Conversation With CASALS

Prades: The morning walk with "Follet'
CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
J. MA. CORREDOR
Translated from the French by
Andre Mangeot
With an Introduction by
PABLO CASALS
And an appreciation by
THOMAS MANN
Illustrated
1957
New York
E. P. DUTTON Sc CO., INC.
Copyright ©, /956, 6>> £. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S. A.
FIRST EDITION
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INTRODUCTION BY PABLO CASALS

Prades, 28th April, 1954.
Dear friend,
I have just read the manuscript of the friendly conversations
we had together, and I congratulate you most sincerely on the diligence
and faithfulness with which you have gathered them together.
I am astonished at the proportions your work has assumed ! While
we talked, I had not realized that our conversations would stretch into
a long book. But you were evidently bent on collecting all my
memories, on comparing my opinions with those of other musicians,
and on exactly determining my moral position in relation to the
failures of our times. How much patience and good-will you have
shown !
Reading your book has awakened many thoughts in my mind
which it would perhaps be out of place to record here: you would have
to start a new chapter — discussions on our discussions — and where
would that lead us? On the whole, I think it better to leave the reader
to his own reactions and judgments. Our talks were free from mental
reservations of any kind, and it would be useless to overload this letter
of introduction with them.
I quite foresee that some of my views on music are liable to cause
controversy, even impassioned controversy. To every man his con-
victions. Every point of view is worthy of respect, so long as it is

sincere and genuine. I should add only that I remain faithful to the
human values of music, and that for me art and life remain inseparable.
As a student, I used to be fascinated by drops of dew on a wild flower,
and felt that here, for any artist, was source of inspiration and in-
exhaustible matter for reflection. Even now, each morning, before
renewing contact with Bach's immortal message, I open my window
and in contemplating the symphony of colours on the peak of Canigou
I feel the same need to adore. I thank Providence that years and
disillusions have never blunted my natural power to wonder.
I am well aware that the attitude I have adopted in recent years
has been the object of much comment, some of it revealing, to a more
11 INTRODUCTION
or less justified extent, a lack of knowledge of the facts. It may be that
your book will help to dispel some of these misunderstandings. I
sincerely hope it will. I see you mention the crisis through which I
passed when I was 16, which led me to the edge of the abyss. At heart,
I haven't changed. I still feel free estranged from injustice and
brutality; I still have the same need to protest against any attack on the
dignity of man. The only difference, alas, is that whereas injustice and
brutality have spread more and more widely since my young days, the
desire to protest is becoming steadily more and more blunted. How sad
a sight it is — this guilty and deplorable indifference of our times !
My dear friend, once more let me congratulate you, and also assure
you of all my affection,
Yours,
Pablo Casals.
A LETTER FROM THOMAS MANN
Sir,
My opinion of Pablo Casals? I have no opinion, only
profound respect and joyful admiration for a man whose art, for all its
impetuousness, is allied to a rigid refusal to compromise with wrong,
with anything that is morally squalid or offensive to justice — and this
in a way which ennobles and broadens our understanding of the artist,
placing him out of reach of our irony vand setting an example, in our
corrupt times, of proud incorruptible integrity. Here is no hint of
escapism, no neutral attitudes to human problems. No trace either of
that tendency, so common in the precious little world of artists, to
prostitute oneself by admitting that "He who pays the piper calls the
tune .
A fantastic talent, sought after and assured of overwhelming
success all over the world, offered fortunes to harness itself to business
arrangements, but laying down its own conditions, which have
nothing to do with either money or success.
This great creative artist will set foot in no country where liberty
and right are not respected. Nor will he go to those countries which
call themselves free, but make opportunist deals with injustice. He
withholds his genius from a world which, though steeped in wrong,
would still like the aesthetic pleasure of hearing him — notably from
Spain, the land of his birth. He no longer accepts invitations or leaves
the village near the Franco-Spanish frontier which he has chosen as
his refuge — Prades. This name, almost unknown till linked with his,
has become universally known as a symbol of art devoid of all com-
promise — of the unbreakable union of art and morality.
A victorious union, for the hermit's mountain retreat has become
the shrine of pious pilgrims from all over the world. Yes, the world
crowds to the man who withdrew from the world, and the Prades
Festivals have grown quite as much from the magnetism of a
great character as from the musical enthusiasm which, in these
circumstances, also inevitably becomes a protest against the rule of
wrong.
iii
IV A LETTER FROM THOMAS MANN
What a triumph. What a reassuring satisfaction. The human race,
in its frailty, has always needed men to save its honour. This artist is
one of them, one of those who come to the rescue of humanity's
honour. I am happy to place on record that for me, as for thousands
of others, his existence is a source of joy.
(Translated from French.)
Erlenbach-Ziirich, March 1954.
CONTENTS
Introduction by Pablo Casals Page i
Letter from Thomas Mann iii
Preface 9
Chapter I Childhood 15
11 The Years of Apprenticeship 24

in Journeys, Concerts, Friends 42
iv Casals as a Conductor —
The Pau Casals Orchestra 69
v Three Unknown Masters 92
vi Johann Sebastian Bach 109
vii Music of Yesterday and Today (i) 130
viii Music of Yesterday and Today (ii) 162
ix On Interpretation 182
x Before and During Exile 211
xi Hope Frustrated 219
xii The Prades Festivals 227
xiii Grandeur and Solitude 229
Index 235
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Prades: The morning walk with "Follet" Frontispiece
Casals, aged twenty-one Facing page 72
In Bucharest, 1937 72
The cloister, Chester Cathedral, 1945 73
Beethoven's sonata for piano and cello: Casals and Rudolf
Serkin at Prades Festival, 1954 73
Trio at Prades 88
A performance at home 89
Piano and pipe 152
Casals with a young Chinese pupil 152
Casals, Prades, 1949 153

PREFACE
This small room, which serves the dual purpose of bedroom and study
in a pretty little house in Prades, is very well known to me. For several years
I have spent most Sunday afternoons there, going with various friends to
visit Maestro Pau Casals.
Our illustrious fellow-countryman would welcome us with unvarying
warmth and friendliness, sitting in his patriarchal armchair in front of a table
covered with books and papers — and, of course, pipes and tobacco.
More and more papers, on the table, on an old piano, sometimes on chairs
and sometimes on the bed, which is occupied at night by the Master and in
the daytime by his ' cello. Why all. these papers? Simply because this artist,
who is known all over the world, conceives it his moral obligation to answer
all letters — and goodness only knows how many he gets!
For many years he has made a point not only of answering every letter,
but also of writing the answers in his own hand. One day I begged him to
let me help, because this preoccupation with a mounting volume of cones-
pondence seemed to me a sad waste of his time and energy. Casals showed his
appreciation of my offer by his acceptance of it.
From then onwards I would spend a few hours once or twice every week
in this little room, open in summer to birdsong from neighbouring gardens

and in winter to the sound of the tramontana sweeping down from the snow-
topped Canigou. While I was taking the great mans instructions as to how to
deal with some — only some — of his mail, I found it impossible not to question
him about his memories and opinions, and he would talk with that simplicity
and charm so well known to his friends. It occurred to me then to take notes
also of his answers to my questions, with the idea of arranging them and
later on incorporating them in a book. When told of my project Casals
whole-heartedly agreed to it, a token of confidence for which I am profoundly
grateful, and which I hope my work will have justified.
So much for the origins of this book. From what has been said above it
follows that my task can be summed up in the one word 'fidelity' (so great is
the responsibility that I could not think of showing the manuscript to a
publisher without Casals having first seen it); fidelity in collecting the
material and in arranging it without distortion of content or style, that is to
10 PREFACE
say, directly and informally. Readers must not be surprised, therefore, if I
seem not to allow Casals to digress at length, if I sometimes confine myself
only to his negations or affirmations, or if in transcribing his words I include
those spontaneous remarks and colloquialisms which would be out of place in
a lecture but which make a conversation more vivid. My aim is that anyone
reading these pages should share as much as is possible in the intimate atmos-
phere of their origins.

It is not for me to talk of the position Pau 1 Casals occupies in the world
of music. Since that October day in i8gg when Charles Lamoureux "dubbed"
him "Knight of the Order of the Violoncello, now and hereafter", his art
and his sincerity have been sung from every roof-top. The comments below
are reproduced in virtue of their authors' standing.
Eugene Ysaye: Casals is truly sensitive and profound, a musician
in the deepest sense of the word. Not a single detail is neglected,
everything is defined with delicacy, knowledge and discrimination.
In him action is the direct outcome of thought and is true, vibrant
and deeply moving.
Fritz Kreisler: The monarch of the bow.
Wilhelm Furtwdngler: Those who have never heard Pablo Casals
have no idea how a string instrument can sound. This is a unique
synthesis of material and spiritual beauty.
Alfred Cortot: He is not only the greatest musical interpreter of his
own generation, he is also its most finished spiritual representative,
enhancing with an uncompromising nobility of character the miracu-
lous privilege of those gifts of perception which enabled him from the
first, with the seal of his contemporaries' wondering respect, to
penetrate the deepest secrets of his art and to communicate with
incomparable eloquence and sensibility the most sublime expressions

of great minds.
Jacques Thibaud: One of the purest talents in music, Pablo Casals
will always have my deepest admiration and dearest affection.
1 "Pau" is the Catalan version of the Castilian "Pablo".
PREFACE II
Auguste Mangeot (1909): Of all musical interpreters Casals is
assuredly the only one in the world who is not argued about.
Sir Donald Tovey: The greatest musician I have known since
Joachim.
Isaac Stem: All my life I shall treasure the musical stimulus of these
concerts I have given with you and the days I have spent near you.
Diran Alexanian: Casals has revealed the quintessence of the
violoncello as no-one has yet been able to do. He has become the
model with which everything is compared.
We would like to take this opportunity of expressing our gratitude for

the opinions reproduced below, which were sent direct by the people concerned.
Albert Schweitzer: You ask me my opinion of Casals? He is a
great musician in all he does: a 'cellist without equal, an extraordinary
conductor and a composer with something to say. I have been pro-
foundly impressed by all I have heard of his work; but he is a musician
of this stature because he is also a great man. As I write to you I feel a
profound regret at not having been able to come to Prades during the
last few years, to be with him and to get to know him still better.
Fortunately, I had some splendid days with him in Edinburgh, when
we were both guests of Tovey.
Albert Einstein: It is certainly unnecessary to await my voice in
acclaiming Pablo Casals as a very great artist, since all who are qualified
to speak are unanimous on this subject. What I particularly admire in
him is the firm stand he has taken, not only against the oppressors of
his countrymen, but also against those opportunists who are always
ready to compromise with the Devil. He perceives very clearly that
the world is in greater peril from those who tolerate or encourage
evil than from those who actually commit it.
Vincent Auriol: This summer I shall go to Prades in order to applaud
Pablo Casals and celebrate with all his admirers his art and his humanity,
which are equally so great. Having renounced the glory which still
12 PREFACE
awaits him through the world, he prefers to watch from the doors of
his native land, in his solitude and with his dreams and his art! What
a magnificent example of nobility, dignity, and human pride!
Bruno Walter: I am sure that a collection of your talks with Pablo
Casals will be read with the very greatest interest by all who have been
affected by the mastery of this great man. It is hardly possible to
estimate the value of Casals' influence on our time. Not only has he
given to present-day violoncellists priceless and lasting enlightenment
on the unlimited possibilities of their instrument, but the whole
existence of this great musician, from the ethical as well as the artistic
point of view, is a source of inspiration and encouragement to all
those who aspire to humanity's highest achievements.
Yehudi Menuhin: The image which is evoked in my mind by the
great master Pablo Casals is that of a jeweller. His art and his nature
show qualities characteristic of his vocation. An almost microscopic
searching into the depths of detail, an unshakeable patience, a sense
of belonging to a land, to a tradition, to a concept, to a way of living
which is deeply rooted, almost botanical, a calm persistence bordering
on stubbornness, like the resistance of plants against the cruelties of
Nature; all these things testify to the presence, in this world of small
men and faint hearts, of a being whose simplicity, grandeur and
integrity restore our faith in human nature.

Eugene Ormandy: Pablo Casals, in my opinion, is not only the
greatest 'cellist, he is probably the greatest musician alive today.
Ernest Ansermet: About Casals the 'cellist there is nothing left to
say. He has left his mark on all 'cellists of our time, that is to say he is
the "norm", and all other comment is superfluous. But, it seems to
me that the value of his musical personality, in this age of over-
rational, over-sophisticated music-making, lies in a nature so sound,
so certain and so rich that it always reveals the truth of the music,
dissolving the difficulties which so many others seem to find.
Sir John Barbirolli: I can do no better than to condense my opinion
of the Maestro Pablo Casals into one phrase — "Great artist, great
man, great friend."
PREFACE 13
Maestro Casals, after all our efforts to gather and faithfully record your
words, there arises this question: how to convey to the reader, by means of
the written word, the generosity and sweetness of your soul? Someone has
said that it is always dangerous to know a great man at close quarters. At the
moment of deciding to publish these talks we can vouch for the fact that at the
end of each visit we admired and loved you more than ever.
Solitary and glorious in a little house in a little town, you are able to
pass on to those who know you that which appears increasingly outmoded —
the love of man — and that which is denied this sombre epoch — hope. . . .
After each visit, as you stretched out your hand and said good-bye
with your beautiful smile, we were strengthened in our conviction that
you are one of the great men of whom Romain Rolland speaks, one who
knows how to remain human.
Childhood
If I remember rightly, Maestro, you were born in 1876.
Yes, on December 29th, 1876. I was born in Vendrell, a little
Catalan town some seventy kilometres west of Barcelona, to which I
have always been attached by bonds of the deepest affection.
Shall we talk of your parents influence?
This was considerable, maybe decisive. My father was the church
organist at Vendrell, and quite a remarkable musician in a quiet way.
It was he who awoke in me the love of music through his lessons and
his example. It was the example of a man who, without departing
for a moment from modesty, was nevertheless a true and pure artist.
And your mother? I always heard you talk of her with great veneration.
Oh, my mother was a very exceptional woman! What I owe to
her energy, her genuine understanding and her deep humanity ! Right
through her life she was my guardian angel.
Are your earliest recollections connected with your native town?
Rather with the Hermitage of Sant Salvador, five kilometres
from Vendrell. From there come my earliest recollections, my awaken-
ing to conscious life, so to speak: rays of light filtering through the
window-pane caught my virgin imagination with their iridescent
reflections.
When I was small my mother would take us, my brothers and
myself, for short spells to the hermitage, which was very near the
coast. It was rapture to me to contemplate the luminous tonalities and
unceasing flow of the sea. I stayed for hours, resting my elbows on the
windows watching this spectacle, always changing, yet always the
same. Neither have I forgotten the appearance of the hermit called
El Pau de la Centa (his wife was called Vicenta), an old seadog who
would take my hand and lead me to the shore to teach me swimming.
This cottage at Sant Salvador was the only luxury we could afford,
as our family had very modest means and expenses had to be calculated
carefully.
Wherever I have found myself in the course of my travels, this
15
l6 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
hermitage and the shores of Sant Salvador, as well as the little town of
Vendrell, have exercised the same powerful attraction, whose spell
evokes the wonder world of childhood. It was there, at Sant Salvador,
that in 19 12 I built my house, that house which, alas, I have not seen
for so long.
Did your musical vocation begin very early?
In my case it is, perhaps, beside the point to talk of vocation,
since from my earliest days music was for me a natural element, an
activity as natural as breathing, if you like. I certainly sang in tune
before I could speak clearly. Thanks to my father I learned to combine
sounds at the same time that I expressed myself in words.
This paternal instruction proved to be excellent, then?
Excellent in every way. Only think, that when I was seven I could
do any transposition. Besides, it was not only the teaching: how could
I describe this musical atmosphere which cradled my early dreams —

I was bathed in it the whole time! I remember when I was two or
three, sitting on the floor and resting my head against the piano to
hear better what my father was playing. I was transported. I also
remember that when my brother Artur 1 and I were very young, my
father ordered us to stand behind the piano (and I must own here that
my brother had a better ear than mine!). We had to name the notes
of anything he played at random.
How long was it before you performed in public?
Well, if you can call it a dibut, I was five when I was admitted as a
second soprano to the church choir. It was on April 27th, the saint's
day of Notre Dame de Montserrat, patron of Catalonia. From that
day I went to all the offices and got used to singing plainsong. I shall
never forget the first Christmas night. The night before, my mother
sent me to bed early, as I had to get up in time to sing at la misa del gall
(Mass of the Cock), High Mass at five in the morning, since Vendrell
did not have a midnight Mass. I could not sleep and wriggled about
in bed. I could not understand the atmosphere of mystery by which I
was surrounded, but I felt that some extraordinary thing was about
to happen. At five o'clock, walking in the dark streets, I was struck
by the quiet concentration of the people walking to the church in the
starry night.
There was this great silence, instead of the merrymaking on other
feast days. And suddenly I saw all the lights through the open doors of
1 Casals' parents had eleven children: nine boys and two girls. The only surviving
three are Pablo, the eldest, Lluis and Enric.
CHILDHOOD 17
the church. My father played the organ and I sang — I sang with all
my heart. . . .
In after years I witnessed many Christmastides in capitals of
Europe and America (some of them indeed full of melancholy), but
this first one at Vendrell, with its luminous enchantment, has not
died in my memory.
What about instruments?
In those days I was very curious about any new instruments I saw,
and I was irresistibly attracted by them. I first learned to play the
piano. And when I was eight years old I took part in a concert given
in Vendrell as a solo violinist.
Is it true that when you played the violin the village children said you
looked like a blind man, and this teasing made you give up the violin?
You can imagine that in a village like Vendrell, in those days, the
only violinists the kids had seen were beggars. So they could not think
otherwise. But it was really after I heard a 'cello for the first time that I
was so impressed that I put the violin away.
At what age did you begin playing the organ?
As soon as I could reach the pedals. I used to sit next to my father
when he was playing in church, and kept on asking him to teach me.
I used to climb down, trying to reach the pedals with my feet, but my
father just told me to realize I was still too small to do it!
But, of course, when my legs got long enough my father initiated
me into all the wonders of an organ. (It was an old instrument, made
at the same period as the one Bach played when in Leipzig.) I was
soon able to take my father's place if he was ill. A nice anecdote comes
back to my mind . . .just opposite the church was the shoemaker, who
used to work out of doors when the weather permitted. He was a
fervent admirer of my father's playing. One day, as I came out of the
church, the shoemaker told me with an ecstatic air how he loved
listening to my father. "My father is ill today, it was I who was
playing." He would not believe his ears and called his wife and said to
her, "It was not Carlets 1 who was playing today, but Paulito." 2 They
kissed me and offered me some carquinvolis (dry biscuits) and vi bo
(sweet wine).
What about your compositions?
I also started writing early. It was my father's real passion, and I

think if he had had a more complete and developed technique, he
1 Catalan for Charles.
2 Diminutive of Paul.
18 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
would have occupied an honourable place amongst our good com-
posers. His songs and some small pieces still have an attractive charm
and freshness. I must have been about seven when, before Christmas,
a Catholic centre we belonged to had the idea of putting on Els
Pastorets (The Adoration of the Shepherds). We had the text and my
father agreed to set to music some special episodes. But, as he was
overworked, he asked me to help him. I began to write — and you
must realize that my father was not surprised to see a boy of seven
diligently writing notes and musicial signs on the stave. I think he
thought it was quite natural.
The show was a success (I took the part of a devil who used all
sorts of stratagems to stop the shepherds arriving at Bethlehem).
And you can guess my emotion on hearing my first melodies at
Vendrell, and in some other villages nearby, many years after the time
I am speaking of! As a matter of fact I had a letter from Colombia some
three years ago saying: "I am so and so ... I remember the music of
Els Pastorets. As I am not a musician, I whistled it for a composer who
took it down and I am sending it to you." What a souvenir. . . .
Were these tunes written for the Nativity of Our Lord your first
composition?
To tell the truth it was my second. My first opus (to use the word
with ironic indulgence) had been a Mazurka. I took it to my godfather,
who paid me with dry figs and a ten-sous' coin.
When you spoke to me of the folk tunes you used to hear as a child, you
said something about those of the grallers?
Yes, these unforgettable messengers of our festivities. In the
morning people were awakened by the sound of these instruments,
which announced a holiday. The grails is an old instrument played
with a reed, probably of Arab origin. It was very popular round
Vendrell. It produces a diatonic scale and if the player is clever he can
make it produce semi-tones. Once I met a graller who had come to
ask my father for some new dance tunes. As my father was absent I
asked him to play a scale as I wished to imitate it. He agreed, looking
at me with a sceptical smile, but after I had tried to play the scale four
or five times, I started playing all the tunes of his repertoire which I
knew by heart. One day I'll play you some of these tunes on the piano.
{The walls of the room where we sit are almost covered with photo-
graphs: evocations of the past, souvenirs of every sort. Amongst them

there is one which shows the pyramide humaine, a strange sight for
CHILDHOOD 19
those who are not Catalan. Men stand on each other's shoulders in
circles, making seven tiers, their heads bent with the effort.)
The Castells (castles) . . .
This is another moving recollection. As you know, this is not a
gymnast's "turn". It is a traditional game for us. We practise playing
it when quite small: our fathers teach us to stand on their shoulders.
This entente is an admirable thing, what with the concentration and
the respect of each player for the combined effort necessary to make a
success of building the "tower".
Your childhood was during the quiet period of the Restoration, after
all the troubled times which had marked the 19th century in Spain till 1874.
Did your parents or your friends support the Carlistes or the Progressistes
who had fought each other so fiercely?
Oh, my father was an ardent liberal, and followed the federal
republicanism of Pi y Margall. He had risked his life in 1874 — the year
he got married — when the Carlistes came into Vendrell.
Am I right in saying that your father initiated you into the cult of Bach?
Not exactly. He had shown me certain aspects of great music and
in fact made me play The Well-Tempered Clavier, which I consider the
foundation of all music. But, really, he admired the Beethoven sonatas
and the piano music of Chopin most.
You seem to have been a very good boy, Maestro.
There you are mistaken. I was mischievous and, for my age, had a
remarkable strength. One of my "performances" which made the
village talk was when I descended a hilly street on a cycle that my old
friend Matines had made for me. (He was an extraordinary person.
Would you believe it, he threw himself from the roof of his house,
wearing wings he had made himself!) On my first attempt at riding
I met a stone on the road and fell so violently that I fractured my
skull. But I got up, mounted the cycle again and this time could ride
successfully.
Another time I was playing gendarmes et voleurs (a sort of glorified
version of hide-and-seek) near the station. I thought of running away
through the barrier where a plank was missing, but I got caught by
one big nail which was supporting it. I could not move and as I des-
perately tried to free myself, the nail went into my head. Do you know
what I thought of? To lie down on my back in the middle of the
village square so that the sun would dry the blood ! My father hap-
pened to walk that way; imagine his feelings, he thought I was dead.
Hooligan also?
No. I never fought with others unless it was a case of injustice; an
older boy using his strength to impose his will on a weaker one. Then
I would intervene.
Already you disliked violence?
Yes, but this violence did not frighten me and I often intervened
in order to separate the combatants. I remember what happened to the
"bad boy" of the village. He was called El Pep fuster (Joseph the
Carpenter). He frightened all the other boys and he was fond of
imposing his will in a high-handed way. One day, when I could not
stand it any longer, I threw myself upon him and after a hard fight I
got the upper hand, although he was three or four years older than I.
Strange things can happen. I had lost trace of my old enemy for
a long time when in 1938 I found myself playing in Buenos Aires.
At the hotel I was handed some visiting cards, one of which said
"I am Joseph, the carpenter". What a surprise! The former rascal had
become a man full of kindness, even a sort of lay saint!
And what about your treatment for hydrophobia at the Barcelona Hos-
pital? You showed great courage.

