the orchestral Pension Fund to a handsome amount. After
dissociating himself from La Scala Opera in 1929 and declaring he
would thereafter devote himself principally to symphonic concerts, it
was a great achievement for friends Weiss and Burghauser to secure
him for their opera.

So successful were the Salzburg Festival Seasons when Toscanini
presided there, that it made that lovely town a mecca of musicians
and brought to it fortune and world fame. Fidelio, Falstaff,
Zauberflöte, Meistersinger were his operas. I attended these
performances and most of the rehearsals and count it as one of the
rarest experiences of my life.

The Salzburg Festival is a joint enterprise of the Salzburg
Municipality, the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and the Vienna Opera
Choral Society. They gave Toscanini every possible support to carry
out his ideas in production, cast and performance. Toscanini worked
like a slave, enjoyed every minute of it and called it a holiday. He
was surrounded by congenial spirits like Stabile, Baccaloni, Dusolina
Giannini and a relay of Italian friends from Milan who invaded
Salzburg through the Brenner Pass in cars and trains, in spite of the
bristling guns and frontier friction. I hovered around during those
three seasons 1935, 1936 and 1937, enjoying it immensely, but always
with the hope of recording gems of production. I had consolation in
plenty of lounging in the Bazar Cafe, where one met the great and
near great in this oasis of bliss in a world of storms. I had long
decided that recording during the Festival was hopelessly impossible,
where singers, musicians and the theatre were employed 24 hours a day
between rehearsals and performance.

I looked forward to the Meistersinger and had a pass to attend the
Probe Generale. The good burghers of Salzburg looked upon general
rehearsals as their special monopoly and, without cost to themselves,
invited their friends to attend as their guests, thus in a most
economic way wiping off old scores. On the occasion of this rehearsal
over 2000 expectant Salzburgers filled the theatre. I was with Madame
Carlotta and her son-in-law, Count Castelbarco. I heard her uneasily
muttering, 'The Maestro will certainly object to rehearsing with a
full audience.' Sure enough, Toscanini smartly stepped on the podium,
looked around, and with a glance of dark annoyance, promptly left. It
took just five minutes to turn those disappointed and angry burghers
into the street. Only when the house was cleared did the rehearsal
start.

When in congenial company, Toscanini can also tell a good story, well
garnished with the dialects of Italy. If he ran into his friend
Chaliapin at Paganis Restaurant or in the Savoy Grill, it usually led
to an exchange of one or more stories, at which they were both past
masters in telling and enjoying (reciprocity is the basis of
storytelling). One of his stories occurs to me. It was about an oboe
player he took with him every season to New York. The man, a
Neapolitan, became a chronic grumbler, complaining that he and his
wife found the cost of living in New York too high and he must have
more money. Toscanini would meet the fellow's grievance with an
advance, but back he would come again, until he became a nuisance.
'Could the wife dance in the Ballet,' asked Toscanini, searching to
accommodate the matter. The Neapolitan puffed out his cheeks and made
an eloquent sweep of his arms to indicate the wife's elephantine
proportions. 'Good,' responded the Maestro, 'put her name down for
the Chorus.'

Toscanini has three very human traits; he likes to polish his own
boots, he enjoys smoking black Toscano cigars and in his sleep he
grinds his teeth. In the Simplon Express my friend discovered these
peculiarities when he occupied the upper berth in the 8.20pm express
to Milan and Toscanini occupied the lower. The next morning, walking
up and down the platform at the frontier station, he asked, 'Did you
sleep well?' to which my friend replied, 'Not so badly. I would have
slept better but you kept me awake grinding your teeth.' The Maestro
laughed and thought it a great joke. My friend did not add that the
smell of his black Toscano was another disturbing factor.

There is a wonderful film scenario yet to be written and filmed on
that page of Toscanini's life dealing with the courageous stand he
took on the persecution of the Jews and the rule of the Dictators. No
other musician, barring Pablo Casals, has paid so high a price for
his convictions. It stamps him as one of the bravest of the brave.

