22 ❧ chapter one
throughout the last half, I hastily fi gured it on the train between New York and
Boston. The contrast of orchestras, heard from the stage, was much more strik-
ing than heard in a hall. Only with Ormandy’s Philadelphia, Szell’s Cleveland,
or Karajan’s Berlin Philharmonic have I experienced such perfection of
ensemble. There were no discrepancies. The Boston players of that time, left
on their own by the vagueness of Koussevitzky’s beat, or by its absence, had
created their own ensemble, undisturbed by too-frequent visiting conductors.
Koussevitzky’s presence galvanized their attention and created a super-charged
intensity, but neither his beat nor his comments were much articulated beyond
simple demands for dynamics and expressions of approval or disapproval. It
was a remarkable, unlikely, and somewhat miraculous performance.
In 1948, I made my fi rst tour of Germany after the war. It had been pro-
posed to me by the cultural offi cers of the American occupying forces and,
at fi rst, I was reluctant to associate myself with anything that might seem to
be connected with politics or propaganda. But I was brought to see that this
would in no way be the case, and since I was to receive no compensation other
than the expenses of the tour, I felt that in good conscience I could agree to
it. From London, where I had been playing a series of concerts and recording
Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier for broadcasting by the BBC, I fl ew to Berlin.
I am sorry that on this tour, as on many subsequent tours, I did not keep a
journal, but the pressure of events was too constant and too unremitting. I
fi nd that I have kept only jottings of the chronology. From these I have recon-
structed the following excerpts in journal style:
Berlin, June 1948
I expected on arriving here to be immediately engulfed by an almost unbear-
able wave of depression, not only because of the physical destruction but
because of the moral and cultural disruption that had befallen what once
were admirable features of the German tradition. But such is the much-
praised air of Berlin that since stepping out of the plane I feel a sense of
exhilaration that seems quite uncalled for. I know the city well, from having
spent the fateful winter of 1932–33 in Berlin, and I was last there in February
1938, ten long years ago. But never was I aware of feeling anything compara-
ble to what I have always felt for Paris, Rome, or Vienna. Yet, by some curious
fatality, most of the deepest involvements in my life have been with persons
who were either born or brought up in Berlin. As I pick my way over heaps
of rubble to climb half-ruined stairways to visit my few old friends, as I tour
streets lined with charred shells of buildings and monuments that I now see
with the double vision of what they once were and of what they have now
become, I realize what powers of fascination this city holds for me.
At the airport, I was met by the music offi cer for Bavaria, Carlos Moseley,
later manager of the New York Philharmonic. As might be expected,
many positions in the so-called cultural services are occupied by persons
KKirkpatrick.indd 22irkpatrick.indd 22 2/8/2017 9:56:28 AM 2 / 8 / 2017 9 : 56 : 28 AM
rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
#1