I had taken to heart my father's exhortation, "Say to yourself that
men don't cry."
The Pasteur serum saved your life?
I was only ten years old and the Pasteur discovery had only been
applied a very short time. A mad dog had bitten my leg and my
parents thought I had no chance of survival. I was hastily transported
to Barcelona, where I entered a ward in the hospital. I saw an old man
who had arrived too late and who was dying in delirious screams. As
they started treating me I stuffed my mouth with a handkerchief (I
remembered my father's words to me, "men don't cry"). I had to
endure sixty-four injections of boiling serum. In those days the
treatment was ghastly.
I suppose you attended the communal school in Vendrell?
Of course. My family could not afford to send me anywhere else,
and it was only when I got to Madrid that the Count de Morphy took
my education seriously in hand.
How many inhabitants had Vendrell?
About five thousand. The village only grew fairly recently. The
population was mostly composed of peasants (the majority cultivated
vines), artisans, shopkeepers and a few landlords. I used to stand for

hours outside the sheds of carpenters, coopers, smiths, wheelwrights.
CHILDHOOD 21
. . . All my life I have found great pleasure in talking to those people,
most of them have such personalities and seem to bring to their work
the same care and perseverance that one should to any creation.
When did the violoncello appear?
You may have seen those curious musicians who go from one
village to another. One day there came to Vendrell a group of these
strolling players, who called themselves Los Tres Bemoles (The Three
Flats) . They were made up to look like clowns and were loaded with
guitars, mandolines and some very queer instruments (some of them
were simply kitchen utensils arranged with curious gadgets). One of
the players was performing on a sort of bent broom, which might
have suggested a violoncello.
I sat down in the front row of the audience, looking, listening,
full of wonder. A few days later my father, finding me so insistent,
built me an instrument of the same kind. But it was a great improve-
ment on the one I had heard, as he used a pumpkin as a sounding-board.
It was my first 'cello. . . .

It sounded rather well ... It was exhibited in the Exposition Inter-
nationale de Barcelone in 1929. I keep it in my house at Sant Salvador,
in a glass case, like a real treasure.
What about the real one?
When I was eleven the Catholic centre organised some chamber
music concerts. It was then that I heard a real 'cello for the first time.
And it was played by Josep Garcia of Barcelona, who was later to be
my teacher. I was fascinated.
Was this impression stronger than you had when you heard other
instruments?
Yes. My impression was quite extraordinary. The same evening I
said to my father, "I would very much like to learn to play a violon-
cello." Soon after, he bought me one. My fate, I seem to remember,
was decided then. My father thought that music would not earn me a
living and that I ought to find a profession. In his opinion that was a
necessity, and he had already asked the carpenter of Vendrell to take me
as an apprentice. As a matter of fact, our circumstances were so modest
that any extra income, however small, would have been very welcome.
But my mother did not agree and just said: "Since he has heard this
instrument our son has shown such enthusiasm for it that he must
have lessons from a teacher. Here, in Vendrell, he is going to waste his
time as there is no teacher. He must go to Barcelona, and I shall take
him there." My father thought that all these schemes did not make
sense, and attributed them to what he called my mother's folie des
grandeurs. They argued with such bitterness that it pained me terribly
and I felt very guilty.
I suppose that if your mother had not shown so much energy and foresight
you would have become a carpenter?
Quite possibly. Perhaps I would have followed in my father's foot-
steps. His musical feeling was equal to his modesty. He was the parish
organist, as you know. He also gave elementary singing lessons, taught
the piano, and played for dances at the festes majors (village festivity).
He never complained of his lot and when he played, even when it was
just for dancing, he put into his playing all the dreams and aspirations
of his soul. Beauty was his aim. It looked as if I was going to do the
same. And, actually, that is what I did do during my years in Barcelona.
I went from village to village in the summer trying my best to extract
all the music there might have been out of waltzes and rigodons.
During those years, were you vaguely thinking of becoming a great
artist?
No, not in the slightest. Neither then nor later. It was not in
accordance with my character. Sometimes my mother said to me,
"You ought to be an organist or a violinist." I thought she was right
and realized that if I showed promise, it was certainly for some musical
activity — and that was all.
How old were you when you went to Barcelona?
I was eleven and a half. My mother came with me and installed me
with some distant relations with the idea that I should attend the
violoncello and composition classes at the £cole Municipale de Musique
de Barcelone. I have never forgotten this departure, and first journey.
I was very sad at leaving the countryside where I had been brought up,
the background of my happy, carefree childhood.
However, you never lost contact with the village of your birth.
No. Even before I built my house at Sant Salvador, I went back to
Vendrell every year. For twenty-one years, when I had finished the
music season in America, I always took the first boat to come home.
How do you account for your constant attachment to your native soil,
after you became an artist of world-wide reputation?
It seems to me quite a natural thing, and there is nothing to explain.
Do you remember the words of our dear Maragall with which I
finished my speech at the Jeux Floraux de la Langue Catalane, at the
palace of the Majorcan kings at Perpignan? "It is on the firm soil of our
native land that we must place our feet in order' to take flight to Heaven. 19
CHILDHOOD 23
Do believe me, no attachment to terra firma can spoil our spiritual
heritage; and what a solace it is to be able to see again the landscapes
we were familiar with in childhood!
It is very painful for me now, not to be able to go to Vendrell and
my house.
But it seems that your childhood of so long ago is still very much alive.
I am glad to say that through my long journeys in Europe and
America, and even in this village of Prades, the child I was at Vendrell
has never left me.
We remember Charles Peguy's saying: "All is accomplished by
the time we are twelve years old."
II
The Years of Apprenticeship

What of your studies at the Municipal School of Music in Barcelona?
I studied harmony and counterpoint with Rodoreda, and the
'cello with Josep Garcia. At that time. I was mainly interested in
composition.
I believe there's a story about some harmony exercise. . . .
Yes, I had to do a figured bass. I felt so terribly frightened on the
first day that I just did not understand a thing my teacher explained to
me: even less did I understand the task that was set to us for the next
day. I got home in a very nervous state and in tears, and told my
mother all about it. I was feeling desperate and I thought the best
thing to do was to write something of my own on the figured bass our
teacher had given us. When I produced it the next day at the class, my
teacher looked at it, seemed to laugh and cry at the same time, and
ended by embracing me.
What about your 'cello studies?
My teacher was a very gifted 'cellist; he had good fingers, not too
thin or too thick, which helps for fingering. Bearing in mind the
technique and style of 'cello playing at that period, one could say he
was an excellent 'cellist. Nevertheless, even at the first lesson I was very
disturbed by all sorts of queer and conventional things which seemed
absurd to me. Although I followed the classes quite diligently, I started

revising his instructions, and as soon as I got home I created a technique
of my own. When the others noticed my way of playing they used to
say: "What are you doing? You will catch it for this." But that did
not stop me. I wanted to get rid of all the unnecessary conventions
and stiffness, which, to my mind, did not help to solve the real
problems.
It sounds incredible: you were elaborating a new technique of the 'cello
when you were twelve — a technique which in later years was to spread all
over the world!
Why incredible? Don't you think that even a child can observe
and think what he likes of his teacher and notice what may be wrong
24
THE YEARS OF APPRENTICESHIP 25
in his teaching? We were taught to play with a stiff arm and obliged
to keep a book under the armpit! What rhyme or reason is there in
such an idea? I have always advocated complete freedom in the
movement of the right arm, including the elbow (this new theory
caused a furore among the traditionalists). This free action makes the
whole bow technique stronger and easier.

I also undertook to revise the method of fingering and the action
of the left hand, keeping to my "natural" line of approach and observa-
tion of life and nature, which can always teach us anything, if we are
prepared to observe with patience and humility.
These researches and thinking on technique that I started
then still continue: and they will for as long as I have the strength to
do so.
Were you very homesick when you first went to Barcelona?
Yes. I arrived there when they were pulling down the buildings of
the Great Exhibition of 1888. My mother installed me with some near
relations who came from Vendrell. She returned home after a few
days, but the following year came to stay for good. My hosts were
very good people, and kind to me. Benet, the man, a carpenter, was a
sort of modern Don Quixote, quite a unique character. He used to
disappear in the evenings, apparently to go to "dangerous" cafes
in the low quarters of Barcelona. His idea was to curb the activities
of a lot of toughs he found there. He would come home with knives
and pistols he had snatched from them, and kept these trophies in
drawers — the only weapon he used was an ash stick! One evening
he came home with a wound — he had been knifed! But he just told us
it was nothing, and the next evening his comment when he returned,
rather pleased with himself, was, "That chap of yesterday and I are
now quits!"
Tell me, I believe you played in public quite early in Barcelona?
I could not help it. I had to keep studying and making a living at
the same time. Nine months after my arrival in the capital of Catalonia,
I got an engagement from the proprietor of the Cafe Tost in the
suburb of Garcia. I belonged to a trio, and as you may well imagine,
our repertoire consisted of marches, waltzes and well-known
operatic airs! Also some medleys. However, soon after I began, I
managed to persuade them to have a classical programme once a
week.
In the summer I joined some bands which took part in the festes
majors of Catalonia. It was very hard work. The heat, the travelling
in old horse buses, the inns, the crowds, the dances which always lasted
till dawn. The amount of waltzes, "Americaines", mazurkas, "chotis"
(schottisches), rigodons and lancers I played during these tours! But,
as I told you before, I took this playing very seriously. I had a growing
conviction that big occasions and big works were not the only important
things in life. If we give ourselves devotedly to the small daily tasks
we shall see miracles every day! At the end of these dances, peasants
and fishermen applauded me and shouted — and I could read in their
looks that they could see beyond the immediate and passing pleasure
of the dancing. A sort of mutual understanding was established between
us, a homage, as it were, to the miraculous language of art! And when,
later in my life, I found myself playing in very different circumstances,
in big concert halls where serious audiences listen, it seemed to me that
my artistic nature had not changed.
Can you remember any musical occasions which left their mark on you
in those days?
Monsieur Tost, the proprietor of the cafe, sometimes came with
me to concerts or operatic representations. I can remember how
deeply impressed I was once, to see and hear Richard Strauss conducting
some of his works. It was a period when Brahms and Wagner were
revealed to me. A choral society, which later became the Orfeo Gracieno,
used to meet above the Cafe Tost: they had made me an honorary
member of their society and I treasure the diploma they presented to
me on that occasion, as it was my first distinction! A great Wagner
enthusiast called Fluvia, who came regularly to the Orfeo, was the
first to introduce me to the Tetralogy. He sent me scores of Lohengrin,
Parsifal and Tristan, which we read together with great excitement.
Having "discovered" Wagner and Brahms, I came to Strauss, who
became for me another source of exaltation — a youthful emotion that
has never left me.
M. Tost and I also went to hear Sarasate together.
What impression did the celebrated virtuoso make on you?

That of a breathtaking spectacle, like a star danseuse of dazzling
agility.
I suppose M. Tost felt very proud of you?
Yes. He was a good sort. But he did not like to see me arriving
late at his cafe, since the concert was supposed to begin at nine o'clock
sharp, and I often forgot the time simply because I used to get lost in
daydreams, looking over the gardens of the old Theatre Lyrique
opposite. Music, all sorts of books I read, the meaning of life, were all
problems to me and kept my mind in a state of perpetual conflict.
Once I arrived really very late at the cafe. Tost was waiting for me at
the door looking very cross. He put his hand in his pocket and pro-
duced a watch. As he handed it to me he said, "Here you are, and I
hope you will learn to be on time! ,, It was my first watch. . . .
And when did you first discover the Bach Suites?
This was the great event of my life: my father, who had already
bought me a full-size 'cello, came to see me once a week. We used to
go to the different music shops in Barcelona in search of scores of

serious music for the weekly concerts of classical music, given at the
Cafe Tost where I played solos. One day, quite by chance, I came
across the Six Suites of Bach in one of these music shops. I was thirteen
then. I wondered what could be hidden there, what mystery lay
behind the words: Six Suites for 'Cello Solo. I did not even know
they existed, neither did my teacher, and no one had ever spoken to
me about them. It was the great revelation of my life. I felt immediately
that it was something of exceptional importance. On the way home I
hugged my treasure! I started playing them in a wonderful state of
excitement, and it was only after twelve years' practice of them that
I made up my mind to play them in public.
Before I did, neither violinists or violoncellists had ever played a
Suite in its entirety: one or the other would play a Saraband, a Gavotte
or an Allemande. But my intention was to play them in extenso: the
Prelude, followed by five dance movements bearing the names by
which they were called in the period, doing all the repeats shown so as
to keep the coherence and inner structure of each movement. In those
days these compositions were thought of as cold and academic works.
How could anyone think of Bach as "cold", when these Suites seem to
shine with the most glittering kind of poetry! As I got on with the
study of the Suites I discovered a new world of space and beauty —
and I can say now that the feelings I experienced were among the
purest and most intense of my artistic life.
Did you give any recitals in those days?

Well, I gave my first concert in the Theatre des Nouveautes in
Barcelona. I remember how agitated I was when, with my father who
joined me for this great occasion, I went to the Hall by tram. My
head was going round, fear gripped me fast and I said, as I got up:
"What am I going to do? I cannot remember the beginning of the
composition I am going to play!" My father, wishing to calm me, said,
"Don't worry, all will go well."
Nerves and stagefright before playing have never left me through-
out the whole of my career. Can you realize that at each of the
thousands of concerts I played at, I felt as bad as I did on that first
occasion !
Do tell us about Albenizs visit?
It was in the days of the Cafe Tost. The Barcelona people
were coming in great numbers to hear "el nen" (the child). I was "el
nen .
Once when Albeniz was in Barcelona with his two friends, Arbos
the violinist and Rubio the 'cellist, with whom he had formed a
well-known trio, he had heard about the playing of "the child", so
he came to the cafe and was so pleased with my playing that he wanted
to take me to London with him. But my mother would not hear of it
and said I had to work and get much better before thinking of this.
But he gave me a letter of introduction to the Count de Morphy, an
illustrious patron of music, who had been tutor and private secretary
to King Alphonso XII. He was at that time private adviser to Dona
Maria Cristina, the Queen Regent. My mother kept this letter very
carefully for three years, just waiting for the opportune moment to
use it!
In fact these three years in Barcelona, when you divided your time between
composition and ' 'cello playing, must have been peaceful and profitable?
The last year was not peaceful. Far from it.
/ read in Emil Ludwigs book that he seemed to sense what he calls "a
Wertherian sentimentality" marking your adolescence. 1
Yes, in a broad sense, perhaps that is true, if it implies an ex-
cessively emotional nature, overflowing sensitivity. I have told you
before that my parents' ideas about my future were very different.
My greatest wish was to get them to agree with each other about this.
But how could I do it? Fortunately, when I was sixteen and the crisis
was at its height, my mother backed me up with incredible tact and
understanding. But my father could not understand me and did
not realise how near I was to a fatal crisis.
Was it an ordinary phase one goes through in the course of adolescence?

It was much more serious than that. I had come to the conclusion
that suicide was the only way out, and that idea pursued me for
months on end. I felt at loggerheads with a world where there was no
justice, selfishness was rampant and charity non-existent. When I
1 Emil Ludwig, Galerie de Portraits, translated from the German by Pierre
Nelon. (Librairie Fayard, Paris.)
saw people walking peacefully in the streets, or going to their occupa-
tions, I thought: "How stupid they are to enjoy this miserable life!"
I was desperately searching for a door through which I could find peace
of mind.
So I went through a period of religious mysticism. Coming out
of the £cole Municipale de Musique, through the Rue Fernando, I
would walk inside the Sant Jaume church and look for a dark corner
where I could pray and meditate in peace — and, often, as soon as I got
out of the church I hurried back again, more anguished than ever. I
felt that here was my only hope of salvation. Obviously when I got
home my face showed my mother all the painful anxiety of my mind.
"What is the matter?" she would say, and I, "Oh, it's nothing." I
was too fond of her to tell her of my obsession with suicide. But I
could not get rid of it.
Nietzsche said: "It is folly and perdition for a young mind to go about
in a sea of doubt without guide or compass."
Anything you like; but it was not metaphysical problems that
made me so wretched: it was a mental revulsion in the face of a
horrible world. My religious fervour did not do any good. I used
to notice so many signs of "officialdom" in the Church, and nothing
to appease my ardour and exaltation. I tried the socialist doctrines and
read Marx and Engels, but I was not long deceived. Marxist ideology
foretold a world too good to be true. My critical mind could not
accept this. I had only to look about me to see what men were like, and
I sadly realized that nothing would change them — that they would
never become "brothers".
It was the period when the anarchists began their crimes in Barcelona —
the 1st May 1890 was marked by some violent incidents.
For my part I could not possibly understand why these people
thought they would improve humanity by spilling blood. I always
instinctively hated violence.
There are some people who go through religious phases cyclically.
With me they did not recur, although I think I possess an essentially
religious mind. All religions have admirable ways of preaching
fraternity, and elevating the moral sense of the human race, giving us
hope and consolation. As far as I am concerned, and since my youthful
religious crises, I have kept up a sort of personal and intimate dialogue
between my conscience and the Divinity.
Ludwig also speaks of the pessimism which surrounded the tribulations
of your adolescence.
Yes, that is true: there is so much injustice in this world of ours,
and it seems so difficult to try to raise the moral standard of men, that
it is easy to feel pessimistic. A permanent sorrow seems to occupy my
inner self (although it seldom comes to the surface) and it has increased
again during these last few years of threats and disasters.
Did this crisis of pessimism, of which Ludwig speaks, last very long?
It lasted over a year, but passed slowly when I was in Madrid.
All this painful period, of which I have just spoken, remains per-
manently in my mind. I have always tried to act according to what I
consider my duty. Injustice is so abhorrent to me that on many
occasions I have not hesitated to act like a Don Quixote !
It was in 1894 that you went to Madrid?

Yes. I was seventeen, and had just finished my studies at the
Municipal School of Music. My father was very cheerful when he
showed my diplomas to his friends in Vendrell.
I believe you snatched all the first prizes?
Yes. When I played for the piano and 'cello exams the audience
seemed to fill up the hall and I could see the members of the jury
listening with tears in their eyes !
My mother thought there was not much more I could learn in
Barcelona and that the time was ripe for her to use Albeniz's letter to
the Count de Morphy.
She came with me to Madrid, and since she did not like to leave
my two younger brothers behind, there were four travellers leaving
Barcelona.
How did the Count receive you?
Wonderfully. My mother gave him Albeniz's letter and I, a
packet containing some of my compositions. He wanted to hear me
play my pieces. He was so pleased that he arranged for me to play to the
Infanta Isabel, the sister of the dead King Alphonso XII, who had a
reputation for knowing a lot about music. I shall never forget this
occasion at the Royal Palace with my mother and my small brothers.
As I was playing, Enric, who was a baby in arms, wanted his dinner,
and in his own way provided a noisy accompaniment to my playing;
so my mother fed him there and then to stop him crying.
So my debut in the Royal suite did not lack in atmosphere and
colour! After this the Count talked about me to the Queen Regent
and she received me very kindly; and so I came to know the Queen
Dona Maria Cristina who, from that moment, became a second mother
to me. She organized a concert at the Palace where I appeared as
'cellist and composer. With the violinists Arbos and Bordas, and also
a viola player (whose name I have forgotten), I played the 'cello part
in my first string quartet, a work the Count de Morphy was interested
in.
Then the Queen granted you a scholarship?
Yes. We rented a small place, a kind of garret. Our neighbours were
fine specimens of the Madrid people, so alert and charming: there
were a few cigarieres (women who make cigars), a hall porter at the
Palace, very proud of his uniform and madly adored by his wife, and a
shoemaker who had two mentally deficient children. There were four
doors opening on the same landing. What a landing! People coming
in and out, shouting, singing, and quarrelling, night and day! But in
spite of all the noise I spent long hours there practising the 'cello or
composing. When, in 1935, the Municipality of Madrid gave me the
title of Hijo adoptive (honorary citizen) of the town, I mentioned this
with great emotion in my speech of thanks.
All these good neighbours you had sound as if they belonged to the
Verbena de la Paloma. . . .
Certainly; do you know that I went to the first performance of this
famous "Zarzuela" with the Count de Morphy. The author, Tomas
Breton, was my composition teacher in Madrid and Jesus de
Monasterio my teacher in chamber music.
You always speak of Monasterio with great admiration.
Yes, admiration and gratitude: I often say that he was the greatest
teacher one could have had. I was very lucky to have him at such a
crucial period of my musical development. All my personal tendencies,
and my artistic doubts, found in his well-tried convictions an admir-
able anchorage, which had a wonderfully stimulating effect on the
growth of my convictions. For instance, I had almost created a per-
sonal mania for good intonation (which was neglected in those days)
and also for what I may describe as "musical accentuation". As Mona-
sterio felt just the same on these two points, he encouraged me no end
and made me persevere in that direction. So that all my suggestions
and aspirations, still in an embryonic state, met in him the best
understanding, so vital to me for their completion. Also Monasterio

never thought of music as a social amusement or as an excuse for
showing off. He was the kind who evoked devotion because his art
and teaching were guided by a sense of greatness and nobility.
Did you take notes during his classes?
Yes, or more exactly I wrote my personal reactions and thoughts
of what he said. My mother had advised me to do that. This
diary, which occupied about one page a day, was kept until my first
tour in the United States in 190 1 . . . and now I have mislaid them
all! 1
And what about the Count de Morphy?
Ah! I can still see him. He was a great gentleman, very simple,
very human. From the moment I came to Madrid he seemed to "adopt"
me, and showed me an affection that I can only describe as paternal.
(Since he had no male child he used to say he had two children —
Alphonso XII and me!) He made himself responsible for my education
just as he had been the preceptor of the King Alphonso — and every
morning at his home he gave me lessons on general culture. The
Countess, who had been a pupil of Liszt, and his daughter were
also very good to me. She gave me my first lessons in German. 2
The text-books we used were the same ones Alphonso XII had,
and I could read the annotations he wrote himself in the margins of
the books.
Have you kept these hooks?
Unfortunately, no. Often the Count took me to his library and
said, "Pablito, you will have these as a souvenir from me." But after
his death I was unable to obtain what the Count had then so categoric-
ally promised me.
Can you remember any specific example of the way he taught you?
Yes. In order to make me express my impressions clearly and
concisely, the Count sent me to visit the Prado Museum once a week
and also to the sittings of the Cortes. I had to write an essay on each,
giving my personal views on these subjects. At the Chambre des
Deputes, sitting very quiet, I could hear all the famous speakers of the
Restauration period: Canovas del Castillo, Sagasta, Silvela, Remero
Robledo, Maura, etc. Also the leaders of the republican opposition:
Castelar, Pi y Margali, Salmeron, Azcarate . . .
Did you meet any of these important people?
No, I did not think I had any reason or title to justify any such
introduction, although I could have asked the Count to do it for me.
However, I did meet Emilio Castelar, the previous President of the
1 Fortunately for us, Casals has a prodigious memory — and it is as well to
realise here that all he told us was never taken from written notes . . . which do
not exist !
2 Casals showed great facility for foreign languages. Besides Catalan and
Castilian, he talks French and English fluently — knows German well, and
Italian and Portuguese.
first Spanish Republic, when I was at the home of the Marchioness of
Alhama.
Which were the painters that attracted you most at the Prado?
Oh, Titian, the Venetians — and, of course, Velazquez and Goya.
What about El Greco? In those days he was hardly known.
I must confess that I was put off by the long shapes of his figures
and by the violence of his colouring. But I was very struck by the
intensity of expression in his portraits.