Fritz Kreisler himself told of a visit he paid Toscanini in New York,
when he saw him handling a cable just received from Winifred Wagner
urging him to take charge of the 1933 Bayreuth Season. He had
brilliantly conducted there in 1930 and when Siegfried died that year
he promised the widow he would help her out during the 1933 season,
but he had reckoned without the Nazi Party coming to power with their
anti-Jewish programme. How could he fulfil his promise to her under
these conditions? It was against all his sense of human justice to
condone these actions by returning to Bayreuth. Kreisler said he
entered the hotel apartment and saw the Maestro surrounded by
photographs of Wagner, Bayreuth and the Wagner family. In his hand he
held an original manuscript of the master, a gift of Winifred.
Together they worded a cable of refusal, but it was a bitter pill for
Toscanini.

Another part of the scenario should depict the trying but successful
season conducting the Palestine Orchestra, all proceeds of which were
to benefit the Jewish cause, his own fees included. He had actually
promised to return for the 1938 season and had firmly laid his plans
to do this. However, when he visited his great friend Sir Louis
Sterling and told him of his intention, he promptly took steps to
prevent so foolhardy an undertaking, in view of the grave turn of
political events in Europe. It was no easy matter to deter Toscanini
and it was only by great good fortune that Sir Louis was able to
contact Dr Hertz, Chief Rabbi of Palestine, a few minutes before his
departure for the Croydon aerodrome. He immediately sent Toscanini a
peremptory command to abandon the trip because of political unrest.

To this episode must be added Toscanini's last departure from his
homeland and the obstacles placed in his way by the Italian
authorities' refusal of an exit permit or permission to carry out
funds and personal belongings. He was virtually a prisoner in his own
home. Finally, when he and his family did leave for France, they were
held up at the frontier, where David Sarhoff, the RCA President with
whom he had a contract to conduct the great NBC Orchestra for radio
concerts, met him with a powerful car and motored the family to Havre
to embark for New York. But Toscanini returned to the Lucerne
Festival of I939 and eventually was marooned there when war broke
out. He was one of the five thousand more or less worried passengers
who embarked on the SS George Washington from Bordeaux in October,
I939. During the entire trip he barely issued from his cabin.

Arturo Toscanini was 76 years old on March 25, 1943, and from all
accounts is still going strong. The only talking machine company ever
to have a contract direct with Toscanini was the Gramophone Co, Ltd.
The Victor Company had an exclusive contract with the New York
Philharmonic Orchestra and the National Broadcasting Corporation
Orchestra and through these they also enjoyed his service for the
recordings that appear on their catalogues. In the same way the
Gramophone Company, through their contract with the British
Broadcasting Corporation Orchestra, secured those excellent records
on their lists, including Beethoven's Symphonies Nos 1 and 6 in 1937
and No 4 and the Leonora No 1 in 1939. The recording of each of these
called upon the greatest patience and preparation by the recording
staff. He was never asked to make compromises for the machine, nor
would he have done so. In my book, The Music Goes Round, I have told
how I assisted Owen Mase of the BBC in securing Toscanini for their
1937 Musical Festival and some of the stories of studio recording
experiences and when 'spot' recording was carried out during concert
performances. How every time the timpanist made a thunderous attack
on his drums the controller would have a heart attack or when, in
some soft violoncello passage, Toscanini's voice singing the melody
would drown the solo instrument. Pianissimos inaudible above the
surface of the disc or fortissimos that sent stabs across into the
next groove. Yet with all the ups and downs, there still remains an
ample list of great works capable of showing future generations the
genius of the greatest conductor of our time.

[Frank Berger]

On 2/7/2017 8:28 PM, Frank Forman wrote:
> Toscanini was the first musician I collected, though I don't
> hold him in the regard as I once did.
>
> Why, why hasn't there ever been a first-rate discography of
> this much-beloved artist?

Is this one not first-rate?

http://www2u.biglobe.ne.jp/~toshome/main/Discographyfrm.htm

There used to be a discography on-line by John Wilson, but
I can't find it now.