What about the theatre?
I got very interested in certain plays given by the Maria Guerrero-
Fernando Diaz troupe at the Classical Theatre. The Count used to do
the musical accompaniments for some of the plays.
Of course, the Madrid people have always been passionately interested in
bull-fighting.
I wasn't. I never went to one in Madrid. Later, before settling in
Paris, finding myself in San Sebastian with the Orquesta Sinfonica de
Madrid, I was begged by my colleagues to go with them to the
Corridas. So I did, in order not to appear unsociable, but I suffered
horribly and could hardly look at it.
The Count was, I believe, a great connoisseur of music?
Yes, he had been a pupil of Fetis and a personal friend of Gevaert,
the famous Belgian musicologist. At Court he was known as el
musico (the musician). He had composed a cantata, a Mass, some
piano pieces, three operas and a well-known book on Spanish folk
music. He was interested in all young musicians if they were gifted
and enthusiastic. He was especially keen to liberate Spanish Opera
from Italian influence in order to restore national character to the
music. He himself had set an example in Los Amantes de Teruel, and he
was very happy to see Tomas Breton going the same way.
What did he think of your compositions?
He liked them very much. Every day I had lunch with him at
home and after the meal he used to ask me to a drawing-room and
make me improvise at the piano. In those days I was attracted by
unusual harmonies, but when the Count, who sat next to me, thought
I was going too far, he would tap me on the shoulder, saying, "Pablito,
do keep to rrore common language." It was the period of fin de
siecle, when extravagance was the fashion. Long and untidy hair,
melodramatic attitudes. One day the Count took me to Sarasate's
place. We were offered brandy but did not accept it, so the great
violinist said: "Count, I understand it at your age and with your
delicate constitution, but this young man? Do you mean to say he
wants to be an artist and does not drink brandy!" Such was the
fashion, the way of thinking of that period. Of course, this does not
mean Sarasate was not a remarkable artist when you compare him with
those of his generation.
J understand that the Royal family was very kind to you?
More than kind. I have already told you how good the Queen
always was to me, and until her death she was the same. I was received
at the Palace without ceremony and at least once a week I went to
play my compositions and the 'cello. I also played duets on the piano
with the Queen. Once when I was ill she sent me her own doctor.
Was she a pianist?
She was a sensitive player and, like most Austrians, possessed a
real love of music.
And what about the young King Alphonso XIII?
He was seven or eight, cheerful and pleasant. We played games
together and I gave him stamps. He was very fond of lead soldiers.
While the Queen and I were playing the piano he was so absorbed in
playing soldiers that when I asked him after we finished, "Does your
Royal Highness like music?" "Yes," he said, "it pleases me. But what
I want most is to be given some guns!"
And what about the atmosphere of the Court?
Well, my connection with the Royal family was of a strictly
personal character. What I saw of the flattery and hypocrisy of the
courtiers revolted me. I did not belong to that world. I used to talk
to the Count about my feelings on the subject quite openly. He
advised me to judge men from their acts, not from the rank they
occupy or their attitude towards the people.

What effect had this contact with the grandees on you?
I have never forgotten the debt of gratitude I owe to the Royal
family of Spain. In 1941, when I was already exiled in Prades, I went
to play in the cathedral at a memorial service given after the death of
Alphonso XIII. I simply thought of him as the son of a lady whose
kindness to me had been endless. But, in spite of the personal gratitude
and affection I have for these people, the contact I had with them
never influenced my thoughts or my behaviour.
How long did you stay in Madrid?
Two and a half years. The Count, who thought of me at nine-
teen as a future composer of Spanish operas, wanted me to become
a composer. But my mother thought differently and it was decided
that my 'cello playing should come before everything else. She
would say, "If he is really gifted as a composer the 'cello will not
stand in his way, but if he neglects or abandons this instrument, it
will be very difficult for him to make up for lost time." (And I must
say she was right.) Since my studies were practically finished my
mother thought I ought to have a change. But the Count did not see
eye to eye with her and a very strained situation ensued. "Well,"
she said, "we shall go back to Barcelona." After months of arguments,
the Count agreed to our leaving as long as I promised to go to Brussels
and study composition with his friend Gevaert. He gave us a letter
of introduction to the Director of the Brussels Conservatoire and
arranged for my allowance of 250 pesetas a month to be renewed by
the Queen.
So this was your first journey abroad?
Yes, for the first time I crossed the frontier, in the company of my
mother and my two younger brothers. My father could not under-
stand and felt desperate: he would say, "What is this woman thinking
about?" Neither my mother nor myself could guess what adventures
awaited us when we left Spain. As soon as we reached Brussels I took
my letter of introduction to Gevaert. He had a long white beard and
was certainly pretty old. After looking at my compositions and
congratulating me, he said he was too old to give me any lessons and
advised me to go to a big city like Paris where one could hear good
music. This was my first disappointment, and I was just going to take
my leave when he said: "I understand you also play the 'cello, and I
should like our professor to hear you. Will you come tomorrow morn-
ing?" Next day, feeling full of apprehension, I presented myself at the
'cello class. In those days the Brussels Conservatoire had a name for
being the best in the world for string instruments. I sat on a bench
at the back and listened to the pupils with long hair down to their
shoulders and I did not think their playing was exceptionally good.
When the class ended the teacher called me and said, rather sarcastic-
ally, "Eh, you, the little Spaniard, will you play something?" "I will
try." "What will you play?" "Anything you like." He proceeded to
name a great many works, and as I knew them all I said "Yes." Then
he said, "Well, this boy knows everything, he must be extraordinary."
Everyone was laughing and I was red with indignation. "Now will
you play the Souvenir de Spa?" (A bravura piece which was a kind of
"warhorse" of the Belgian School.) "Have you brought your 'cello?"
"No." "What instrument are you going to play on?" "Any one which
could be lent to me." "What a boy ... he can play on any instrument."
Bursts of laughter from the students punctuated the words of the
teacher. I was getting very cross. I seized a 'cello some pupil was
handing to me and asked the teacher for silence before I could
play.
All this must have upset you just before playing.
Quite the opposite. I was so disgusted with their behaviour that I
felt completely sure of myself. After a few bars I could see from their
faces that these students were a bit surprised, and when I finished play-
ing there was complete silence. The teacher got up, took me to his
office and said, "Although it is against all the rules, I can promise you
that you will get the First Prize at the Conservatoire if you consent
to be in my class." I answered, "No, you made fun of me in front of
all your pupils, and I don't want to stay here another minute."
Next day my mother, my brothers and myself left Brussels.
And you went to Paris?
Yes, I immediately wrote to the Count and told him what had
happened, and I stressed the fact that Gevaert could not give me
lessons in composition. Our troubles began! The Count accused me of
disobedience and forced me to choose between losing my allowance
and returning to Brussels. When I told him that although I was very
sorry to upset him I would not return to Brussels, he lost his temper and
the 250 pesetas were stopped.
You must have been very upset to have to break off your relations with
your protector.
Yes, I was extremely sorry to have to do so, but what else could I
do after I found Gevaert would not teach me? My stay in Brussels
would not have had any meaning! Also, when I was in Monasterio's
class I had learned a sense of discipline and musical devotion which did
not fit in with what I found at the 'cello class of the Brussels Con-
servatoire. The Count thought that it was because of my mother's
influence that I acted in that way. But he was wrong. I made the
decision myself and felt very strongly that I should have wasted my
time in Brussels.
You have not very happy memories of your first stay in Paris?
Alas ! I went through hard and anxious times. You see the situation
into which we had suddenly fallen. A woman, a young man of
nineteen and two children, and no means. I had to find some sort of
job, however small. Luckily I met a friend from Barcelona called
Ainaud (who years later played in my orchestra). He told me there was
a competition for a second 'cellist at the Folies-Marigny, a music hall
where the French can-can was in great vogue. I went, and won the
competition. I played the whole of the Saint-Saens concerto, though
the candidates were supposed to play only one movement; but when
my turn came, they let me play through the whole work. My salary
was only four francs a day! We lived in a hovel near the Porte St.
Denis. I had to go to the theatre twice a day on foot, carrying my
'cello, to save the fare of fifteen centimes, a small sum, but one which
in those days could buy a pound of bread. My mother and I had
decided to live on a strict diet. But the winter was very cold and as I
was not used to such a low temperature I fell very ill with a sort of
dysentery complicated with enteritis and haemorrhage. We really
were in distress.
Luckily you had your mother with you.
She was wonderful — sweet, courageous and firm. Her spirit of
self-sacrifice knew no limit: in order to earn a few sous — enough to
feed four and buy the medicine's — she took on any sewing jobs she
could find and worked late at night if necessary. My father also sent
us something, although it was very little. One day, from my bed I
saw my mother come in with her hair cut short. I looked at her in
astonishment.
"What's the matter?" she said. "This is nothing."
For a little money, she had sold her magnificent hair. But she did
not make any fuss about it, and thought it had no importance
at all.
As days went by and our situation became worse, I said to my
mother: "What are we going to do? Shall we stay in Paris?"
She said that that would be difficult, because she knew I couldn't
stand the cold winters.
"So, shall we go back to Barcelona?"
"It seems to me the best thing to do."

And in this way it was decided, without more talk or complaint,
that we should return home. Of course, my father was in a frightful
state, and all the family's savings had melted away.
I did not feel discouraged, however, and went on with my studies.
I had a growing conviction that musical performance, at its best,
should not be an explosion of feeling only, no matter how sincere,
but it should be held together by severe and tenacious discipline.
Had you decided by that time to stick to your own conception of music,
rather than make concessions to public taste?
Yes. What I was driving at was based as much on constant sim-
plicity of expression as on the rich variety of forms to be found in
nature.
Did you think, all the same, that this sort of interpretation would please
the listeners?
Well, I remembered that when I was twelve and I played at the
Cafe Tost, perhaps some dance piece by an unknown composer, the
public had reacted perfectly. In any case, don't forget, as I told you
before, that you get the best result if you give the best of yourself and
try to express the music sincerely.
When you got back to Barcelona some surprises awaited you?
Luck, this time, seemed to be with me. First, I had a kind of
legacy, as a result of the departure of my old teacher, Garcia, for the
Argentine. I took over his place as a professor at the ficole Municipale
de Musique, as principal 'cellist at the Liceu, 1 and also private pupils
and engagements to play in churches, and so on.
There was then a group of enthusiastic music lovers who founded the
Wagner Association . . .
I took part in this craze for Wagner (I had been enthusiastic when
at the age of twelve I heard Wagner for the first time). However, I
have always preferred to remain eclectic in my taste instead of follow-
ing one line blindly, however fascinating this line might be. For
instance, I had already acquired a great admiration for Brahms'
music, although he was considered the bete noire of the Wagnerian
fanatics.
Can you tell us any anecdotes connected with the Liceu?
If you like stories, I can tell you an amusing one. During one
operatic season the conductor was an Italian called Mugnone, who
had once taught Toscanini. He was one of those Italians who seem
to be born conductors, who don't have much to do with the pro-

duction. I think we were rehearsing Lohengrin. The curtain was down
and apparently there was an old man sweeping and whistling at the
back of the stage. Mugnone, who had not realised where this strange
noise came from, shouted, "Silenzio, corpo di Bacco!" But as the noise
went on Mugnone ordered the curtain to be raised. When he caught
sight of the stage-hand he was on to the stage like lightning, shouting
at the top of his voice and all ready to attack him. The other, not
realizing who it was, thought a madman had been let loose, and
received him with his broom — imagine the scene! They had to be
1 The Opera of Barcelona.
separated and, of course, Mugnone wanted the sweeper to be
sacked, but the whole orchestra protested.
Did you go on tour in Spain during these years?
Yes, with a string quartet led by the Belgian violinist, Crickboom
— also with my great friend Granados and some other musicians. We
went to Madrid, Bilbao, Valencia and other places which I have
forgotten.
Did you go abroad again?

Until 1899 I only went to Portugal, in the first summer after I
returned to Catalonia. As there was no engagement to be had in
Barcelona at that time, I accepted one for Espinho, which was the
fashionable seaside resort in Portugal. The Casino was simply a gam-
bling place. I belonged to a septet and I played solo once a week as I
had at the Cafe Tost. There were quite a number of important
Portuguese personalities on holiday there who got interested in the
concerts, and these were such a resounding success that I received an
invitation to play for the King and Queen, Carlos and Amelia, at
the Royal Palace in Lisbon. I left Espinho in such a hurry that I forgot
to take my 'cello . . . and there I was, in the presence of Their Majesties,
without an instrument: I had to excuse myself as well as I could and
postpone the concert to the following day — a very embarrassing
situation ! As I had to go through Madrid to get to Espinho I immedi-
ately wrote to the Count de Morphy to say I terribly wanted to see
him. He wrote back very cordially and our reconciliation was most
moving. Queen Maria Cristina with her usual kindness asked me
to give a concert at the Palace, and after I had played she said, "Pablo,
I want you to have a life-long remembrance of me," and showing me
a bracelet she was wearing on the left wrist she added, "Which of
these stones do you prefer?" "Oh, Majesty, I think they are all won-
derful!" "Here, take this one." It was a magnificent emerald, which I
had inserted into my bow. The Queen also gave me a lovely Gagliano
'cello, and I was made a Chevalier de VOrdre de Carlos III.
Returning from Portugal, I stopped in Madrid again and for the

first time in my life I played a concerto with an orchestra. It was the
Lalo concerto and Tomas Breton, my old teacher, conducted.
In those days the Queen Regent must have had a lot of worries with the
rising in Cuba and the Philippines, followed by the Spanish-American war
of i8g8 y and the loss of the Spanish Colonies. Do you remember this war?
Yes, as if it were yesterday. The optimistic propaganda in the
Press, the news of defeats, the Treaty of Paris. One horrible recollection
survives in my memory, the landing of a group of soldiers at the
Port of Barcelona. It was like a procession of ghosts: they were so
disfigured by hunger and disease.
Did you stay in Barcelona much longer?
Until 1899. I felt it my duty to look after my family, and before
leaving Barcelona and the good position I had acquired there I wanted
to earn money and economise sufficiently to leave them comfortable
and free from anxiety. In 1899 I thought I could go to Paris with my
mind at rest. (I had practised French with some French people in
Barcelona and, in fact, I was much more fluent in it than when I went
to Brussels; it gives one so much more confidence.) I had a letter of

introduction to Charles Lamoureux that the Count de Morphy had
given me.
Did your mother go with you again?
No, I was then twenty-two and she rightly thought I could
travel by myself and that her company was not as necessary as it had
been before. It was due to her complete self-denial and her faith in
my artistic future that I had been able to go straight on with my career.
She was an exceptional woman ! Just think what she did when we lived
in Madrid: she studied foreign languages and more or less did the same
lessons as I did, partly because she thought it would help my work,
but mostly so that the deep feeling we had for each other should not be
affected by any difference in our education.
What about your introduction to Lamoureux?
I shall never forget it. I was taken into his room where he was
looking at some papers on his writing-table. He did not notice (or
pretended not to notice) the visitor who had come to disturb him in
his work. The fact was that he was giving up all his time and care to
the preparation of Tristan and Isolde, which was to be produced the
following winter. Realizing that time was going by, and as Lamoureux
remained silent, I said: "Sir, I don't wish to disturb you. I only came
to give you this letter from the Count de Morphy." He took it, read
it, and said bluntly, "All right, you come tomorrow with a pianist
and your 'cello." When we turned up the next day, I thought we were
in for another seance of the same kind: he seemed absorbed in some
papers and grumbled in an undertone about visitors who always dis-
turbed him.
So I said, "As I don't wish to disturb you I shall go immediately."
Then Lamoureux looked up at me and said: "Young man, I am
interested in you. Play me the Lalo concerto." (You remember that
I had played it in Madrid on my way back from Portugal.) He started
writing again ... I tuned up and my friend sat ready to play. Once I
began, Lamoureux dropped his pen and slowly turned round. After
we had played the last notes he embraced me with visible emotion
and said, "My dear child, you are one of the elect." He asked me to
play at his first concert on 12th November, 1899. It was my de'bui
in Paris as a soloist (and also the first occasion I wore evening dress).
Were you nervous before this memorable concert?
Yes, as always.
Was it a success?
More than I could have hoped for.

Ill
Journeys, Concerts, Friends
After this first concert with Lamoureux, did you decide to live in Paris?
Not immediately. I went back to Barcelona, but soon afterwards
I returned to Paris and settled there.
Did'you play again under the direction of Lamoureux?
Yes, in December of the same year and, I think, this second concert
was even more successful than the first. I asked Lamoureux if he would
let me play in his orchestra for the first performance of Tristan. I
thought he was a great conductor. He only thought of the music he
conducted, not the effect he could make with it. He was very exacting
about intonation and would not be satisfied with anything short of
perfection.
I remember what he said to a bass-clarinet player during a re-
hearsal of Tristan. He had just finished playing a solo when Lamoureux
said, "Brenoteau, it is out of tune." And after trying the same passage
again a few times, the clarinetist said he thought it was in tune. "Well,
if you think you play in tune," said Lamoureux, 'Til tell you a story of
what happened to me when I went to see a friend who was ill in rather
a miserable little room. Coming in, I exclaimed, 'What a stink!
How can you live here?' 'I can't smell anything/ said he. Brenoteau,
do you know why my friend could not smell? Because he was used
to it."
Lamoureux was not very patient?
No, and when he lost his temper he could say some pretty biting
things. Once, during a rehearsal of Tristan and Isolde, the tenor did not
seem to pay any attention to his remarks. After trying two or three
times without better result, Lamoureux laid down his baton and
shouted: "Sir, as a tenor you have the privilege of being stupid, but
now you are abusing it!"
Unfortunately you were not able to collaborate very long with Lamoureux.
No, alas, he died in December 1899, a few days after my second
concert with him. But while I lived in Paris I always played at the
benefit concert given every year by his orchestra to promote their
42
JOURNEYS, CONCERTS, FRIENDS 43

social work. I had it very much at heart to honour the memory of
my first conductor in Paris. (I used to do the same for the Colonne
Orchestra, whose founder had been a good friend of mine.)
In the summer of 1899 I was invited by the famous singer Emma
Nevada to stay at her country house in Pierrefonds, and when I got
there I heard that the Count de Morphy was gravely ill in Switzerland.
I wanted to go and see him, but I had no money and could not think
how to borrow any. The news of his death, however, came soon
after, and I could only lament that such a highly-placed man had
died in poverty. I have his portrait in my house at Sant Salvador,
together with those of my relations and dearest friends.
In Paris, you lived at the Villa Molitor.
Not at first. I only went there in 1905, and lived in it until 19 14.
So many friends came to see me there: I have endless recollections of
those years and they still linger in my memory.
When did you begin touring abroad?
Two or three years after my dihut in Paris. I must say I was in great
demand and I travelled and travelled !
So composition went overboard?
No. I never ceased writing. When I lived in Madrid a great

deal of my time was taken up with theory and composition. More
than once I thought that later on I might, perhaps, give myself up
freely to composition. But, alas, I guessed that as a musician I would
have to become a 'cellist. I have written symphonies, string quartets,
pieces for violin solo and 'cello solo, sonatas for piano and violin and
for piano and 'cello, songs, motets and a few choral works; a Miserere
called La vision de Frere Martin; an oratorio entitled La Creche. I
finished a sonata for piano and violin only a few days ago. But I
have never allowed any to be published: I am quite firm about that.
When I am dead and these works are found, someone will see if they
are any good. I made an exception for a few religious compositions I
wrote for the Montserrat Monastery, to which I am very attached,
as you know. The Benedictine monks of Montserrat, who for cen-
turies have done important work on musicology, have published my
works.
You went on tour with the pianist Harold Bauer?
Yes. I had met him at the house of an English lady, Mrs. Ram, a
good pianist herself, who received painters and literary people. She
had fetched me out of a small hotel in Montmarte where I had
fallen ill through cold, and took me to stay with her, saying I should

be well looked after. There I met Ravel, Lenormand (father of the
dramatist), Moreau, Bourcherit and other musicians. Bauer, who came
regularly to these artistic parties, suggested we should play together,
and I agreed. We first went for a tour in Spain, then to Holland. .
For many years we toured through Europe and the two Americas
with great success. I remember that in 19 17 Bauer and I played the
Beethoven Triple Concerto with Kreisler, at a concert of the New
York Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Damrosch.
I thought of Bauer as a pianist of the first rank and also gifted with
a rare intelligence.
I believe it was in lgiy that you landed in New York and Fritz Kreisler
said to the Press: "The monarch of the how has just arrived"
Well, Kreisler and I were always good friends, and in 19 17 I was
not unknown in America for I had toured the country about a dozen
times already.
When did you start the famous trio with Thibaud and Cortot?
I don't know exactly, but I do remember we played together in
public for a few years before the 19 14 war. Our association, which
was really based on music and friendship, lasted many years. We
travelled all over Europe together and although it is a long time ago
I remember it vividly and associate it with the cult of music and

friendship. Poor Jacques Thibaud; we never dreamed that he would
die so tragically in a flying accident!
Your recording of the Schubert Trio in B flat which you played to us
last week sounds very fresh still after so many years.
Yes, there is no mistake about it; both from the artistic and com-
mercial points of view it has been one of the great successes of record-
ing. We played that most, but, of course, we also had Haydn,
Beethoven, Schumann and Ravel in our repertoire.
Of your French friends you talked to me about the Menard Dorians.
Yes, they were great friends of mine, of rare kindness, and they
received the tout Paris of politics, art and letters. There I met Briand,
Clemenceau, Viviani, Colonel Picquart, Albert Thomas (who was
Jean Hugo's tutor) and Leon Blum, who was then secretary to Madame
Dorian.
What was Leon Blum like in those days?
He looked very aesthetic and was chiefly known as a literary
critic. None of us could have guessed he would have such a career as a
politician.
What about Clemenceau?

One could not help being impressed by his appearance and manner.
Colonel Picquart played a very important part in the Dreyfus affair?
Yes, he used to tell us some of the secrets which raised such a
storm later.
What was your attitude?
I have always sympathised with victims of any injustice.
You had quantities of friends in Paris: you mention Faure, d'Indy and
Saint-Saens, Zuloaga, Carriere, Ravel, Enesco, Moor, Hure r Casella,
Sandoz. . . .
And many more! But I am particularly indebted to Faure, d'Indy
and Saint-Saens, whose affection had been so precious to xne when
I started. Zuloaga lived generally in Paris — I have one of his pictures
in my house at Sant Salvador. Eugene Carriere, for whom I had great
affection and admiration, painted my portrait, and he used to say that
this one of me and the one he did of Verlaine were the two he liked
best.
J heard that you played to him just before he died.
Yes, a very sad and moving occasion. Carriere was dying of
cancer of the larynx and he suffered horribly. I had visited him many
times since he became ill and found that his philosophy enabled him
to rise above any pain he had to endure. When it got too acute he used
to bring his Marcus Aurelius book from under his pillow and read.
A few days before he died, when he could not speak any more, he
indicated that he wanted to hear me play. I got my 'cello and played
some of the quietest movements of the Bach Suites. The glow of the
sunset added to the solemnity of the moment. The few friends sitting
round the bed were silent in anguish and I was crying. When I stopped
he wanted to embrace me and then raised his arms to show how grateful
he was to have received such consolation. 1
1 In his book Trois crises de Vart actuel (Fasquelle, 1906), Camille Mauclair
describes the scene.
"I shall newer forget one of my last visits to Carriere when he was on his death-bed.
A wintry twilight filled the room with the mysterious colours he liked so much. A touch
of light still caught the side of a vase where some faded flowers were drooping. There
were some study drawings on the walls — the last ones. In the half-light one could guess
the faces of a few friends sitting round like shadows. In the middle, the rectangular shape
of the bed where Carrihe was lying motionless, like a statue of himself. An admirable
lady, whose portrait was the last Carriere painted, had brought Casals and his 'cello.
He sat near the bed and played some Bach with the emotion, power and charm of that
unique quality of his.

" We all sat there in gloom and silence, listening only to the glorious instrument
which seemed to pray for Carrihe and also to carry our inner thoughts, which mere
{Continued at foot of page overleaf.)
I could write endlessly about all the friends I had in Paris before
the 19 14 war. There was such a marvellous atmosphere there in those
days and I felt so rich with so many good friends. Alas, most of them
are dead now.
Fortunately, Enesco lived until very recently.
With him I had a friendship which existed for half a century, and I
always had a most tender affection for him. I also considered him one
of the most important composers of the present generation.
It was through your friend Dr. Sandoz that you met Bergson?
Yes, Dr. Sandoz, a pure and childlike character, used often to
come to the Villa Molitor, and one day he introduced me to the great
philosopher, whom he knew. This was the beginning of one of the
friendships I have most appreciated in my life.

Bergson, I knew, was always taken up by the studies and pre-
parations for his lectures and books. But whenever I was in Paris, I
used to go and see him because we were both so pleased to see each
other. I used to say to him, "How is it you take pleasure in talking
to a man like myself who knows nothing?' ' "My dear boy," Bergson
would say, "you have taught me a great deal." "What, in musical
matters?" "Not only in those," he said — and I began to understand
what he meant, because of my own discovery, namely, "learning
while teaching".
Bergson must have been interested in the part played by intuition in the
performance of music.
Of course, and we often talked about it. Once he asked me what
was my feeling while playing great music like Bach or Beethoven —
and I said that what I found was that if, after a good performance, I
felt satisfied, I had a special feeling which could only be compared
to carrying a weight of gold inside me. He was very interested in this
remark and whenever we met he used to talk about it. One day he said,
"This weight you talk about, is it equal or similar to the one we should
feel when we have done a good action?" I also knew the feeling one
has after a good action, but it is of a different nature. In that I feel
something outside my own self, whereas the one which comes from
words could not have expressed. And we felt almost guilty in realising that our absorption
in so much beauty was rising above our sorrow.

"In fact what we were contemplating was as beautiful as a Rembrandt . . . as beautiful
as a Carrierel Shadows, waves of sound, the ghostly knowledge of an agony relieved
by the comfort of the music, all contributed to make us realise that these minutes would be
remembered as a kind of extraordinary perfection-given us by Carrihe. Not until we
left the place did we dare to shed bitter tears."
artistic creation seems to belong to the inner self, as if one's participa-
tion had been deeper and more definite. There is another difference
between the two sensations: a good action with me is followed by a
desire to forget it, so as not to lapse into a state of self-admiration, but a
successful performance seems to become a part of me, even to evoke
a feeling of self-recognition.
Was it not the Prince of Broglie who said that when he discovered the
principles of quantum physics he felt that an inner peace and clarity gradually
took possession of him?
I feel something of the same kind, but with it I have a more
physical sensation, which is why I use the image of the weight of gold.
Did you discuss religion with Bergson?

Yes, and although I knew he did not belong to any religious
persuasion, I always felt he was very spiritually inclined. I knew our
views on the subject were almost identical — but although I read a few
years ago that he was approaching conversion at the time of his death, I
must say that he never mentioned it in the course of our discussions.
Since we talk of Bergson, let me tell you of my great admiration
for the type of man known as the "French savant". Their modesty,
their wit and their humanity leave them indifferent to public opinion,
but all the same they remain the glory of their country and of all
mankind.
I read in a biography of Fritz Kreisler that you and some of your friends
used to meet in a "private circle". 1
It is true. We met in the summer before the 19 14 war. Ysaye,
Kreisler, Enesco, Thibaud and myself used to gather at Thibaud's
place.
Were you by yourselves?
You can imagine, with the life we all led, how we were longing
to make music for ourselves. One would arrive from Russia, another
from America or somewhere else. When we played string quartets
Ysaye always liked to play the viola.
But you also met at Ysaye 's country house in Belgium?

Yes.
I hear that you played piano quintets there with Busoni, Cortot or
Pugno at the piano, and for the strings Kreisler, Thibaud, Ysaye {viola)
and Casals: combinations of this kind would have made the impresarios go
off their heads!
But impresarios were not admitted to these meetings !
1 Fritz Kreisler, by Louis P. Lochner. (Macmillan & Co., New York.)
Do you remember when you started your classes at the £cole Normale
de Musique in Paris?
It was before 19 14. Cortot, Thibaud and myself started the School
with Auguste Mangeot 1 as Director. 2
During the first year of the Ecole Normale the public was admitted
to the classes on payment. But it was discovered that this audience
upset the pupils. (Pierre Fournier was one of the first who came to
play at these classes.) I was against this. In fact I did not teach at the
School but every year, during the spring, I used to come and hear
every 'cellist, one after the other. I decided to have Diran Alexanian
as a professor of the 'cello at the School, and when he went to America
Maurice Eisenberg took his place.
Did you play for Queen Victoria before or after your debut in Paris?
Before. I had been in London on different occasions playing at
some of the "at homes" society people used to give during the season,
and my first public appearance in London was at a concert at the
Crystal Palace under the direction of Auguste Manns. This vast
place seemed to house a permanent fair where music had a place in the
middle of countless other attractions.
The concert where I played in front of Queen Victoria was given
at her residence in the Isle of Wight. Her son, the future Edward VII,
the Duke of York and other members of the Royal family were also
present.
What was your impression of the great queen?
That of a very respectable old lady inclined to plumpness, sur-
rounded by silence and reverence, etiquette being very strict at the
Court. I remember the white veil she wore on her head and the
Hindu servant who placed a footstool at her feet.
Did she speak to you?

Yes, she got up after the concert and came to congratulate me.
1 Auguste Mangeot wrote in the Monde Musical in 1910: "What we dont
understand is why Casals should be unique, why work and thought should not produce
many performers of his value. Is it so very difficult nowadays to be natural and simple?
Is it our education, our way of living, that produces so many great talents which seem
false or awkward? It is a complex question rather difficult to answer. But what we can
wish for is to see that Casals creates a school — and those who like music would find it a
noble task to contribute to its fruition. It seems useless to try to reform the present situation,
which is made up of the mistakes , flatteries and errors of the past, but we can ask Casals
to try and form some better mentalities in the artists of tomorrow."
2 Translator's note:
This is not quite accurate: it was my brother Auguste who founded the
&ole Normale de Musique and asked Casals, Cortot and Thibaud to be artistic
directors.
She said that the Queen of Spain had spoken to her about me and
added that she hoped that my artistic career would fulfil the honour
and trust that had been placed in me. When I returned to Spain I saw
Queen Maria Cristina; she showed me the telegram she had received
from Queen Victoria about the concert and specially about my
performance of Bach.
Did you keep up your friendship with Maria Cristina?
Every year when I went home, I had to go and visit her in Madrid.
She used to say, "Pablo, you sit here and tell me all that happened
since we last met." I did not and could not keep any secrets from her.
It was in England that you met Hans Richer?
Yes, and he became one of my great friends. It was during one of
my first tours. I was playing in Manchester under his direction, and a
performance of the Schumann Concerto with him was one of those
that most satisfied me. He was a great conductor. I played with him
every year and he always said before the concert, "Remember, we
must have a long talk after the concert." He used to take me by the
arm and we would walk to a tavern (always the same one), where we
talked till the small hours of the morning. The owner of this place
used to lock the door at the appointed time and leave us in peace,
waiting patiently until we went home. He obviously had a great
respect for Richter! And we discussed all sorts of musical subjects.
Did you often agree with each other?
Always! And the fact that we had so many ideas in common
used to excite me in a delightful way: I felt intoxicated. In spite of his

age he always spoke with the enthusiasm of a young man, which
always pleased me so much. It was when he spoke about Wagner that
I was most thrilled, for I knew how intimate the two had been.
Whenever he quoted any observations Wagner had made to him
during rehearsals, I collected them as a treasure. I gazed at him, taking
in every word.
You have some of his scores, I believe.
Yes, after his death I bought a large part of them.
Did you meet Joachim in England?
No. When I met Edward Speyer and Donald Tovey, who were
Joachim's great friends, he had already retired. But I was present at
the ceremony in the Queen's Hall to celebrate his seventy-fifth
birthday. Joachim was in his decline, but his performance of the
Beethoven Concerto was still full of vigour and, of course, of wonder-
ful artistic value. At the end, Lord Balfour presented him with his
portrait painted by Sargent. And the speech Joachim made showed
how deeply touched he was.

Was Edward Speyer the founder of the Joachim Society in London?
Yes, Speyer founded the Classical Concert Society which replaced
the Joachim Society. Their programmes didn't include anything
later than Brahms. Speyer and other members of the Committee
came to ask for my help at a time when the Society was in a difficult
position. I was delighted to help them. 1
Speyer and I became great friends and one could always count on
music at his lovely house called Ridgehurst. He had been an intimate
friend of Joachim, Brahms and Clara Schumann. He remembered
having heard Mendelssohn at a concert when he was five years old.
His father, who died at ninety-five, had been a personal friend of
Beethoven and of Mozart's eldest son. So you can imagine what
interesting anecdotes and memories he brought out in his conversations
with me.
Was it in lgoi that you went to America for 'the first time?
Yes, and what a journey it was! We sailed for a tour of eighty
concerts, with Emma Nevada, the great singer.
To a young European of twenty-five, as you were, some parts of America
must have seemed strange.
You are telling me! Once, when the French pianist Moreau
and I were having a "look round" in a town in Texas which might

1 "My co-operation with the Classical Concert Society brought me in touch with
Pablo Casals. I had not heard him but the foreign papers I had read were full of praise
for him. I wrote to him explaining the origins and aims of the Society and asking for his
collaboration. I got a charming letter from him in which he said he felt honoured to help a
Society that had been brought about by the art of Joachim. It was on October 20, 1909,
that Casals played for the first time at our concerts. The programme included the Brahms
Trio in C minor and the Schubert Trio in B[j major, which Casals played with Marie
Soldat and Leonard Borwick. In between the two Trios, Casals played the C Major
Suite of Bach for 'cello alone. From the moment he started with the magnificent descending
scale of C major which opens this Suite, the audience followed his performance with a
kind of exalted attention. The enthusiasm rose with each movement until the end, when
it burst into a kind of demonstration rarely heard in a London concert hall. Casals had
captivated an English audience by his playing of Bach. We had been persuaded by the
erudite that Bach had to be played in a dry and lifeless way, whereas Casals, while
observing a great respect for classical form , played it with real spontaneity of feeling and
lively expression. From then onwards Casals was a regular visitor at Ridgehurst, and
when he came he was always the first to suggest making music, which, of course, delighted
us. He is an example of the rare combination of great virtuosity with supreme musician-
ship. The extent of his knowledge in any branch of music is astounding, and as reliable
as his critical sense. In 1926 we were fortunate to hear him conduct the L.S.O. His
performance was beautiful and he proved that he was also a great conductor." — Sir
Edward Speyer, My Life and Friends. (Cobden Sanderson, London.)

have come out of any cowboy film, we went into a "saloon", where
we began to play dice with the sort of men who wear large hats and
carry an ammunition belt with a revolver at the ready! I was "unlucky"
enough to win a certain amount, and as the coins mounted up in front
of me I noticed how "menacing" the faces of our friends were be-
coming ! I also got into trouble when I persistently refused the drinks
I was offered: one man said to me, "Here we bet and drink." I kept
my eye on the revolver with apprehension, thinking that anything
might happen, when, fortunately, luck changed and I began to lose.
Then I noticed the cheerful looks that spread over their faces, and
when the time came for them to go we all embraced in a most friendly
way.
(Although Casals did not say so, I suspected that he had to cheat in order
to lose on this occasion. . . .)
Every time we went back to America, my colleagues and I were
looking forward to some, adventures, and there would be no ending
if I tried to relate the countless ones we got involved in.
I read somewhere that when you first went to America, some impresarios
were rather shocked to see a young performer nearly bald, for it was very
much the fashion for musical virtuosos to wear long hair in those days!
Yes, one of these impresarios actually told me that he would raise
my fee considerably if I agreed to wear a wig during the concerts. 1

And what was the accident you had in San Francisco?
It was during the first tour. We had decided to climb the Tamalpais
at San Francisco. Fortunately as we were coming down I noticed a
piece of rock was on the point of falling. As a matter of fact it did fall
on my path, but as I had been warned I had time to get out of the way.
But my right hand got smashed and, if I had not been careful, I would
have been killed. Do you know what I said when I saw my hand in
that state? "Thank God, I shall not play the 'cello any more." You
see, if one decides to play an instrument conscientiously with all
seriousness, one becomes a slave for life (not to mention the stage-
fright I have always suffered from before playing). I thought I would
give up my life to composition and conducting.
My colleagues went on with the tour and I had to stay in San
Francisco for four months while my hand healed. You can still see the
scar now. Before leaving this great Californian town I gave a concert
1 Another impresario made nt announcement to the audience to the effect that "if
you notice the great 'cellist Casals is bald, although he is so yoUng, it is because he left
a lock of hair as a souvenir to all the women he has loved".

where I realized that the use of my wrist and fingers had, luckily,
not been impaired.
Were you pleased to be able to play again?
Very pleased indeed.
It all reminds me of Georges Enesco, who called the violin his
"intimate enemy , \ . . .
Did you go on tour again the following year?
No. In 1904 I went again to America, when I gave with the New
York Symphony Orchestra the first performance of Richard Strauss'
Don Quixote, conducted by himself. Quite recently a friend of mine
sent me an account of this performance written by Strauss himself:
a most illuminating document.
During this tour I played at the White House at a reception given
by President Theodore Roosevelt. After the concert the President
took me by the arm in a very friendly way and introduced me to all
his guests. He was then a man bursting with strength, vitality and
sympathy, but when I met him again, many years later, at the house of
the millionaire business man, Mackay, I could hardly recognise him.
He looked very old, sitting down in a corner of the drawing-room,
and when I tried to cheer him up by telling him stories of the past, he
just looked at me in a sad way: he was only a shadow of himself.

I have read somewhere that you saved the lives of thousands of people
in a theatre where afire started while you were playing.
Ah yes. I think it was at a place called Wale- Wale. The auditorium
began to fill with smoke and the crowd was starting to panic. As it
was just at the time of the intermission, I told the Director that his
duty was to tell the audience that it was a small fire and that the
concert would continue after a short interval, during which time those
who wished to go out had plenty of time to do it quietly. So I got the
pianist to sit at the piano and the programme went on, in spite of a
good deal of coughing caused by the smoke; but anyhow the panic
was avoided and the crowd got out without any accident. The next
day there was nothing left of the theatre, and when the Town Council
came to thank me for the coolness of my action I told them it was,
to my mind, the least thing I could have done to save my audience
from being crushed to death.
And what about the charity concert you gave for Granados* children?
Yes, I was deeply shocked when I heard of his tragic death (crossing
the English Channel during the 19 14-18 war in the Sussex, which
was torpedoed by the Germans). Granados was a great friend, whom I

admired tremendously. Being in America, I thought I would do
something for his children who were left destitute after both their
parents had died. I had no difficulty in getting the kind of help I
needed: both Paderewski and Kreisler immediately agreed to play
with me at a benefit concert given in the Metropolitan Opera House
in New York, which was filled to capacity. This produced a very
large sum, which was sent to the orphans.
Was this the first time you played with Paderewski and Kreisler!
Yes: we played the Archduke Trio of Beethoven.
Do you remember when you first met Paderewski?
My first contact with him was astonishing: I was staying with
Mrs. Ram in Paris and she took me to hear Paderewski at the Salle
Erard, where he was giving a recital. We were sitting in the front seats
and when she took me to the artist's room to introduce me after the
concert, she went to talk to him first. Pointing to me with his fmger,
Paderewski said, "I know this young man and, tonight, I played for
him." He fixed me with a penetrating gaze and added, "This young
man is one of the elect." How could I explain this?
He had never heard you?
Never.
Had anyone spoken to him about you?
No.
It is amazing, really. And when did he hear you play the 'cello for the
first time?
A few years later in Montreux. In the interval I was introduced to
a charming boy who must have been nine or ten. He was Yehudi
Menuhin. As for Paderewski's homage to me, it was most moving.
When I had finished he came forward to greet me, and putting out his
hand said only, "Maestro". I was a bit confused, for Paderewski was
then at the height of his career, but it did not inflate my vanity for I
felt he was paying homage to my work and my musical endeavour.
Did you see him again in Warsaw when he became President of the first
Polish Republic?
No. After the concert of Granados at the Metropolitan I never
saw him again. He was a wonderful man. But fate led him also to a
tragic ^end!
What do you think of musical life in America?
Very intense, and they have the means to organise things in a way
that does not exist in Europe. For instance, at Cleveland it was Mrs.
Taft who made up the yearly deficit to the tune of thousands of dollars.
In Boston, a rich patron spent fabulous sums in order to give the city
one of the best orchestras in the world. The same thing happened in
Philadelphia and in many other cities where this American way of
patronising opera houses and symphony orchestras has been the origin
of their success. Again, in New York, we find that in order to raise
the expenses of the popular orchestral concerts he organised at the
Metropolitan Museum, Mr. David Mannes (Leopold Mannes' father)
simply put an advertisement in the papers. (These concerts, at which
I often played, were most interesting. Thousands came and sat on the
floor.) To show you the intensity of the musical life in the States —
one day when I was playing at the High School at Richmond with
an excellent orchestra, the Director asked me to guess how many
orchestras of this kind I thought there were in his State. Thinking
of our school orchestras in Europe, I suggested twenty to thirty.
He said: six hundred!
And what of American mental outlook?
Well, considering I have gone across the States many times and
stayed there for considerable periods, I think I have acquired a certain
amount of knowledge of American mentality. I think that many

European people who judge the Americans of today don't realise
enough that the bulk of the people is made up of an extraordinary
mixture of different races, religions and nationalities, which is still
in a state of fermentation and is not yet moulded into a stable type.
There is no doubt that they breathe a dynamism and exhibit a youthful
strength which we old Europeans find surprising and upsetting. This
display of so much varied energy produces some imposing material
creations, as well as a conception of life which is not always in accord-
ance with ours. The problem of harmonising these very opposite
conceptions has led me, personally, into some unfortunate situations.
When did you last go to the States?
In 1928. As my work with the orchestra took more of my time,
I had to reduce the periods of my tours abroad. After the Second
World War, I meant to visit my American friends again and play to
them. But, as you know, there were moral reasons which prevented
my going. 1
Tell me about your first journey to Russia.
It was in 1905. Just at the time when the first revolution was
shaking the Empire of the Tsars. I was bound for Moscow, but when
we reached Vilna the train stopped and everyone had to get out. I
1 See especially Chapter XL

went to the waiting-room, wondering what I should do, when a man
came to me and introduced himself as a general and at the same time
a high official of the railways. "You are Mr. Pablo Casals?" he said.
As I answered in the affirmative he went on putting questions to me
and I realised he knew all about me . . . even more than I knew myself
(actually he had just come from Berlin, where he had heard me
play). "You won't be able to go to Moscow," he said. "The train is
not going any further, but, if you like, I can take you to St. Petersburg
in a special train." I accepted his offer since I immediately thought of
Siloti, who I knew was directing one of the orchestras there.
Did you know him personally?
No, but we had exchanged letters and that was a sufficient reason
for me to share a compartment reserved for the general and his wife.
We went on without any knowledge at all of what might happen
to us.
But we reached St. Petersburg, where Siloti received me in a most
friendly way, and as a soloist he had engaged was unable to reach
St. Petersburg because of the railway strike, he asked me to take his
place. I shall never forget my introduction to a Russian audience.
Such was the success that Siloti and I decided to give a series of con-
certs, which took place in a curious atmosphere because of the state
of affairs: we played in the magnificent Hall of the "Noblesse", which
was all lit by candlelight because of the general strike. As I had lost
my suitcase I had to play in my ordinary suit. The posters were written
by hand as the printers were also on strike. One evening after the
concert I asked Siloti if I could not witness some scene of a revolution-
ary character. So we crossed one of the bridges over the Neva and
got near the riot. I saw a good deal of shooting in the distance, when
suddenly a man rushed by screaming in Russian (as Siloti trans-
lated it to me), "Long live the Republic of the Tsars!" They could
not even imagine that a Republic was possible without their Tsars !
Do you think that the more enlightened Russians thought the revolutionary
spirit was incompatible with the beliefs of the Slavophiles?
That is something one noticed when speaking with a Russian:
even if he was a supporter of autocracy, you realised he had a con-
viction of a redeeming mission assigned to Russia in which the
whole universe was involved.
How often did you go to Russia?
I went every year until 19 14.
Did you meet any Russian composers?

I met Cesar Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov when I stayed
with Siloti, and in Moscow, Scriabin and Rachmaninov, who was
Siloti's cousin and under whose direction I played many times.
I remember one evening at St. Petersburg when I was listening to a
first performance of a work by Rimsky-Korsakov, where Chaliapine
was singing the title part, Glazunov came to me to say that the com-
poser was feeling very nervous on account of my being in the audience.
In the interval a friend of Rimsky-Korsakov came to ask me what I
thought of the work. I thought that was a most friendly and modest
gesture on his part.
What about the group formed by the younger generation, like Stravinsky,
Prokoviev and Diaghilev?
I think I met them later on, although I met Diaghilev in Russia.
When I came across Prokoviev he was only seventeen or eighteen,
and I was very impressed by his gifts as a pianist and composer.
Did you see any productions of the Russian Ballet before it became known
outside Russia?
Yes, and you must realise that over there the ballet is a necessity
to compensate for the light and warmth they miss for such long
periods: the shining lights of the theatre make up for them and the
excitements of the show produce a wild elation, serving in the place
of the sun.
You told me once that upon entering Russia you felt a sense of suffocation.
Yes, it is true: when you go through the Customs you find these
enormous officials who look at you with suspicion and you feel
immediately as if you were entering a prison.
The Marquis of Custine, who was French Ambassador in St.
Petersburg when the Bourbons were back in France, wrote that the
air he breathed there seemed filled with fear and suspicion.
And, one century later, it was just the same!
Was there much apparent distress?
You met it at every step, all the time — and you felt that the poor
were completely under the yoke of the aristocrats who flaunted their
luxury in the most provocative, scandalous way. The Russian students
I met seemed to belong to a Dostoievsky novel: they wished to work
for their people and to open up new horizons for them, but, at the
same time, you found so many of these students who, realising their
impotence, took refuge in an art like music, which was a mental
comfort to them.
When the cataclysm burst in 19 17 I was not surprised. But I must
say that the way some great people I knew were treated made me loathe
the new regime.
What of Italy?
I began to go there two or three years after my debut in Paris.
What did you think of the country, the buildings and the museums?
Who could forget them? I had a special weakness for Venice
and I did not hesitate to travel twenty-four hours each way in order
to spend a day there !
Was Italy still the land ofbel canto?
Symphonic music only started about fifty years ago and the
bel canto you speak of, the Opera with all the appealing melodies,
was part of a very lively tradition.

But how did the Italians look at their famous ancestors, like Frescobaldi,
Scarlatti, Corelli, Tartini?
They were very proud of them, which does not mean that
they knew them or played them, except in a very small circle, of
course.
What was rather curious in those days was the fact that their
famous poets like Dante, Boccacio, were widely known, for you
would hear the most unexpected people reciting their poems by heart.
But nothing was played of the music of the glorious composers you
named. Today, all that has changed.
What about your tours in Holland?
I went back there almost every year. Julius Rontgen was a great
friend of mine and I admired him as a pianist and a composer.
Didnt you have trouble with the Dutch Police?
Yes, once as I was entering Holland, the police authorities kept me
and questioned me (it was the year of Queen WilhelminaY corona-
tion). Apparently I bore a striking likeness to a very dangerous
terrorist they were looking for because of his participation in some
anarchist plots. In spite of my explanations the police would not be
convinced of my identity. Finally I was allowed to proceed to The
Hague, where I said I was going, but an inspector accompanied me

right to the hotel at which I was staying.
Twelve to fourteen years later, I was dining with my friend
Rontgen at the house of Delange, the Director of the Amsterdam Con-
servatoire. During dinner, a manservant came to say something very
discreetly to Mr. Delange, who immediately went out looking rather
worried. When he came back he was bursting with laughter: the police
had come to enquire about me. Not having received any countermand-
ing order from their chiefs all this time they had, naturally, followed me
up all over Holland. But Delange assured them I was not dangerous
and the affair was closed. This sort of thing happened to me in Russia
also. Coming back from Finland (before 19 14), the Tsarist Police
began to search me very thoroughly and to question me in what was,
obviously, very rude language. But as I talked German to them and
they talked Russian, we hardly understood each other. They wished
me to sign a paper printed in Russian, which I refused to do without
knowing what it meant. They treated me so roughly and I was so
furious when I arrived in St. Petersburg that I immediately went to
Siloti to tell him. He knew Polit, and when this chief heard the story
he took it to the Duma where it was discussed: a few days later I
received an official explanation. But this sort of terrorism goes on
just the same in our country. I was sitting in a carriage at Barcelona

ready to go abroad when a Spanish police officer came to me and
said I was arrested ! I told him who I was but he looked at me with
very suspicious eyes and began to question me. I smiled at him and
the people travelling with me began to laugh: one said to the police-
man, "Don't you know this is the Maestro, Pablo Casals?" The
inspector was very apologetic, but he nevertheless made me sign a
paper to the effect that I admitted having been threatened with arrest
but that I told him I was Pablo Casals!
Did you meet Ysaye in Belgium?
No, I met him in Paris at the beginning of my career and our
friendship grew from day to day. The more I knew him, the more I
liked him, and what a great artist he was! When he appeared on the
platform, one felt the presence of a king. He had a fine presence and was
of great stature, looking like a young lion with piercing eyes. His
gestures also; the way he moved about; he was a show in himself.
As for his performances, I did not agree with many colleagues
who would say that he took too much liberty with the text and
could not control the flow of his fantasy. But if one thought of
the surroundings where he developed, and the period of his
formation, one could not fail to be carried away by the strength of his
personality.
His debut had not been very striking?

It was Joachim who discovered him in a cafe in Berlin, where
Ysaye played every evening — and you must remember that it was a
fashion for music-lovers to go to places of this kind to hear good music:
Jacques Thibaud, for instance, played for a long time at the Cafe
Rouge in Paris. 1
2" think I have read somewhere that it was Anton Rubinstein who had
organised his first tour in Scandinavia?
I don't know, but Ysaye told me that Joachim had heard him
play in this cafe in Berlin and was so enthusiastic that he told him he
should see to it that he left this job and become an international
artist! And, of course, he did!
Did you play under Ysaye when he conducted the Cincinnati Orchestra?
Yes, and also in Brussels with his own orchestra. I even played
there for his farewell concert when Queen Elizabeth came. It was a
solemn occasion which I shall never forget, the last concert he con-
ducted. I had a strong impression he would not live very long, but he
was so keen to show me his esteem, that as I came in to play the Lalo
Concerto, he got up and signalled to all the orchestra to stand and

made the brass play a fanfare in my honour ! And I knew how painful
it was for Ysaye to stand up !
Was it in Brussels that you deliberately provoked an incident which had
certain repercussions in the world of music?
Yes: you might even say that it was an " organised' ' incident. I
had known for some time that at these concerts it was the custom to
play the programme through at the dress rehearsal as well as at the
concert. As the public paid for their seats at the rehearsal, and the
artist only received one fee, I thought it was most unfair and a bad
precedent for young artists to be treated in this way. So when I began
to rehearse my Concerto in front of an enormous audience, I simply
behaved as one does at a rehearsal, stopping and discussing points of
interpretation with the conductor as I thought necessary. I could
feel the audience getting restive, and when the concert manager came
to me after the concerto asking me to play the Bach Suite I had put
down for the second half of the programme, I refused to play it, saying
there was no need for me to rehearse this alone. He insisted, but I did
not give way and the public became more restive and started shouting.
I waited until the Director came to me, saying, "Please, Mr. Casals,
will you play the Suite to this audience, who expect to hear it, and you
will be paid for two concerts." I had won on this question of principle
and the following evening, when the Director and the Treasurer came
to pay me for the two concerts, I asked them to be good enough to
1 And so did I! (Translator's note.)

allocate my second fee to the benevolent fund for the players of the
orchestra, and, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, I repeated
very clearly all the reasons for my protest — and, I am glad to say, -the
result of this incident was that they decided to do away with this
deplorable habit.
I suppose it would be too much to question you about your tours in
Hungary, Switzerland, South America, Germany and Austria?
It would be an endless story, but in Hungary I had the pleasure of
meeting Molnar, Bela Bartok and Kodaly ... I think Bartok deserves
the great name he is making for himself, but I have the greatest
admiration and liking for KodaTy, who is one of the simplest and most
charming artists I have come across. I think his works will last.
I understand that you were interested in the tziganes?
Yes, enormously. All Hungarian musicians got interested in the
wealth of their folklore. They have created a Magyar school of music,
which must not be mixed up with the songs and the music of the
tziganes. This is the kind of music based on Hungarian popular tunes,
which the tziganes flavour in a very characteristic way. These players

all possess a most wonderful sense of music, and I never missed a
chance of hearing them when I was in Hungary. Many of them
knew me and seemed to like me! I think no musician can help being
interested in their playing. But looking at it from a purely instru-
mental angle, the tzigane art is almost miraculous. One of the leaders
(Primas) I had heard was a 'cellist called Toliansky and, to my great
surprise, I saw him using all the fingering by extension, which I had
elaborated in the course of my studies ! He had come to it by pure
intuition. I have never met a 'cellist who, technically speaking, could
be compared to him. His tone was also marvellous, both in quality
and intensity. It sounded like four 'cellos playing together. This
fingering he used was the same as on the violin, even in the first or
half positions, such was the size of his hand.
(I once went to hear the tziganes play with David Popper and I
was astounded to hear the old maestro telling me that their way of
playing did not interest him.)
As for Switzerland, it is a country I have always been very fond
of because of its beautiful scenery, its liberal traditions, its political
institutions and the respect of its inhabitants for eccentricities, such as
the love of music!
Zurich is like another Vienna: everyone seems to have been born
with the love of music.

JOURNEYS, CONCERTS, FRIENDS 6l
I also have a deep admiration for the Scandinavian nations,
which remain a model of civilisation in the middle of our tormented
world.
What about your tours in Central and South America?
I went many times to Mexico, Cuba, South America, Argentina,
Uruguay and Brazil.
My first stay in Mexico coincided with the restless period which
began after the fall of the dictator Porfirio Diaz.
One day I asked some friends to take me in a car towards the
Sierra de los Leones, where the rebels were encamped. They were not
very keen to go but agreed to my request. When we got near the
forest I could see a party of Zapatistas sitting round their tents. As we
left we came across a dashing-looking horseman of the Zapata Army,
who looked at us with a very suspicious eye. I shall never forget the
looks on the faces of my friends, who were gripping their revolvers
with anxiety . . . but nothing happened.
In spite of this situation, the Mexicans accorded me a most warm
welcome: music-lovers used to come to the hotel and push my car-
riage to the concert hall, repeating this performance after the concert
was over.
The last concert took place at the Plaza de Toros, where music
and plays had replaced the "corridas" which were not allowed by the
new government. How lovely it all looked, the audience sitting
in their colourful costumes up on the grandstands and shouting
enthusiastically.
You also took part unexpectedly in a ceremony dedicated to Anna
Pavlova?
Yes, I did. I had read in the papers that a benefit performance for
Pavlova was to be given by the Russian Ballet in the Federal City.
Of course the Mort du Cygne was on the programme, and it gave me
the idea of paying my own homage to her in a rather special way.
When I arrived in Mexico I went to see Smolens, the conductor of
the orchestra, and said, "Pavlova does not even know that I am here
and I want to give her a surprise." It was arranged that as Pavlova
came on to dance the Mort du Cygne the first 'cellist of the orchestra
should stop and I should play the solo off the stage, where they had a
piano. It so happened that while all this actually took place Pavlova
noticed there was something unusual and began to look at the side of
the stage ... as soon as it was over she ran into the wings and embraced
me many times! Diaghilev also threw himself into my arms. And

Pavlova took me by the hand and forced me to come on to the stage,
although my face was covered with the marks of her make-up.
I feel that if one day circumstances altered for me, the first country
I should like to visit would be Mexico, as I should like to pay a tribute
to the loyalty she showed towards democratic Spain.
What do you think of German audiences?
In Germany one finds immediately that music is an essential part
of the people's life. I have played at hundreds of concerts in the land
of Bach and Beethoven and I have always been struck by the atmos-
phere of devotion to be found in the public. An artist tries to create
such an atmosphere in order to get in more direct and intimate com-
munication with this audience. I must say that he finds it ready to hand
in Germany.
How did the German public react to your Bach interpretations?
It understood immediately, as well as any other audience did, in
fact. I must add also that not only most of the critics and audiences
accepted my ideas on the interpretation of Bach, but they also seemed
to welcome them with a sense of deliverance. Of course I did not
escape reproaches from the minority of so-called "traditionalists",
who will stick to this nonsense they call "purism". But this minority
is disappearing fast and must disappear completely. So-called "objec-
tive" performances of Bach's works, stripped of any life, are just
inconceivable. It was in Germany that I received a tribute which
touched me deeply. I had just played the Schumann Concerto with the
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Arthur Nikisch. After the
concert two men advanced towards me, and I could see that one of
them was blind. The other, who was holding the blind man by the
arm, said to me: "Don't you know him? He is Professor Wirth."
(The viola player in the Joachim quartet.)
I imagine that Joachim's death had left his colleagues inconsolable.
Professor Wirth began to feel my arms, hands and chest, he then
embraced me and murmured in my ear, "Joachim is not dead."
I understand the emotion you must have felt.
I would prefer it if you did not mention this in your book.
But why not? I feel that homage of this kind should be recorded.
I suppose that Vienna was the last of the European capitals you visited?
Yes, and only God knows how I wanted to go there, but it was
only seven or eight years after my dibut in Paris that I decided to go.
The first work I played in Vienna was Emmanuel Moor's Concerto
in C# minor, with the Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Schalk.
I felt so terribly nervous that at the moment I started playing I felt my
bow slipping through my fingers. Instinctively I tried to turn it in
my hand but I had done it too violently and the bow fell in the ninth
row. Someone picked it up and, in complete silence, it was passed from
one row to the other until it reached me. During these precious
minutes I had regained the control of my nerves and could begin
properly. After this the musical elite of Vienna honoured me by
organising a chamber music concert in which I played with Bruno
Walter (who had not yet begun to conduct) in the "Bosendorfen
Hall".
From then onwards I went to Vienna every year and always loved
it: one felt as if one was in a town made for music.
Yes, it has produced Mozart and Schonberg.
I have known Schonberg well and I'll talk to you about him
another day. Vienna, more than any other city, has lived through the
history of music from the Classical School to the most modern one.
One could imagine that the young generation, having gone so far in
their search for new music, would look back to their musical ancestors
with a certain amount of disdain. But that attitude does not exist in
Vienna. The Viennese and the Austrians, generally speaking, have
reached such a high level in what may be called "musical civilisation"
that their interest in new music has not altered their love for the great
masters of the past.
You cannot imagine how very much alive one finds Haydn,
Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms in Vienna. As for Schubert, one
might meet him coming out of a brasserie!
In Austria, you feel that music is not the privilege of a group or
class of people. Everybody has a natural need of music, just as much
as the need for conversation. One day, when I was coming out of the
Bristol Hotel in Vienna, I noticed that the porter was humming a tune
while he put letters in their boxes. I said to him, "Do you know what
you are singing?" "Of course," he replied quite naturally. "The third
Brahms Symphony." And as I questioned him he told me he belonged
to a music society whose concerts he attended twice a week. And he
added, "So do most of the clerks and cab drivers and carpenters."
In 1932 in Vienna I took part in the festivities given on the occasion
of the two hundredth anniversary of Haydn's birth. One of the items
in the programme was a visit to Rohrau, the village where he was

born. President Miklas and the highest authorities of the Republic
were there, as well as a number of Austrian musicians, including
Furtwangler. As I was crossing the square of the village I found
two natives of Rohrau arguing passionately about some disagreement
between Haydn and a copyist: one supported Haydn, the other the
copyist. Think of it! I met Miklas, Dollfuss and Schuschnigg, and
they were all great music-lovers.
I know that in 1912, you and Ysaye gave a memorable performance of
the Brahms Double Concerto which, you said, remained one of the most
moving recollections of your career.
Yes, this performance was like a revelation and Vienna published
a postcard to commemorate it! On one occasion I was invited by the
Gesellschaft der Musikfreude of Vienna to visit the exhibition dedicated
to Beethoven and his contemporaries. There I saw the portrait of
Beethoven by Mahler and also the violin method written by Mozart's
father, Leopold. I was greatly impressed by these exhibits and the
next day, after the concert I was giving, the Director of the Society
presented me with a copy of this precious violin method I had so much
admired. He also said that he was ordering a copy of Beethoven's
portrait from the most highly-qualified artist that could be found, and
would send it to me when done !
In fact this copy is unique and it hangs over my father's harmonium

in my house in Sant Salvador, next to Beethoven's birth certificate
which had belonged to Joachim.
Some friends of mine in Vienna, who were always charming
to me, also gave me a piece of stone from the room where Beethoven
died, which I greatly cherish.
The celebration of Beethoven s centenary in ig2j in Vienna was specially
brilliant, wasnt it?
Yes, and very moving. This commemoration, in which I took
part as a 'cellist and also as conductor of the Philharmonic Orchestra,
has left me an imperishable recollection. I can still see Edouard Herriot
standing next to me, singing with his lovely voice in front of
Beethoven's tomb during one of the ceremonies.
But, believe me, the Barcelona commemorative celebrations were
also memorable. This was the occasion when Ysaye played, for the
last time in public, as a soloist, the Beethoven Concerto with my
orchestra, which I conducted. He then took my place to conduct the
Eroica Symphony and the Triple Concerto with Cortot, Thibaud and
myself.

You have witnessed the end of many great periods: the Paris of the
belle epoque; the Texas of the Westerns; the Russia of the Grand Dukes;
the Vienna of the Blue Danube . . .
. . . And Victorian and Edwardian England, when the aristocrats
spent fortunes and engaged the most famous artists to give the best
parties to their guests. . . . Well, at my age it is very comforting to
have such wonderful memories.
Have you ever been to the Far East?
I could never make up my mind to accept the many offers I had to
go to these remote countries, mostly because of the nerve troubles I
felt in my head after 1920, which forced me to be careful. I regret not
having been to Japan, since all the musicians who went told me of the
public's high esteem for them.
Would you believe that it is in Japan that my recordings have had
their highest sales?
You told me once that you had never postponed a concert.
It is true, although there was a time when I had an average of
150 to 200 concerts a year. But the fact that I always fulfilled my
engagements does not mean I have always felt at my best when
coming on to the platform. One evening in Berlin I felt so run down
that I fainted while playing.

Was the concert adjourned?
Not at all. After an interruption of half an hour, I resumed the
concert: an artist has got to face these situations and be ready to put
his will above his physical troubles.
Who were the pianists who accompanied you most often?
In America, Edouard Gendron, Nicholas Mednikoff and Jean
Verd. In Europe, Conrad Bos and mostly Otto Schulhoff.
Gendron was a friend of Charlie Chaplin and one day at Holly-
wood he introduced me to the celebrated actor. He was at the time
making a film, and was dressed in his well-known get-up, with the
bowler hat and old boots.
What is your opinion of Charlie Chaplin?
My admiration for him is boundless and in these days it is com-
forting to be reminded of a virtue which should never be forgotten:
love for the humble people and pity for the poor. Whether Chaplin
does it from an angle of fun and pantomime or not, his intentions
are all the more laudable, and it is rather pathetic at the moment to see
the administration wrangling about his political views, etc. Fortunately
the public knows better, and we all know how great an actor Charlie
Chaplin is. But talking again of the pianists who accompanied me, I
must say that Otto SchulhofF, who played with me in Europe and
America, had a very remarkable feeling for music and a special gift
for accompanying a 'cello. We were always in perfect agreement.
Was Horszowski ever your accompanist?
No, but we gave numerous chamber music concerts together.
He first came out as a dazzling enfant prodigue, after which he came to
live in Paris to study at the University. I encouraged him to resume
his career of pianist. He had played a good many times with my
orchestra in Barcelona, where the public loved him. For the last five
years you have heard him at the Prades Festivals and you have had the
chance to see what a simple, modest and retiring man he is. But what a
great and real artist !
Of the great conductors you have played with I remember your naming
Breton, Lamoureux, Colonne, Richter, Mottl, Steinbach, Nikish, Siloti,
Rachmaninov, Richard Strauss, Damrosch, Mengelberg, Weingartner,
Furtwangler, Bruno Walter, Stokowski, Ansermet, Koussevitski, Ysaye,
Tovey, Pierre Szel, Sir Adrian Boult, Sir John Barbirolli.
There are many more !

Toscanini?
No, I have never played with Toscanini, although I have known
him a long time. We have had many very interesting and cordial talks.
I remember once discussing with him certain points in the interpreta-
tion of Beethoven. After the Second World War, when he came back
to Italy, he invited me to play with him, but there were so many invi-
tations at that time that I could not be everywhere at once. Besides,
after 1946 I took on the attitude I have kept ever since.
Have you always agreed with the conductors?
Always. Far from being upset by other people's remarks, I have
always tried to compare them with my own views. I must add that
on the whole I have met with the greatest understanding from the
different conductors I have played with. There has been one exception,
however, and the only incident in my life when I had to go to law to
settle it.
As you know, I played once a year for the benefit concert of the
Lamoureux and Colonne Orchestras. The chief conductor of the
Colonne Orchestra came to see me to fix up our programme some
time beforehand, and it was decided I should play the Dvorak Con-
certo. I arrived in Paris one morning for the dress rehearsal, having
spent the night in the train. I was waiting in the artists' room for my
turn to go on, when the conductor came in. We were looking at the
score together, to decide the tempo and some details of performance,
when he suddenly threw the score on the table saying, "What horrible
music !
I thought he was joking and asked him what he meant, and he
repeated the same words slowly. "Are you mad?" I said. "How can
you insult such a magnificent work. Do you know that Brahms
considered it a masterpiece?" "Ah," he said, "Brahms is another one,
and if you are a musician yourself you must know how bad this music
is." I did not know how to contain my feelings: my hands and legs
were shaking and 1 said: "When I think I have travelled all night in
order to introduce this magnificent work to your public, only to find
you not only scorn the work but detest it! In the circumstances it is
obvious that you don't understand it, and I don't see how I can
interpret it with you. I see it is impossible and I shall not play."
My refusal to play was a bombshell. While we went on arguing
the public, who had paid for admittance, were filling up the hall. The
audience broke on to the stage arguing and shouting, and then I
noticed Debussy, who was standing near us. I said to the conductor,
"Ask him if he thinks an artist can possibly play when feeling as I do."
"Come on," Debussy said, "if you wanted to play, you could play."
Such was the answer of the artist who wrote Pelleas and Milisande, and
it pained me greatly. I said to him, "Monsieur Debussy, I assure you,
it is impossible for me to play and I will not play."
I was just getting ready to go when the conductor, wanting to
interfere, said I could not go until he had got a bailiff to serve me with
a summons.
But it was a charity concert?
Yes. The bailiff put down the facts of the incident and the case
was heard a few months later in a Paris court. The barrister who was
prosecuting, curiously enough, said in front of the magistrate that I
was right. But I was made to pay a fine of 3000 francs and costs.
Thirty years later I still think I could not have played in such
circumstances: when a conductor himself despises and insults the work
he" has to interpret with you, in what physical and mental condition
can you be to play the work, and who would be responsible for
the musical slaughter which would follow? Later on this conductor
repented having been the cause of this incident, and said to some
friends of mine, "What would Casals say if I went to apologise?"
They said, "Of course you should go." But he never came.

Would you have told him again he had been wrong?
Without the slightest hesitation.
And now, living as you do in this quiet little town ofPrades, you can
rest after so much travelling and the agitated life of great cities to which you
have been accustomed. I know that you have imposed this retirement on
yourself in order to keep faith with your moral convictions.
Yes, but this retirement has lasted a long time, alas.
But what of all the great musicians and music-lovers who come to Prades
every year, as a sort of pilgrimage during the Festivals?
Yes, I am immensely grateful to them all and their company
is a great comfort to me.
IV
Casals as a Conductor — The Pau Casals Orchestra
How early did you feel the desire to conduct?
When I was a child and played the organ. I was already longing
to conduct the choir in the church: I felt like saying to the tenors
"Do this" and to the sopranos "Do that".
When did you actually begin to conduct?
I must have been fifteen or sixteen when Granados asked me to
conduct the rehearsals, in Barcelona, of his first opera, Maria del
Carmen, because, he said, he felt so nervous.
You conducted many orchestras besides your own in Barcelona?
Quite often I conducted the Lamoureux Orchestra in Paris, the
London Symphony Orchestra, the New York Symphony Orchestra,
the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, the B.B.C. Orchestra. I have
also conducted many concerts in Rome, Milan, Madrid, Mexico and
Havana.
The more I went on conducting, the more I was asked. One
invitation I accepted every year was from the London Symphony
Orchestra.
It was this orchestra which offered you an imposing collection of pipes?
Yes (Casals gave a rather wicked smile). I had been to see a doctor
as I was not feeling well, and he told me I ought to stop smoking.
I was very affected by this gloomy prospect when, on the same
evening, the Committee of the L.S.O. sent me a magnificent collection

of English pipes as a present! What could I do but use them?
What were your intentions when you created your own orchestra in
Barcelona?
My first intention was not to create an orchestra but to help one
of the existing ones which were in a state of decay. I wanted to raise
one orchestra to a level worthy of the capital of Catalonia.
Emil Ludwig says in his book that wh-n you started to do things for your
country in ig20 "You were not going to gain anything by it"
Of course not. I was convinced I was going to lose a lot, but I was
also convinced that it was my patriotic duty to take an active part in
the musical life of my country. I had always had this idea, although
69
my profession took me abroad nearly all the year round. But, at that
time, I decided to fulfil the task I had planned because I could now
afford it.
I heard that you had a very difficult task?

At first there were too many difficulties in the way and it looked
quite hopeless. The two orchestras of Barcelona had not got any solid
financial basis and in spite of good material in the players and con-
ductors their organisations and ways of working were entirely in-
effectual. I talked to the conductors, telling them I would finance them
and play with them in order to form a really first-class ensemble, but
they kept on saying that it could not be done and that I had been away
too long from Catalonia to know the real conditions there, and they
thought that my views were only idealistic ones! I went to see all
sorts of personalities and I must say that the result was disappointing
to say the least: I remember an aristocrat saying to me that music
interested him as little as bull-fights did. Faced with such a gloomy
prospect I called a meeting of important people in Barcelona and said,
"I am taking charge of this project myself and hope to make a success
of it." They all thought Casals had gone mad and said, "It is all very
well to go about the world playing the violoncello, but why does he
want to create a great orchestra in Barcelona?.' ' Luckily I had a few
faithful friends. First, Felip Vidal, who was enthusiastic about my idea
and put himself entirely at my disposal. He became the treasurer and
dealt without respite with all the financial problems. His wife, Madame
Francesca de Capdevilla-Vidal, did all the correspondence and the
markings in the orchestral scores. They both went through the most
tiring and thankless period with me.
The secretary of our committee was an admirable man called
Joaquim Pena, who joined us more through idealism than conviction.

He had a good deal of experience in the field of art but was carried
away by his optimism. He had already spent all his capital in support
of musical events in Catalonia. He had a vast culture, talked many
languages and was a great Wagner enthusiast, going to Bayreuth
every year. He had been president of the Wagnerian Association of
Barcelona and had translated all Wagner's operas into Catalan, as
well as librettos of French and Italian operas. He translated the text
of Schiller for the Ninth Symphony , The Creation of Haydn and all the
songs of Schubert, Schumann and Brahms. When I think that such a
man as Pena fell a victim of the military rising which swept Catalonia
in July 1936, 1 can hardly contain myself.
CASALS AS A CONDUCTOR 71
The President of the main committee was Mr. Vidal-Quadres,
who had great social prestige which helped considerably in con-
solidating the position of the orchestra.
It was at his home that I had played my first string quartet when
very young. He had music regularly at his house. He said to me,
"I am with you and I'll give what I can." He gave so much and he
gave it in such a wonderful way, that, in fact, it was as if he had given
everything.
When was the orchestra constituted?

In 1920. With my own money I engaged eighty-eight musicians,
the best I could find. They had previously been badly paid and came
to rehearsals as they pleased. I promised them a good salary but told
them they would have to rehearse every morning and afternoon
punctually.
On the first day I talked to them seriously, but in a friendly way,
about the importance of the work we were about to begin. Un-
fortunately I then became seriously ill. I realised that all these prep-
arations would not lead to anything if I were unable to carry on. I
suffered from inflammation of the iris, and the well-known oculist
who treated me made a mistake in the number of injections he gave
me. I had three, and a doctor friend told me that one would have been
enough to kill a horse! (It resulted in a contraction of the blood-vessels
of the head which causes the headaches I still suffer from periodically.)
I had to stay in bed for weeks and weeks, which coincided with
private worries as well. But I realised that unless I went forward
with my scheme the dream I had of forming this great orchestra for
Barcelona would not materialise.
The scepticism I had met when I took the first steps turned into
organised hostility in certain quarters when it was discovered that I
was going ahead with my plan. Surreptitious attacks were made
while my enemies prepared to boycott it. In order to avoid a collapse
of the whole scheme I sent a message to my musicians asking them to
meet twice a day, according to their contract.

And what were they doing without a conductor?
They only met. Sometimes my brother Enrique, who was my
leader, would make them rehearse some pieces, but most of the time
they remained idle. After a few weeks I was visited by a delegation
from the orchestra who saw me in bed and said they could not go on
being paid without working. "You must be spending enormous sums,"
one said, "and we don't know what to do." "Don't worry," I said,
CONVERSATION! WITH CASALS
"you lnvr signed .< < ontrat t with me and yon must keep it. Your fees
will be paid regularly uid, in the meantime, will you please meet
and make suggestions about Mir orchestra, in (act form a feeling <>f
< omnium! y."
Summer came, tlir spring season was over and everything w.r. m
the air. I f< It .1 hit bettci and against my doctor's orders I wanted to
pay 1 vi', it to my musicians, Alter congratulating them <>n having
kept faith, I wished them a good liolid.iy and told them we should give
our hi J concert Ul the autumn. In l.i< t our first comer! took pla< r on
the fourth of ()< tohei of that yeai .
iiv (ill remembe? how the orchestra tool- toot in Barcelona* lift ami how
it became <"' object <>/ pride to all Catalan:
Nevertheless the first few ye. us were a great struggle. At first the
audiences were small, mostly because lOrtlC influential people li.id
( in 11 1. 1 ted what was virtually a Command to ignore the concerts. As a
rule we rave twenty < oik eit\ .1 ye.u : ten .11 the Spring and ten in the
autumn, As we found that ordinary subs< rijuions would not produce
enough money, my friends formed a group of "prote< tor" members
who paid double. There were over a thoii'.and of them. Oiue •« ye.u I
gave a \ello re( ital for them,my only appearam e in Barcelona.
At no time did I take any si 1. 11 y lor my woik with the on hesli.i.
Aflei -.even or eight year, it pud ItS own way hut until then I in.ide up
the deficits. 3 This orchestra had < ost me a tcrrifn amount ol woik,
hut 1 1 eh vei y proud of it and working with it was my greatest pleasure.
What motives did yon hare besides (he patriotU ones that urged you to
create on orchestra?
Some people may he Surprised to he.u it, hut I have nevei heen
quite satisfied with only playing the \ ello. The responsibilities involved
mean a most exhausting amount of work and conceits aie a teinfi<
tax on the nei vous \y\tein. I feel as iiiik h .it home playing the \ ello,
sitting .it the piano 01 holding the conductor's baton, Making musit
il wh.M interests me, and it [s as tlC< cssai y to my mind as bread is to the
daily diet. And wh.it hettei mst 1 uinent is there th.in an nuheslra,
Since it ni< ludeS them dl" It i| the supreme mediUffl foil anyone who
feels iiiiisk deeply and wants to ti.insl.ite (lie loim and shape of Ins
most intimate thoughts.
1 Although ( \i\,iJ\ dors not want such defalk to he published I know thai he tpeni
over *,ono t ot)o pesetas (about { jo ,()<>(> dollars at the rate before ";■'<))■
• In (hr days of his early tours C.asah had orue written to his great friend Julius
Uonlyen " If / hove hern \<> luippy uradhiny a riolomello t how \lutll I feel when I
urn possess the greatest <•/ oil instruments the orchestra? 9 *

52 *o
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o^
(73 >-H
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CD 3
I feel enormously attracted by team-work and the human element

near me. I delight in it. I always feel the need to possess the limitless
treasury of orchestral music and the desire to perform it according to
my ideas and my conception, for the benefit of the audiences of my
country.
What were your guiding principles at first in your work with the orchestra?
My first preoccupation, knowing the bad habits of orchestral
musicians, was to create an atmosphere of artistic endeavour, to
awake or to reinforce their sense of responsibility and to obtain
maximum efficiency, so that each player could feel like a soloist.
In the first place I wanted to get perfect intonation and would
explain patiently how to get it without shouting at them or losing
my temper. Then I would deal with accent and expression suitable
for the work we were rehearsing. I was never satisfied until I could
obtain the most exact reproduction of the tempo and rhythm required,
in fact, until the "music" spoke. I did not mind repeating an explana-
tion as often as necessary, and I do believe more in the efficacy of
convincing a man than of imposing my will upon him like a dictator.
It seems to me that if the conductor himself is convinced, he ought
to find the means of convincing his orchestra.
The first work we rehearsed was the Ride of the Valkyries, note by
note. First the players seemed surprised — but they soon realised the
importance I gave to the performance oieach note. I advised the string
players to use my own technique and to all the others I suggested what
I thought was the best way. The fact that I had played many instru-
ments myself proved invaluable through this period of preparation.
But all the time, I took great care not to use any language that
might seem ungracious or humiliating. And after a short time I was
happy in the certainty that all these players understood that I did
not wish them to be at my service but at the service of the music
they were playing.
I can remember that your orchestra gave a concert every year for the
Associacio de Musica da Camera in Barcelona.
Yes. A few years before the period we are discussing, the sup-
porters of this Association, who were friends of mine, told me of the
difficulties they were encountering. So I offered to give a 'cello recital
to the Society in the hope that it would bring in more subscribers to
the Association, especially as I had not played in Barcelona for a
number of years.
Later on, this Society engaged us in return to give two concerts a
year to their subscribers. It even became so prosperous that it could
engage in the year 1929 more well-known artists than any other
society in the world. However, their audience was not entirely made
up of music-lovers. To belong to the Associacio had become a fashion
and I know that during the concerts some people liked to talk rather
than listen to the music: there were even some who went as far as
playing a game of cards during the concert. 1
You gave some concerts with the Orfeo Gracienc? 2
They were most interesting. This choir was mostly composed
of young men and girls, workers and clerks, who sang with the
greatest enthusiasm and who were very persevering under the direction
of a friend of mine called Joan Balcells. With them and my orchestra
we performed the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, The Creation of
Haydn, the Mass in B\> of Schubert, the Faust Symphony of Liszt,
Christ on the Mount of Beethoven — and some other works. I used to
give them a few last tips just before the concert, and spent some
delightful moments talking to these simple folk who loved music for
its own sake.
What about the Orfeo Catalan?
I would have been delighted to give concerts with them but, as
in any collaboration, the goodwill of one side is not enough.
1 know that your orchestra performed in all the principal towns of
Catalonia until July 1936, especially since most places wanted to pay homage
to you. Do you remember the occasion at Vendrell in 1927?

Of course I do ! Of all the distinctions I have received the one
which made me a fill predilecte of Vendrell was the one that touched
me most. In order to show my gratitude to my fellow citizens I
conducted my orchestra at a concert given in the village square and,
in the afternoon, I gave a 'cello recital. At the close of the ceremonial
unveiling of the commemoration tablet, I walked to the Town Hall
through rows of people and, as I stood on the balcony, I saw the
Castells 3 arrive, reaching my own level. When a child I had so often
1 1 personally remember playing with my string quartet at one of these concerts in
Barcelona, and being warned by the manager that the audience would probably consist
mostly of young ladies who used the concert as a meeting-place with their boy friends.
This manager included in the programme a loose sheet of green paper on which was
written a short story of young people talking during a concert. The effect of it was stu-
pendous: we played through an exacting programme in complete silence to our great
surprise and to the delight of the manager! (Translator's note.)
2 A choir from a suburb called de Gracia where at the Cafe Tost Casals had made his
dibut in public.
8 Seep. 19.
admired these Castells. I had even practised how to do it, but I had
never thought that one day I would contemplate them from the
balcony of our Town Hall.
So you were once a potential Casteller?
When I was six or seven my godfather used to stand me on his
shoulders and we went for a walk! I had to keep my balance very
carefully.
Were you frightened?
No, every boy in the village did it.
I also remember a charming episode at Vendrell in 1929 on the
occasion of the restoration of the old organ in the church. It had been
silent for a great many years, but I had not forgotten how I used to be
carried away in a world of dreams when I heard its deep and sweet
tone. With all the pipes eaten away by rust and the fabric dilapidated
it was dnly a shadow of what it had been. The new organist used a
harmonium. One day when I was visiting the church with a friend
he asked me to play on it and as soon as I heard its tone again it went
straight to my heart. So I decided to get it restored. When it was done
they had a ceremony to inaugurate the new instrument. It was very
moving and they presented me with the old music-stand which I keep
in my house. At the same time they also restored a lovely statue of
an angel which stood on the top of the tower. It was an 18th-century
work and the Angel had lost an arm, and one leg was broken. Curiously
enough a small wild olive tree had grown on the top of the bell
tower (a bird must have dropped a seed from which the tree had
grown) . We used to call it El Rabell and it became a sort of habit for
the village people to greet each other by saying, "How is the Rabell
today?" When they restored the statue the workmen had to take this
olive tree away and they wanted to make a conductor's baton of it
for me. But I preferred to have the tree carried to my house at Sant
Salvador, where it is still growing from a wall and waiting for me.
I only wish the chance of seeing it again were not so uncertain!
In the book by Lillian Littlehales 1 where she describes your attachment
to Vendrell she writes that "Having seen Pau Casals talking to Jaume Nin,
the village carpenter, with his hand on his shoulder and having observed the
way these two men looked at each other, I think one can realise better the
traits and character of our great artist"
I don't see why. My friend Nin and myself sat on the same bench
1 Pablo Casals— A Life, by Lillian Littlehales. (W. W.. Norton & Co., New
York.)
- CON riONS TITH CASALS
of our local schooL I went round the world and h in the village
as a carpenter. When we meet again with some other old friends, it is
just as it was in the days we went romping together among the vines
and the fields outside the village.
When you spent the summer at Sant Salvador you must have d:
lot of swimming, which I know you like.
. I have always been very fond of swimming. And tennis also.
I had a court at heme where I pbyc J with fnend& S :me of them were
great players like Pancrita Subirana, the greatest woman player I
have known. She had reached the finals in m international contes: in
Paris and if she did not win, :: was only because she was p
with "stage-fright". I have known three generations of tennis cham-
pions and I prefer those of thirty years ago, but the connoisseurs do
not share my opinion. A few years ago in Paris when I was watching a
match, I asked my two friends Russell Kingman (President of the
International Tennis Association) and Jean Borotra if the aces of
Decugis' and Cochet's time were not superior to the ones of toe
::.:;•• :rr.:.t£ i: rr.t i.-.i :i;i "No"!
I have also been tery fond of riding. When in Sant Salvador I
rode on my horse Florian every morning. He is still one of my most
faithful friends. Poor old thing: he has waited for me fifteen years.
He is not able to go about now, but my brother keeps him and looks
after him for the sake of the affection I had for him.
Did your mother live in your house in Sant Salvador?

Yes, and my brother Lluis also. He has the task of running the
estate, which he does with love and great knowledge.
My mother was known all round for her kindness: when someone
asked her anything she never refused. She was the daughter of a
Catalan family which had emigrated to Puerto Pico, where she lived
till she was eighteen. She always had a nostalgia for her native place
and in the last years of her life she longed to return. "How I should
love to see Puerto Rico again," she said to me. "Well, let's go," I
said. "No, son," she answered, smiling and resigned. "You owe your
time to your career."
C i you ever go to Puerto Rico?
No, but I should love to go. You must have seen that touching
letter I received last year from the Rector of the Puerto Rican Univer-
sity inviting me officially to stay there. This journey would be the
realisation of one of my life dreams. But before I go I must realise that
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intention was to use any pause in our conversation to stress the con-
sequences that the Barcelona speech could have, since it had outraged
the Catalans in their most intimate feelings. (I felt all the more inclined
to broach this burning subject since the Queen had always told me she
was especially fond of Catalonia.) So when the first silence came I
started, but the Queen pretended she had not heard me. We went on
talking of one thing and another and I had not lost heart, but when
the next silence came, the same thing happened. So, this time, I gave
up.
It is a queer thing: there I was, talking to a woman who had
always shown the greatest affection for me and with whom I had
conversed on every subject under the sun. And as I approached this
Catalan question, which was a very legitimate case of injustice and
grievance to be settled, she would not even listen! And so, the great
ones of the earth often prepare their own downfall! They are so
often surrounded by flatterers and courtiers who never tell them the
truth, that they fail to grasp realities and cannot face the facts as they
are. And as I knew T that Maria Cristina was the only one with any real
ascendancy over her son I had hoped that through my warning she
would convince him of the great dangers which w T ere so obvious.
J read somewhere that the Liceu concert took place before your interview
with the Queen Mother.
No. Someone must have made a mistake. Shortly after this inter-
view, Alphonso came again to Barcelona with all the Royal family,
and he sent me a message to say he would like to hear a concert of my
orchestra with me as a soloist. Of course I answered that I would do it
with pleasure. The concert took place at the Liceu where there was
a packed audience. The moment when the Royal guests came in
coincided with my starting the Concerto (probably the Schumann)
I was playing.
Had there been an incident about the Marcha Real — the official Spanish
Hymn?
No. It had been understood that my brother Enric would conduct
the orchestra, which he always did when I played solo. What happened
was that the public accorded the Royal family an icy welcome;
obviously the Catalans had not forgotten the speech, and wished to
show T their feelings. The March was received with equal indifference;
but when I appeared on the stage a wave of applause burst out, and
after it had gone on for some time the royalties decided to get up
like all the audience had done when I came in! Shouts went up,
and one soon realised that the concert had turned into a political
affair and an occasion for a protest against the speech. The police
made some arrests amongst the public. When I had finished playing
the demonstration started again, even more heated. I felt rather
upset that a family that had been so good to me should be so badly
treated, although I had resented the speech as much as all my
compatriots.
I wondered what was going to happen and what reaction there
would be among the royalties. As I was not asked to visit them in
their box during the interval, which I always did, I thought, "Here is
the end of my relations with the Royal family." I felt it deeply,
especially because of the Queen Mother, but considering the fact that
my feelings in the matter were exactly those of all Catalans, I did not
think it was necessary for me to apologise.
Did Alphonso ever talk to you about this?
Yes, but in a very curious way. Some two years after the concert
incident I was in Paris, when I received a letter from the Spanish
Ambassador asking me, on behalf of the King, to give a concert at the
Royal Palace in Madrid on the occasion of an official reception for the
Italian King and Queen.
This concert took place in the Salle d'Armes of the Palacio de Oriente,
an absolutely gorgeous place. Apart from the two Royal families
there were present all the highest dignitaries as well as the Corps
Diplomatique, all wearing uniforms and decorations. At the end of the
concert Alphonso came to me while all the audience stood up. He
began by thanking me for my participation in this ceremony and the
beauty of my playing. I guessed at once that he wanted to provoke a
mild scandal against all the etiquette practised at this sort of reception.
He then started talking of our young days at the Palace when we
played games together; he enquired after all my family and all sorts
of details. All the audience was still standing, including the Italian
royalties, and for at least twenty minutes this went on. I looked at the
Queen Mother with a question in my eyes: "How will all this finish?"
The King looked at me with an understanding eye, to which I replied
with a smile, and then came the words I was expecting: "Well,
Pablo, I want to tell you how happy I was to see how the Catalans
love you." I answered with a few polite words — we looked at each
other and laughed, and I think we both had the same thought: "We
understand each other." This breaking of all the rules of etiquette
made a sensation when it got to be known; Alphonso had preferred
to ignore the incidents of Barcelona, and counter them by being nice
to me. It was a lovely gesture from him and also a proof of the
consummate politician he was.
Did you see him after the Spanish Republic had been proclaimed and he
had left Spain?
No. In 1938 at the end of the civil war, and during the period of
concentration camps in the South of France, I wrote to him from
Prades to tell him of the tragic situation of so many of our com-
patriots, and I thought I ought to tell him that so many of these
refugees had put their trust in him. He sent me a very affectionate
reply but said he was really too ill to be able to do anything. In fact,
he died a few months later.
Were you in Spain when the Republic was proclaimed?
Yes. The day after the installation of the new regime, the 15th
of April, 193 1, I conducted the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven with
my orchestra and the Orfeo Graciene at Montjuic. The Catalonian
president, Francesc Macia, who was present, declared that the Republic
had come into Catalonia to the sound of the Hymn of Brotherhood
from the Beethoven Symphony.
Did your relations with the Spanish Royal family create any difficulty
with the new regime?
None at all. As I have told you, my relations with the Royal family
were exclusively personal and did not affect my feelings or convictions.
The Queen Mother died in 1929, and Alphonso himself had bowed
to the popular verdict. But I have always kept my gratitude to the
Royal family. In 1935, when I was made an honorary member of

the Academia de Bellas Artes and "honorable citizen" of the City of
Madrid, they organised entertainments to celebrate the occasion.
One evening Arbos, who was Director of the Orquesta Sinfonica y
asked me to conduct his orchestra. At the end I had to speak to an
audience mostly composed of personalities of the new regime. I briefly
retraced the important stages of my career and I remember saying,
4 'I, who owe so much to the late Queen Maria Cristina, who was a
second mother to me . . ." the audience did not allow me to continue.
Everyone got up and applauded frantically. This ovation went to
my heart as it proved that they all appreciated my sincerity and,
next morning, I realised that the Press had agreed with my declaration.
You have been President of the Junta de Musica (Music Council) of
Catalonia, haven t you?
Yes. I have never belonged to a party or occupied any political
CASALS AS A CONDUCTOR 8l
position. But I was happy to preside over this venture in art which
had been created to revive the cultural manifestations of our country.
When it began the Spanish Republic made a worthy attempt at
renovation. National feeling showed unequivocally that the people
wanted a real democracy in which institutions like the Army and the
Church would be given their proper place, and where the social
economy of the country would find its own level again after it had been
for so long in the hands of the rich families whose selfishness made
them grab all the profits of the State orders.
The new governing bodies tackled energetically all the problems
of public instruction which had been so long neglected. It is true to
say that the majority of Spanish intellectuals were Republicans and
that their views had contributed to the fall of the monarchy. As a
Catalan I felt particularly grateful towards the new regime, which
had given us our autonomy, which all our people desired and which
was not incompatible with a Spanish fraternity.
Like so many well-known artists, you could have ignored the problems
of your country and only looked upon it as a nice place where you could
take a rest between two concert tours!
That would have been extremely easy, but I am afraid my con-
science would have told me that to act like this would be unworthy
and that I should not do it!
In the years preceding the civil war, all your countrymen had realised
more and more your devotion to the cause and bestowed all their admiration
on you. You must remember the memorable homage Barcelona paid to you
in 1934? 1
How could I ever forget it, especially since I have been exiled?
1 This ceremony, in which more than 200 Catalan Societies and Institutions took
part, grew into an imposing demonstration. The name of Avenue Pau Casals was given
to a big thoroughfare of Barcelona. He was proclaimed "honorable citizen' of Barcelona.
The municipality struck a medal which was presented to him and an exhibition of some
of his possessions was opened at the Arts Museum of Catalonia. At the same time
America staged some celebrations connected with the Hispanic Museum in New York.
The founder of this Museum, Mr. Archer Huntington, had commissioned a sculptor,
Brenda Putnam, to do a bust of Casals and he opened a subscription (which was covered
by yoo 'cellists of the United States) to reproduce this bust and present it to the town of
Barcelona in admiration for Casals. At that time the XlVth International Festival of
Contemporary Music was taking place in Barcelona, and it was a good occasion to present
the bust at a ceremony where Dr. Carlton Sprague Smith, Head of the Music Library
of New York, delivered a speech in Spanish. At the Palace of Montjuic a great concert
was given by the three orchestras of Spa ■: the Pau Casals Orchestra, the Symphony
Orchestra of Madrid, conducted by Arbos, md the Philharmonic Orchestra of Madrid
conducted by Perez Salas.
What I do remember most are not all those tributes (although I have
always been deeply touched by these marks of affection) but the
realisation of the task I had set myself to accomplish and which was so
savagely interrupted.
In your opinion, which are the principal qualities a conductor should
possess?
Before anything else, a great conductor must be a great performer.
The most convincing proof of his value can be found in his ability
to get in touch with his musicians in order to communicate and
convince them of his personal ideas. An absolute necessity is that each
word of the conductor must be understood and accepted by the
orchestra. If this condition is fulfilled he can rely on the goodwill and
enthusiasm of his musicians; in this way there is no necessity to be
over-forceful, a practice which I utterly condemn.
What about the lack of rehearsals?
On that subject I have always been uncompromising. If I am
asked to conduct a concert I ask for three long rehearsals. Even when
you deal with a good orchestra, it is not enough to "conduct" it. All
the details must be gone into and absorbed into a harmonious whole.
This requires time. I want to do with an orchestra what I do with my
violoncello.
And what of the routine, which is so characteristic of orchestral players?
That is one of the principal dangers. The conductor must know how
to fight against the bad habits which can always creep into an orchestra,
the feeling of automatism which always ends in routine. To counteract

this, the conductor must know how to preserve the artistic feeling of
his players so that they all end by putting technique at the service of
music. The highest aim is to make the music speak.
All this requires a great deal of patience. Yours is proverbial!
The thing which counts for the conductor is that he must be very
severe towards himself and ask himself if he has succeeded in mak-
ing his ideas comprehensible. One cannot expect everything from
others.
(Casals has a habit of singing aloud during the rehearsals and waving
his arms and body in a way which leaves no doubt of his intentions.)
Toscanini says that orchestras are prone to think that a work is easy
because it is very well known; that, of course, means they will not bring the
necessary attention to its performance.
That is true, and I shall give you an example. When I was conduct-
ing the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra in 1927, on the occasion of
Beethoven's centenary, we were rehearsing the Eighth Symphony,
for which I could only get an hour on the day of the concert. So I
decided to stop as little as possible, until we got to the Minuet where
the horn plays the melody. I thought he did not play it in the right
way and I told him how I thought of it. He was so offended that he
packed up his instrument and went. Think of it: the first horn player
in the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, a grand personage, and when
he was playing a work as well known as a Beethoven symphony,
which he and all his colleagues could have played by heart! '
I went back to my hotel after the rehearsal, when I was asked to
receive a delegation from the orchestra, led by the leader of the
violins, which had come to apologise. * 'Please don't be surprised
at what has happened. We did appreciate all your remarks and tonight
our horn player will do as you asked him." In the evening the per-
formance was magnificent, but if I had had more time at my disposal
I should have corrected many details that I had not approved of. It
was exactly this question of routine, which can play havoc even with
the best orchestra in the world.
Many people have noticed how you address your players with a certain
amount of congratulations and encouragement, followed by a "but".
No one could be hurt if after recognising their goodwill you make
some further remarks connected with the expression of the music
itself. The players are generally happy when they feel that the remarks
of the conductor are fair and based only on an artistic consideration
of the work played.

The rehearsal work must often be irksome.
Not for me. Rehearsing is the sort of work I like and enjoy. It is
the moment when I can communicate my views and my feelings.
I have never been disappointed in the reactions of my players.
They realise very soon that I look on them as collaborators instead
of slaves. And in that way the work of a rehearsal becomes a pleasure
to all.
But when you conduct an orchestra which is not yours?
When you are on tour and you have to deal with an unknown
orchestra, I think you realise right away if your authority is going to
tell or not. One look sometimes is enough to judge the new "boss".
Rudolf von Tobel says in his book: 1 that you belong to the category of the
1 Pablo Casals. (Rosapfel— Verlag, Zurich.)
"orchestral educator 1 * and that anybody who has not seen you doing this sort
of work, which you prefer above any other, cannot get a clear picture of your
personality.
It is not for me to judge the opinions of other people, but I do
know that the 'cello is not my only domain.
Do you ever conduct from memory?
No, for I do not see the use of useless accomplishments. Richter
was of the same mind.
I see that your scores are covered with notes.
I never start rehearsing a work until I have studied every note of
it, and marked all the points I think necessary.
A good many conductors seem to think that they should keep their
musicians at a certain distance and not get intimate with them.
I don't agree with this. Every player of my orchestra in Barcelona
was my friend. They used to consult me over problems or preoccupa-
tions they had. And you have been able to see for yourself the atmo-
sphere which exists in the Prades Festival orchestra, although the
players belonged to totally different parts of the world.
Ludwig asked you this: " When you conduct an orchestra one day and
the next day play the 'cello under some other conductor, how do you manage
to pass from being the 'general' to being the 'private ?" And you answered:
"I remain the general."

It is quite possible that I said that. What I meant was that I saw that
my ideas were shared by the great conductors. This intimate com-
munication which is essential is immediately established. Therefore
I feel that from the strictly musical angle there is no difference for me
between being the director or the soloist.
When you play as a soloist you don t feel disturbed by the conductor that
exists in yourself?
The fact is that it does not disturb me actually, but I cannot get rid
of it. However concentrated I may be on my 'cello playing, I hear
everything else; a second violin entrance corning a bit too soon or
too late, some unsteady rhythm, a bad intonation. I get surprised, but
I cannot do anything about it.
In Barcelona, you had other conductors to take your orchestra.
Yes. I had Ysaye, Tovey, Cortot (when Thibaud and I recorded
the Brahms Double Concerto), Kleiber, Fritz Busch, etc., and also
some Spanish and Catalan composers when their own works were
being played.
Tell me about the concert where Ysaye played in public for the last time.
That was a very moving occasion. It was in 1927. We were at the
time preparing the Beethoven centenary. I saw Ysaye and told him he
must come and play the Violin Concerto. He refused (he had ceased
to play in public for a considerable period). I insisted. "But do you
think I could?" he said. "Yes," I replied, "it is quite possible." Ysaye
took my hands and said, "As long as the miracle happens." The
concert was to take place in five months. But soon after I received a
letter from Ysaye's son. It said: "If you could only see my dear father,
working every day, playing scales slowly by the hour. It is a tragedy
and we cannot help crying over it."
The appointed day was at hand. We had prepared the concert
most carefully (and the audience also a little). There were some
unforgettable moments in Ysaye's performance and the audience was
delirious. When he found me afterwards in the artists' room, he
kneeled down, took my hands and said: "Resurrection. Resurrection!"
It was an incredible moment of emotion. Dear Ysaye, I went to say
good-bye to him next day at the station. Leaning out of the carriage
window he was still holding my hands as if he did not want to part
with them. 1
Was that the occasion when he gave you this photograph?
(We were looking at a photograph fixed on the wall, showing Ysaye
playing the violin near the sea on a sandbank. "La Panne 1916. The
modest seaside resort which became a Royal residence'' The photograph
is signed by Queen Elizabeth of Belgium.)
No, this portrait has a long story attached to it. In 1939, soon after
the war was declared, a queer person dashed into the modest "Grand
Hotel" of Prades. He looked athletic, with peculiar manners, and the
1 77m 15 what Ysaye wrote about the concerts of the Beethoven Festival in Barcelona.
"In order to realise the enthusiasm and the warmth of a Catalan audience one
must have heard these model performances. They seem to have such an instinct
for beauty. I heard Casals conduct the C Minor Symphony twice. It is due to his
energy and the genius of his interpretations that Barcelona has become a centre
for music par excellence. Casals conducts the orchestra he founded with such
vigour, such a refined aesthetic sense, and such a spacious comprehension of
Beethoven's spirit that one cannot help being moved to the quick. I had the
honour of conducting the Eroica and of playing the Violin Concerto. I also
conducted the Triple Concerto performed by the "Holy Trinity" — Cortot,
Thibaud, Casals. It became a quadruple collaboration full of cordiality and I shall
never forget the frenzy the audience got into. They were all delirious and one had
a sensation of something which only happens once in a lifetime and also the
highest artistic lesson. I could write reams about this but I shall only add this
aphorism which will tell all my thoughts: 'AH is possible when the man is there'."
{Action Musicale: Brussels. July 15, 1927.)

gendarmes watched him carefully. As they questioned him, he pro-
duced a revolver and said that as an Englishman, and therefore belong-
ing to an Allied nation, he had a right to carry a firearm. Then he said:
"You and I are swine. But in Prades there is a . . ." and there he applied
a very flattering adjective to me! Just imagine what French gendarmes
look like when they are called swine! After long and complicated
explanations at the police station this Mr. Philip Newman ended by
coming to see me. His very aspect made me jump with the memories
he roused in me. We became great friends, and for days we played
music together. He was a great artist with a strength and an irre-
pressible originality. The day he came to say good-bye he said, "I
know you are in a precarious financial position," and out of his pocket-
book he produced an enormous bundle of banknotes and insisted
on putting them in my pocket. We had a sort of fight and when he
realised I would not accept them he said, "I shall give you a thing I
hold as my most precious possession," and he gave me this photograph
which had been given to him by the Queen herself. I shall never forget
his generosity.
What should one do to become a good conductor? I have read that Tosca-
nini began to conduct by accident, so to speak, at Rio de Janeiro during a
performance o/Aida. You cannot become a good conductor if you cannot use a
good orchestra, and a good orchestra will not be lent to you if you are not a
good conductor. The problem seems impossible to solve.
If a musician feels he has a vocation for conducting he can begin
with a group of amateurs, or a modest orchestra in the provinces. It is
a necessary training and it becomes an excellent way of practis-
ing. Supposing the orchestra is a bad one and the new conductor
succeeds in making it improve a little, it gives an indication that he is
capable.
Herman Scherchen declares that the conductor has at his disposal three
principal means: "representative gesture", "expressive mime" and "explana-
tion by word of mouth" . What do you think of " expressive mime" to help
the musicians in finding the kind of expression suitable to the music they
play?
I agree with this as long as the mime is a natural one and not
studied.
One day a young musician asked Furtwangler, " What is, in fact, the
role of your left hand when you conduct?" Trying to answer this question,
the great German conductor said: "After over twenty years of conducting,
I must say that I had never thought of it." 1
Neither have I. It seems to me a trifling question. The conductor's
left hand, as well as his right one, contributes towards the expression
of the work he wishes to convey to the orchestra.
J have read that your old friend Bruno Walter sometimes stops a rehearsal
and instead of making observations to his players, he just says — please let us
play this again, it sounded so lovely.
I do understand that — and it reflects the sweet nature and the
cordiality of Bruno Walter. It is a pity he has abandoned his piano
playing, because I think that besides being a very great conductor he is
also a very great pianist.
Toscanini and Furtw angler are the two conductors you admire most?
I admire a great many conductors, even if I don't always agree
with their rendering, but I certainly place Toscanini, Furtwangler
and Stokowski at the top of the living conductors.
Howard Taubman, who wrote Toscanini* s biography, says that Tosca-
nini "holds his tempi". Sometimes when a performance of a classical symphony
was timed with a stop-watch, it was discovered that there was only a differ-
ence of one or two seconds in performances of the same work given many
years later. 2
I don't understand what conclusion should be drawn from this
assertion. Toscanini, like all great artists, does not lack in creative
fantasy. And since a musical work does not always appear to the artist
in exactly the same way, without the slightest difference, it follows
that a great interpreter can be carried away by some inspiration of the
moment, where the idea of the stop-watch has no place at all.
Furtwangler writes: "A small orchestra that has no pretensions but has
become a real ensemble will be without doubt more efficient than the most
'virtuoso' orchestra in the world."
In a small orchestra, as well as in a great one, the result always
depends on the power of communication the conductor can establish
with his musicians. It goes without saying that Furtwangler can
impart his magic to a big or a small orchestra just the same.
Have you always agreed with him when you played under his direction?
Yes, always. Our respective musical conceptions always seemed to
coincide in a perfect way.
1 Wilhelm Furtwangler: Entretiens sur la Musique. (Translated by T. G.
Prod'homme. Editions Albin Michel, Paris.)
1 Howard Taubman: Toscanini: (The Maestro.)

And which conductors did you appreciate most some fifty years ago,
when you began to play all over Europe and America?
Richter, Lamoureux, Steinbach, Nikisch.
Which works did you like to conduct best?
Besides the well-known ones, any work that has a musical interest.
Could you tell me about the Associacio Obrera de Concerts (Work-
men s Concert Association) in Barcelona, one of your most daring foundations
which had some unexpected results?
This Association was founded in 1926 or '27. I had thought of it
for a long time but I did not think I could start it before my own
orchestra was established on a sound footing.
And what about the popular concerts?
That did not interest me: I had heard and played at such concerts
in different countries and I had noticed the people who profited from
them were not those for whom the concerts were given. What I
wanted was an association entirely run by the workers themselves.
They had been kept outside the musical movement of my country
and I wished to alter that. I wanted the men and women who spent
most of their days in the factories, the shops or the offices, to be able to
participate in our musical life and in such a way that their outlook on
life and general culture of the mind should benefit by it.
On a more modest scale we had had an attempt of this kind started by
J. A. Clave. 1
That is what I meant: I wished to continue his work. His idea was to
take the workmen away from the "pubs" and give them the joy of
choral singing instead. Clave was a great man and composed some
fine popular songs.
Did you get in touch with the workmen themselves?
Yes, I got the leaders of the Atetenu Politecnic of Barcelona (a
Workmen's Cultural Society) to come and see me. They turned up
one evening after work and as I told them of my plans I said that the
first thing was to organise the Association on a basis of a small yearly
subscription paid by the members. I said: "Nobody besides yourselves
will interfere with the direction and administration of your Society.
You will have my orchestra, with well-known soloists, and I'll play
for you." They listened to me and looked at me with a certain amount
1 Josep Anselm Clave' 1824-1874. An autodidact musician, author of many songs
and especially instigator and propagandist of choral singing in Catalonia.

&o
< OS
of suspicion. They probably thought I was hiding something from
them. It was not surprising, for it was all new to them. They were
simple people and could not imagine they would get something without
being asked to give something in return. At the end of our talk they
said they would think it over, and would send me an answer. A few
days after I received rather a stern letter asking me for more precise
information on some points. We had four or five meetings and
gradually they understood what I meant. I told them that, for the
moment, they could use a room of the Atetenu Politecnic, "but later
on, you will have your own place. Your Society will spread and
have branches all over Catalonia. You will not lack furniture and
office equipment. An important music library will be at your disposal.
You will have a music school, a choir and an orchestra all of your
own." "And all this will cost us six pesetas a year?" "Yes." (They
were looking at me with an expression on their faces which seemed
to mean, "This man is half mad.") "Moreover you will publish a
music review written by yourselves." "And what shall we write in

it?" "J ust describe what you felt and thought while listening to your
concerts."
On what basis did you think of creating this Society?
The first basic idea of mine was that the workman should feel at
home. If he goes to a concert or a theatre, occupying the cheaper seats
upstairs from where he looks down on the luxury of the audience in
the stalls and boxes, he will be absorbed by thoughts and reflections
that have nothing to do with the music he is listening to. I wanted the
workman to develop his aesthetic sense without the interference of
class consciousness. Another basic thought of mine in connection with
this Society was that simple-minded people don't like to feel that
they are being given things out of charity. I said to them, "When you
spend six pesetas a year, you will really be spending more than the rich
people who pay twenty pesetas for one concert at the Liceu."
What was the result?
Miraculous. The chairman of my orchestra committee agreed
to help organise the beginning when I asked him. They had all the
furniture, typewriters, music scores and instruments they required.
The enthusiasm amongst the workmen was extraordinary. They
had decided that only those who did not get a salary higher than 500
pesetas a month could belong to the Society. 1
1 In those days in Barcelona, an expert workman earned about ten pesetas a day and
the basic salary of a professor at the University was precisely 500 pesetas a month.
The yearly subscription was fixed at six pesetas a year as we had
suggested. Soon after the Society was founded, we gave the first
concert with my orchestra. It took place on a Sunday morning (as
they all did afterwards) at the Olympia Theatre at Barcelona, with an
audience of 2500 people (it must be remembered that only members
of the Society could come to these concerts). The Association con-
solidated itself gradually and there was a wonderful driving spirit
about it. All the things I had predicted were realised: the library, the
music school, the choir were formed. The monthly review called
Fruicions, written in Catalan, had very interesting articles with opinions
which revealed the enquiring minds of the writers. All the concert
programmes had extensive introductory notes about the composers,
the works and the performers. And do you know which was the
composer the public preferred?
Bach! This is a fact which will make certain people think again
about the apparent difficulty for an audience in understanding certain
works of Bach.
My orchestra gave six concerts a year for the Association. The
members also had an amateur orchestra which got to a very decent

level. I remember that one of the double-bass players, who was a
carpenter, had made his own instrument and used to walk to the
rehearsals all the way from the suburbs where he lived, carrying it on
his back. This is the sort of thing which makes life worth living: the
love and enthusiasm we put into a thing we have created ourselves.
Did they have any upsets?
Yes: there came a dangerous period which I had anticipated.
The members of the committee came to see me one day and their
President retraced the history of their Association, which they thought
had been miraculous: "All happened as you said, Maestro," and he
went on to say that they were feeling strong now and wanted to
extend their activities beyond music. They thought they had a mission
to fulfil in the cultural line, and therefore ought to participate in the
municipal councils and the Parliament of Catalonia. They asked me to
represent them — in fact they wanted me to become a member of
parliament. Even before they started this conversation, I had guessed
what they wanted. I said: "You have fallen into a trap: if you start
in this direction, all we have done will collapse. From the day you
begin to interfere with the elections you will have enemies everywhere,
and all your understanding and the collaboration you have built up
will automatically fall to the ground." They were not very pleased,
but they accepted what I said because of my ascendancy over
them.
As I had predicted, their Association had formed branches in
Sabadell, Terrassa, and the big industrial towns of Catalonia, and when
the civil war started they had thousands and thousands of members
everywhere.
All the great artists who visited Barcelona always wanted to
play for them. Their success and their influence were so well known
that different countries such as the United States, England and Germany
got interested in their activities and asked me for information on the
organisation and on its work.
And now?
Now, it has all gone: my orchestra, the Workmen's Association,
the Music Council. But if things altered and I felt strong enough, I
would start again with the same enthusiasm I had when I began.
Three Unknown Masters

Amongst your friends who were great musicians, and whom you admired,
you have often named Emmanuel Moor, Sir Donald Tovey and Julius
Rontgen.
Yes. These three great musicians are almost forgotten. When do
we see their names in concert programmes? Although I can assure
you that the names of the many composers you see on programmes
nowadays, mixed up with Bach, Mozart or Beethoven, would be
nowhere in comparison with those of Moor, Tovey and Rontgen, if
only their music was played — and in saying this I weigh my words
carefully.
When did you meet Moor?
It must have been in 1907 or 1908 at Lausanne. I had given a
concert there and went to a cafe afterwards. There I recognised a Mr.
BrandoucofF, the Director of the Moscow Conservatoire, whom I
had met in Russia. He introduced Moor to me as an ' 'amateur com-
poser". I looked at him and found in his eyes signs of a personality,
as if he had something to say. As we went on talking together, I tried
to address him personally. "I should like to know some of your
compositions, ,, I said. He agreed immediately and we arranged a
meeting at my house in Paris. When he turned up he had reams of
paper under his arm. He sat at the piano and played me his 'cello
concerto. The way he dealt with the piano, the way he looked, and
the music he played during the first moments convinced me that I
was in the presence of a remarkable man. And while he played I thought

more and more: "What? An amateur composer!" He went on,
playing marvellously well, and his music had such quality that I began
to suspect the tragedy of this man. When he stopped playing he
turned towards me. I looked him straight in the face and said in all
sincerity, "You are a genius." At which he fell upon me, sobbing,
holding me tight in his arms. And with deep emotion he told me the
tragedy of his life, a tragedy indeed. He said that nobody understood
his music except his wife. His creative power had dried up since no one
92
THREE UNKNOWN MASTERS 93
would understand. He had been told so often that what he wrote was
devoid of interest, that he ended by being convinced of it and had not
written for ten years. As his wife had means he had become a landed
proprietor in the country in England. Our interview created such a
commotion in him that he decided to compose again. Every month
he came to Paris from Switzerland, where he often stayed, to show me
his new compositions. Every month he brought either a symphony,
or two string quartets, or a Mass, and so on. His output was endless,
almost monstrous: his capacity made one think of a Haydn or a
Boccherini.
And so you decided to make his compositions known, since you admired
him so much?
Yes, I really admired him and became more and more convinced
every day of his great gifts. I began to busy myself about getting his
works played and I succeeded, after a great deal of trouble, in making
such conductors as Nikisch, Steinbach and Mengelbert insert a work of
Moor in their programmes. I conducted some concerts in Paris with
the object of making some of his works known. I organised chamber
music concerts of which I undertook the expenses. Out of consideration
for me such performers as Ysaye, Kreisler, Cortot, Thibaud, Pugno
and Dumesnil would play his works, although the} did it without
pleasure or conviction. They did it out of respect for my convictions.
But there was a general antipathy towards Moor himself and for his
compositions.
And what did people think of his music, apart from the man himself?
f 11 give you a factual example which will enlighten you on this
subject. There was an international competition in Paris for a Trio
(the first prize went to Leo Vainar, a remarkable Hungarian composer
who ought to be more well known than he is outside his country).
Amongst the judges of this competition were people like Faure,
d'Indy, Bruneau, Colonne, Chevillard and our Trio — Cortot, Thibaud
and myself.
(There was a general feeling of antagonism towards me in the
musical world at that period because of my insistence in praising

Moor's works.)
There were ten competitors left after we had sifted all the entries,
and we decided to take a rest. I went to a room where there was a
piano and began to play. All the members of the jury came in one after
the other (the first one was Colonne). When I had finished I found
they were all standing round the piano and I heard one say, "It must
be a composition of Casals: it is a beauty/' I took my hands off the
keyboard and they applauded saying, "What is it?" "It is a composition
by Emmanuel Moor," I said. There was general consternation.
Did Moor have a difficult temper?
Yes, he was a strange character. He got on the wrong side of
anyone he met, with the result that people always wished to get rid of
him. He talked to anyone, either a celebrity or an unknown person,
in a brusque direct way. However, one found that what he said and
did (although not pleasant) was often true. Others did not understand
him because they didn't know him as well as I did, and because the
admiration and sympathy I had for him (which I alone felt) allowed
me to penetrate the intimacy of his mind. I'll give you an example:
Moor ate like a lion, and to tell the truth, it was not very pleasant to see
him at table, when, with his teeth protruding like an animal, he gobbled
the food as if he were starving. However, I knew what reason there
was behind the mind of this man, who devoured what was put in
front of him. Moor did not sleep: music disturbed and absorbed him
with so much intensity that it took his sleep away. And because of
this an excess of food was necessary to him.
I believe you succeeded in getting one of his works played at the Classical
Concert Society in London?
Yes. This is what happened, and you will judge how Moor's
character always came into conflict with everybody. The programmes
of the Classical Concert Society never went further than Brahms, and
so it was quite a success to have arranged that a work of my friend
should be included in one of their programmes. This Society only
engaged artists of the highest rank. They had Jelly d'Aranyi (a relation
of Joachim), Donald Tovey, Leonard Borwick (the best English
pianist of that period), Fanny Davies, etc. (Borwick and Fanny Davies
had both been pupils of Clara Schumann.) Moor and I went specially
to London for this concert. I am not telling you of all the incidents of
the journey: it would be too long a story. When we got to London I
went to see Borwick to fix up the programme: a Beethoven Sonata,
a Bach Sonata, a Bach Suite for 'cello alone, and a Sonata by Moor.
Moor and I went together to Borwick's house for the rehearsal. It
was a lovely house, full of the refinement characteristic of a dis-
tinguished Englishman. We began the rehearsal. Borwick, sitting at
the piano, had his back to Moor, who was on his right. As I was to the
right of Borwick I could see them both, and I realised pretty soon
that Moor was not pleased. It was Beethoven we were rehearsing, and
Moor's attitude was getting troublesome and I signalled to him to
stop. He took no notice. We went on to do the Bach Sonata; just after
the first page I saw Moor get up and, with a frightful look on his face,
push Borwick off with savage energy, saying, "I am going to show you
how to play Bach": and he sat at the piano. You can imagine what the
situation was. At the end of the movement Borwick just said, "Thank
you, sir, I shall do my best."
What a dignified way to behave.
Yes, like the real gentleman he was. But no one could get on with
Moor, or even understand him, when he behaved in that way.
Was he a good pianist?
Well, he was a thrilling pianist. Of course his appearance and
manners were rough and ready, but all the same he had genius. He
always said what he thought, bluntly, which created most embarrassing
situations. I'll tell you of what he did during one of his monthly visits
to me. Although he had played all day different compositions he had

brought with him, when it was time for supper he still had an opera
in one act! At that moment there was a knock at the door: it was
Szanto, a Hungarian pianist, very well known for his Bach tran-
scriptions for the piano. Moor immediately seemed upset by the
arrival of Szanto, as he thought it was going to stop his playing.
We started talking, and in the course of the conversation Szanto
asked Moor (who was also a Hungarian) if he knew his Bach tran-
scriptions. (As I knew how impatient Moor was, I felt there was
trouble coming!) Moor answered in the negative in a rude way!
Szanto, however, sat at the piano and began to play. He played
through one work and Moor did not say a word. He played a second
one: same silence. So Szanto said to Moor, "What do you think of
these, Mr. Moor?" On which Moor got up and shouted at him, "I
think you are an ass!"
I took Szanto on one side and apologised for Moor's behaviour,
saying he was a man who got easily upset and would he come another
day. I saw him off and when I returned to the room I told Moor
what I thought of his behaviour. He put his head down like a child
who has been scolded and murmured: "Don't you think as I do? Well
then?"
Is it true that Moor had invented a piano with two keyboards?
Yes, it was an instrument that brought some interesting technical
solutions and had been built by Pleyel. He had also conceived a string
instrument which included all the registers from bass to that of the
violin. And he invented different mechanical tools. He was gifted in
every way. Look at this reproduction of his self-portrait. Doesn't it
look like a Van Gogh?
You have played his Concerto for Two 'Celli with Guilhermina Suggia,
haven t you?
Yes, very often.
And the Triple Concerto?
That is a work which deserves attention. Moor had written it
for our trio, Cortot-Thibaud-Casals, and we worked at it through a
whole summer (before the 19 14 war). We were supposed to play it
in many Swiss towns with the Romand Orchestra (which was perhaps
already conducted by Ansermet). The programme of this tour was
supposed to include a Schumann Trio, one by Cesar Franck, and the
Triple Concerto of Moor. Cortot had rented a country house in
Switzerland for the summer, and there we worked. As soon as I
thought the rehearsals were sufficiently advanced I suggested we should
get Moor to hear it and say what he thought. During the rehearsals
neither Cortot or Thibaud made any comments, probably on account
of my friendship with Moor. However, Cortot suddenly said bluntly
that he would not play this work unless he could rewrite the piano
part himself. So I just said that if any change. was made Moor must be
consulted. Cortot wrote to Moor about it and Moor accepted his
indications, which did not please me very much, but I abstained from
any comment. (A few years later the work was published in its
original form — which, of course, did not meet with Cortot's approval.)
Cortot invited Moor to come and when he heard the work with all
the modifications, he agreed to everything. While we played a
terrible storm got up. It was getting dark, so I asked Cortot, in case
the storm went on, if Moor could be put up for the night. He refused.
It was a long way to the station, so I thought 1 would walk with Moor,
but they would not let me go and even held me by the arm in order to
stop me. However, when the first Swiss concert took place, this
Triple Concerto, as well as the rest of the programme, had a great
success. After the second concert I noticed that Cortot and Thibaud
did not seem so hostile to the work as they had been, and as the
concerts went on the success of the Moor work was confirmed. I
had gone to bed at my hotel after the last concert when I heard a knock
at the door, and when I opened it I was surprised to see Cortot and
Thibaud, who, after apologising for the late hour, said they wanted to
have a word with me! They explained that during our rehearsals of the

Moor work they had not shown any enthusiasm, but they said that
after these four performances their interest in the Schumann and
the Franck Trios had decreased, whereas the value of the Triple
Concerto had increased until they could now share all my admiration
for this composition.
It was a belated gesture , hut a very definite one.
This was not the only one (you remember what had happened
about the Trio Competition). Here is another opinion from a great
artist on Moor's music.
Coming back from England one day I met Ysaye on the ship.
He said he had something important to tell me, so we went to the
smoking lounge and he said, "Do you remember when we met in
Berlin once, and you asked me to play a composition by Moor which
left me cold!" "Yes, I remember." "And when you asked me again
at some other time, I was still very unwilling." "I had noticed it,
but did not want to bother you further with my suggestion." "Well,
I must tell you now that as time goes on, I admire Moor's music more
and more. I have just been on tour in England, during which I played
his Violin Concerto nine times, and my liking for it has increased
so much that when I played it last night at Plymouth I began to think
it was as fine as the Beethoven Concerto."
Such was Emmanuel Moor!

I have noticed that your admiration for Sir Donald Francis Tovey
increases with time.
Yes. He is another great musician who was not generally under-
stood during his lifetime nor, until now, any more recognised after
his death.
When did you first know him?
When I began to take part in the concerts of the Classical Concert
Society, in which Tovey was very interested. I soon realised that I
had met an exceptional personality. Joachim, who knew Tovey, had
once said that he could discuss music with Brahms and the two
Schumanns but not with a young Englishman called D. F. Tovey.
"He knows too much."
I understand that Tovey had known Joachim since he was a child?
Yes; just think that, at the age of thirteen, at a private party,
he had already played a sonata of his with the great violinist. It was in
1909 that I played for the first time with Tovey, a composition of his
called Elegiac which he wrote in memory of Hausmann, who had been
'cellist in Joachim's quartet.
J have read that Tovey went to Bayreuth in 1897 and, although he did
not think much of the performers, he found himself impressed by Wagner's
music, which he did not find at all difficult to understand.
I am not surprised to hear it, since I think that Wagner's means of
expression are very clear.
Until that date we don t find Tovey talking about Wagner. Would it be
because of his having been brought up in the Joachim circle?
That is possible. Joachim was a great friend of Brahms and it is
well known that the great writer and the apologist of lyric drama
moved in different spheres.
In lgoi Tovey gave a concert in Berlin with Joachim, at which he
played the Goldberg Variations. His biographer 1 says that this interpretation
of the Bach work made a sensation in the German capital, where the audience
seemed to be hearing it for the first time, however incredible this may appear.
It is not so surprising. Something of the same kind happened to
me with the Bach Suites. It was necessary to show the Germans how
mistaken they were in their conception of how to play Bach. The

Goldberg Variations played by Tovey sounded like a new work. Those
who doubted his personality as a great pianist did' not, or could not,
understand him. He tackled the most imposing and difficult works for
the piano with a science and a mastery that were almost baffling.
Eugene Istomin was telling me the other day of his admiration
for Schnabel and Rachmaninov as pianists. I have known and admired
them also. The Brahms Concerto played by Schnabel was remarkable
but Tovey's rendering was superior to his.
Richer was surprised by the choice of Tovey s programme for his first
recital in London: the Goldberg and the Diabelli Variations.
Everything depends on one's conception of the works played.
When I made my debut in Vienna — as I told you before — although
I felt how important the occasion was for me, I chose to play a work
of Moor quite unknown to the Viennese audience.
What do you think of Tovey s critical notes in concert programmes?
These were so profound and concise that they all become works
of art in themselves. Also his work for the Encyclopaedia Britannica,
as well as his articles on musical subjects in reviews and newspapers,
1 We have consulted the book by Mary Grierson, so accurate and well
documented, Donald Francis Tovey. (A Biography Based on Letters.) (Oxford
University Press.)
were remarkable in every way. He showed such widespread know-
ledge and such penetrating vision that one could say he was without
parallel as a critic. It is all devoid of pedantry or obscure formulae,
probably on account of the kind of wit which was one of his char-
acteristics. And his memory! Tovey was capable of quoting and
playing by heart any work of Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven,
Schubert, Brahms and others. Listening to him one almost got
frightened !
I see that at the time you knew him Tovey was already a target for some
London groups, who accused him of creating a sort of "monastic order, an
order of reactionary purists who had elected him as their Pope". Was there in
his character anything approaching scornfulness?
I never heard him say a word of this kind. His difficulty, as far as
his artistic career was concerned, was his enormous superiority, which
cast a shadow and frightened most of the English musicians of his
period.
Did you play with him outside England?
Yes, I remember that in 19 12 Tovey, Enesco and myself played the

Beethoven Triple Concerto in Budapest.
Did Tovey live a long time in Edinburgh?
I think it was in 19 12 that he accepted the Chair of Music at the
University, where he stayed till he died, but he went abroad regularly
during the vacations, and he also played occasionally in other towns
in England.
All his lectures and his writings are crammed with brilliant ideas,
and one looks in vain to find another man in our time who has written
on musical matters with such competence.
Did you hear the Reid Symphony Orchestra which Tovey created in
Edinburgh?
Yes. I even conducted it once. This was how it happened: Tovey
admired the works of Juli Garreta, a Catalan who had taught himself
music and had composed some lovely Sardanas and some remarkable
symphonic works. He had included one of Garreta's compositions in a
programme, and during the rehearsal he came to me and said he did
not feel he was getting the real character of this work, so would I
conduct it! So I did, and the Pastoral of Garreta had a great success.
This orchestra of Tovey's had something in common with those
I had in Prades, in that the "spirit" of it was different from that of the
usual organisation of this kind. There were some great instrumentalists

in it as well as ordinary professional players, but it was the almost
ferocious work he put into it, as well as his great knowledge, that
gave to this orchestra a unique quality.
What do you think of Tovey s editions of Bach and Beethoven?
They are wonderful. So accurate and showing all his knowledge.
I use his edition of The Well-Tempered Clavier (this is dedicated to our
dear friend Dr. Schweitzer). I also use the Rontgen edition. Both these
seem to be as perfect as any edition of this kind can be.
And the Beethoven piano and 'cello Sonatas?
I also use Tovey's edition.
Elgar wrote about Toveys edition of The Well-Tempered Clavier,
saying how proud he felt that an Englishman had done a work that no
German had been able to do I
Elgar had every reason to feel proud of it.
I see that your friend Tovey went to give concerts in America in 1925.
I was in America at the time. Tovey gave four recitals at which
he played the greatest piano works in existence. The great music
critic, Aldrich, wrote that these concerts stood as the most important
manifestation of piano playing that the United States ever had.
I also read in Mary Griersons book that Tovey had given three concerts
in London after having been away for a considerable period, and that some
critics had said that Tovey took liberties with the tempi. And Mary Grierson
goes on to say: "Even by the metronome, Tovey remained round the tempo all
the time. What really happened was that people were not used to hearing
his version and thought he was taking liberties with the time."
I am not surprised to hear that.
According to Mary Grierson, Tovey thought that in Beethoven "a real
fundamental tempo suggested two different aspects, one fluent and the other
large, but both of which were connected with the time of a metronome".
Neither the rubatos of his Chopin nor the "big gestures" of his Brahms ever
disturbed the fundamental rhythm.
We felt alike on this subject, but that is something that some
musicians will not understand.
Of Handel, Tovey said: "Beethoven was right when he called him the
greatest of the Masters and without parallel for producing great effects with
the minimum of expenditure."

Bach and Handel were born in the same year: Tovey liked to
find analogies and differences between Bach and Handel. Now and
then, when he was feeling slightly frivolous, he made up little musical
games. One of them was laughing at Handel. He would sit at the piano
and sing and play in the style of Handel in the most amusing fashion.
THREE UNKNOWN MASTERS IOI
But he would not do that with Bach: and that showed the distinction
he made between these two great composers in his estimation of
values.
I heard that in his late years Tovey became very sensitive to what he
called "the sublime simplicity of Haydn \
How right he was.
As for modern composers, he included Debussy in his programmes?
Yes, Debussy and Ravel.
You had friends in common?
I told you of my friendship with Edward Speyer and the principal

artists of the Classical Concert Society, also with Julius Rontgen
and Dr. Schweitzer. But I must add Mr. Trevelyan, the famous
English historian who wrote the libretto for Tovey's opera called
The Bride of Dionysius; the Busch brothers, Adolf and Fritz, and many
others !
After the first performance of his opera, The Times wrote again
saying that Tovey was more of a theoretician than a practical musicianl
He was very pained by these assertions, which showed how mis-
understood he was.
Was it Tovey who proposed you for the title of Doctor honoris causa
at Edinburgh University?
Yes. It was in 1934, and the title was conferred on Albert Schweitzer
at the same time. It was also on this occasion that I met this wonderful
man. He had already published his book on Bach called The Poet
Musician, and I realised how our two poetical visions were alike on
this rare subject. Of course, I had already formed a great admiration
for Dr. Schweitzer, the man who had taught us all what virtue there
was in self-sacrifice. During these festivities a number of private and
public concerts took place in Edinburgh and Schweitzer showed great
enthusiasm for my playing of Bach. On the last day he begged me to
stay, but I had some engagements to fulfil and I had to go. After the
last concert, I was leaving the concert hall by myself when I heard
someone running behind — I turned round — it was Schweitzer. He
stood in front of me and said, "Listen, since thou must go, thou must
at least say thou to me before we part." Of course I said a few things
to him, after which we embraced each other, rather overcome by
emotion. My friendship and my admiration for him increases from
day to day. Not so very long ago, in 195 1, he was kind enough to
come and see me in Zurich, where I was conducting a concert given
on the occasion of my seventy-fifth birthday.
Albert Einstein thought that Schweitzer was the greatest man of our
day.
So do I, and in spite of all the lamentable happenings we see going
on in the world today, it is enough to think of a man like Schweitzer
to keep some hope and faith in humanity.
Will you tell me what you think of Tovey s 'Cello Concerto?
This work, dedicated to me (for which I feel very honoured),
is in my opinion the most important of his compositions and should
stand high in 'cello literature. 1
The first performance of the Concerto took place in Edinburgh
in the autumn of 1934, where it was enthusiastically received. A
number of important people heard it, and many critics who had come
from London. 2 (I remember that, on this occasion, I had to try hard
to pull myself together for I had been suffering for some time from
pains in the left thumb which none of the great specialists I consulted
in different European capitals had been able to diagnose. It was the
pleasant Dr. Ernest Vila of Figueras — a small Catalan town of 10,000
inhabitants — who later on discovered what it was almost immediately;
he looked at my hand and, getting a pair of pincers, pulled out a
bristle from a nailbrush which, having got into my thumb, had kept it
inflamed.)
After the concert I got into a carriage with Tovey, who was most
deeply moved and said, "Today I had what was never granted to
me before — to be thought of as a composer." I was supposed to record
1 Casals had written to Tovey thus: "Dear Donald, The day I received your
concerto will remain one of the most important of my life. It caused me a great
joy and I do appreciate the words you wrote in your dedication, which I hope I
shall be able to do justice to." The date of the first performance was fixed for 22nd
November, 1934. "This date," Casals says, "will be the most important in my
career as a musician. Joachim must have felt the same . . ."
2 The Times said: "Senor Pau Casals wished to give London the chance of hearing
the fine violoncello concerto by Professor D. F. Tovey, which he produced in Edinburgh
on Thursday evening with the Reid Symphony Orchestra, the composer conducting'*
(. . .) "Professor Tovey is honoured as a musician of profound learning, but not as a
composer to whom Queens Hall need listen. The loss in the case of this violoncello
concerto is to the Queen's Hall audiences. In the B.B.C Symphony Orchestra we have
one of the most richly endowed orchestral institutions in the world. In the Royal Phil-
harmonic we have a society which for over a hundred years has claimed to represent,
among other things, the best products of native composition. If both decide to ignore a
work which is clearly one of considerable power and intimate beauty and which, moreover,
is sponsored by the greatest exponent of violoncello playing in the world, they will be
very foolish. . . . The whole concerto grows out of the genius of the violoncello, and it
takes all Casals' genius to display its qualities. That in itself is worth going to Edinburgh
to hear.'*
the Concerto in the autumn of 1936 with the B.B.C. Orchestra
conducted by Sir Adrian Boult, but, owing to some regrettable
complications, it was not done.
Tovey often went to Barcelona, didrit he?
Yes, he came to Barcelona many times and during the Festivities
for the centenary of Beethoven he played a Concerto and conducted
my orchestra. Later we made him an honorary member of the or-
chestra. When I asked him to lecture he said to me, "Casals, do make
me play." Those who always thought of Tovey as a "theoretician"
never knew how much he loved his "clavier"! When I played his
Concerto at Barcelona he also conducted my orchestra.

What was he like as a conductor? I read that when you played his Concerto
in London with Tovey conducting, the critic of the Observer wrote that, as
a conductor, "he became an enemy of his own composition \
Tovey was very nervous on that day, but all the same he was a
great conductor, a very great conductor. I remember that he once
conducted one of the Leonora overtures in a way that was finer than
any interpretation that I have ever heard. In an interview I had with
the Daily Telegraph I declared that it was an honour for all of us to be
sitting on the same platform as he was. The curious thing about Tovey
is that he never managed to be understood as a composer, a conductor
or a pianist. It is true to say he did not possess the sort of brilliant
and superficial facility which belongs to "born" conductors. But his
interpretations possessed another kind of quality which reflected the
depth of his thoughts and the burning sensitiveness of a great man.
What, do you imagine, are the reasons why his compositions are not
understood?
First, one must be aware that in England most artists acquire a
label which it is extremely difficult to get rid of. And, further, the
English are inclined to think that an Englishman cannot be a good
composer. And yet the musical renaissance in England, marked by the
works of Elgar, Tovey and Vaughan Williams, has been very im-
portant, not to say the most important, in connection with the general
development of music in the last epoch. Here we find a strongly
original product in which there is great diversity of style and character,

always stemming from the deep roots of its national inspiration.
English music of that period has definitely turned its back on the so-
called modern tendencies, about which we'll have further occasion to
speak. It has remained faithful to natural and human principles.
In 1945, when I went to England for the last time, I visited Tovey's
Museum in Edinburgh. It is beautifully kept by his friends and admirers.
I was very deeply moved. I sat down at his old piano and, unable to
hold back some tears, I played the opening of his 'Cello Concerto.
When I got up, I said to those who were around the words I always
repeat, "Tovey was one of the greatest musicians of all time.*'
When did you meet Julius Rontgen?
Early in this century. He was one of my dearest friends and one
of the great musicians I most admired.
I have read 1 that he belonged to a family with an old musical tradition.
Yes, his ancestors, both on his father's and his mother's side, were
distinguished musicians. The well-known 'cellist, Julius Klengel, was
a cousin of his. His father had been leader of the Gewandhaus Orchestra
in Leipzig, and also professor at the Conservatoire there.
When Rontgen was fourteen, his father and Joachim played his duo
for viola and piano at Diisseldorf during the Rhine Festival of Music.
Young Julius was sitting next to them on the platform listening intently to
the performance of his composition and completely oblivious of the audience.
And Joachim said, "He will be a great master."
The prophecy was realised, for he certainly was a great master.
Do you mean as a pianist and a composer?
Yes, and also as a musician of the highest rank. The term "Master"
is often used as a figure of speech, but in the case of Rontgen it becomes
a statement of fact. He was a great master by the depth of his mind
and by the breadth of his knowledge, by the commanding position
he occupied in every branch of the art of music, by his admirable gifts
of interpretation and his remarkable creation as a composer, by
the value of his teaching and by the mark he made on all those who
were lucky enough to come into contact with him.

Tovey absolutely agrees with you: when he wrote an article on Rontgen,
in The Times after he died in September 1932, he said of him, as a composer:
"Only the greatness and the richness of Bach* s art would not suffer by com-
parison with the extraordinary facility and enormous activity of Rontgen
as a composer."
I do not remember this article in The Times, but think what it
means coming from a man like Tovey.
When Rontgen was fifteen he went with his mother to see Liszt at
Weimar [this was in March 1870), and he gives a very amusing account
1 Madame A. Rontgen: Brieven van Julius Rontgen. (H.J. Paris, Amsterdam.)
of this visit in one of his letters: "On the way," writes young Rontgen,
"we had a look at Weimar. I have never seen such a place for bad taste:
Goethe's and Schiller s statues look like two commercial travellers. After
walking for about half an hour we reached the Allee in Belveder, a pretty
place where Liszt and Preller live. Waiting until Liszt sent for us, we had
coffee with Preller. But we waited in vain, and the next day Preller told me
he would not accompany me to see the 'Devil', as he called Liszt, so I
decided to go alone. I did not feel embarrassed and when I got there I found that
his butler, although born in Bonn, did not understand a word of German.
However, I managed to explain to him what I wanted and he took me to his
master. Liszt was occupied with a visitor and he treated him with such
haughtiness that I quite lost heart. But I asked Liszt to tell me when he could
possibly hear me play a little piece of mine, and he told me immediately to sit
at the piano. I rushed downstairs to tell my mother to come up, and sat at the
Bechstein and started playing my Prelude in D|?: I had not played three
bars of it before he stopped me and began saying how original and masterly
he thought it! I started playing again, and he stopped me and talked in the
same vein. So I thought I had better play something else, and started my
Prelude and Fugue in B Minor. He liked it so much that he invited us
immediately to come to one of the matinees he held every Sunday morning
at half-past eleven. In any case he wanted me to play something else, and he
said I was to come and visit him in Leipzig. You cannot imagine how charming
he was to us, especially to me. I don't think anybody has ever enjoyed this
fugue of mine in B Minor as much as he did. At every bar I played he made
some flattering remark, which was always so true and musicianly that I
developed an enormous respect for him.
"At the matinee all the compositions were his. The brothers Fern began
with Festklange, which was not too bad on two pianos, Liszt conducting
with his finger. Directly after, Scario sang a few songs, then an ugly
woman singer sang an even more ugly song of Liszt's with him at the
piano. Then Brassin played the Concerto in E[j major, and a Polish Coun-
tess, the Mephisto Waltz. Well, allow me to tell you, these people can
play the piano! It is incredible. And yet the idolatry they have for Liszt is
enough to make you sick: they kissed his hand after each bar, they shouted
bravo furiously. When the music seance was over we bade farewell to
Liszt, who had introduced me to all these people as 'pianist and composer'
and who kissed me in such a ridiculous way."
Yes, I remember how Rontgen used to talk to me about the
Lisztcrriens in rather a sarcastic way. even jeeringly. What he did not
like was the fuss, the atmosphere and incense and exaggerated flattery
which surrounded Liszt. But, of course, one must not forget (as Siloti
used to) that Liszt was an elemental force, whose passage raised a
storm of frenzy and veneration quite unintended by him.
Rontgen himself, and his parents, were also great friends of Clara
Schumann, Brahms and Joachim.
It is fascinating to study the evolution of Rontgen in connection
with Brahms. In 1873 — when Rontgen was eighteen — he could not
understand the blind worshipping of Brahms' followers. ("I don't
think this is music for all time. It requires too much effort without
reaching the summit. But time will ultimately decide.") But, .through
Rontgen's letters we can perceive a change of mind — especially
after he had heard the Second Symphony — and he became a fervent
admirer of Brahms' works. (In 1885 he wrote about the Trio in B
major: "I see now that, if I did not like this work at first, it was entirely
my fault, as was the case with many other works of Brahms.")
This evolution is all the more interesting when we realise that
Rontgen also became a friend of Brahms and that his compositions,
although they have a strong personality, are nevertheless closely
related to those of Brahms. This friendship and admiration are reflected
also in the names he gave to his sons: Johannes (in memory of Brahms),
Joachim (in memory of the great violinist), Edward (in memory of
Grieg).
I believe it was at Rontgen s house in Amsterdam that you met Grieg?
Yes. We spent an unforgettable afternoon together.
What impression have you kept of Grieg?
He was a man who looked old, with a large head which reminded
me of Einstein, but better looking, and two blue shining eyes with a
surprisingly soft expression. He was very small and looked even
smaller because of a slightly bent back. He had a winning sympathy
of the most delicate kind and he seemed to live in that noble dream of a
patriotic ideal which you find reflected in his music. Rontgen had
honoured me by dedicating his Piano and 'Cello Sonata to me. We
played it to Grieg on that day, and I also played the C minor Suite
of Bach for 'cello alone. Grieg wrote the same evening to his friend
and publisher to give him his impression of my performance ("a
drama," he said). 1 Afterwards Grieg sat at the piano and his wife
Nina sang a cycle of songs Grieg had written for her when they were
engaged. It was delicious.
1 Grieg wrote about this performance by Casals: "This man does not perform,
he resuscitates.' 1
Can one describe Grieg's music as "folklore"?
No. Grieg's music primarily suggests the character and the pictorial
side of his nation, Norway. Of course there is also a side of rhythmical
folk dance in his music.
Can one bracket Grieg and Sibelius together?
Well, we can detect a certain kind of national character in Sibelius,
but his art is altogether on a much higher plane and I think his musical
contribution is one of the most important of our generation.
It is a great pity that the book of Rontgen s letters does not contain those
he wrote to you.
Do you know why? In 1914, just before the war started, I gave up
my Villa Molitor in Paris and left a few packing-cases full of books,

letters and various kinds of documents in a repository. When I returned
to Paris at the end of the war I realised that the police had been search-
ing all these cases and all the papers were spread on the floor in the
most awful mess, and I could not find Rontgen's letters any more than
those of Strauss, Faure, Saint-Saens, Moor and many other friends.
Have you given any concerts with Rontgen?
Yes, a great many.
Tovey wrote: "An audience capable of appreciating the purely musical
value of the Sonata of Rontgen for piano and 'cello at a good performance
of the work, would share Mendelssohn s opinion when he said that music is
much more precise in its meaning than words are."
This Sonata stands comparison with the best ones written for the
'cello. I remember so well when Rontgen arrived in Paris with his
wife and gave it to me. They spent a few marvellous days at the
Villa Molitorl On the day of their departure we were all sitting in the
garden, when Rontgen went back into the house to play the Beethoven
Sonata (Les Adieux). It was a magnificent performance, a thing one
could not forget, and what a master he was at the piano !
It is Tovey who says: "No one who has seen him dealing with young
people could avoid thinking of the Hans Sachs of Wagner."
That is true: welcoming, generous, unselfish, always ready to

help young musicians: such was my friend. Jealousy and intrigue
simply passed him by. However, Rontgen's judgment was always
very carefully weighed and had nothing facile or complacent in it.
His sincerity and independence were well known.
I saw him shortly before his death. He had been taken for a few
weeks to a clinic at Billthoven before he came back home. But his
health was worse and his wife wrote to me asking me to come as soon
as possible. When he saw me his strength seemed to return and he
looked a different man; we spent the whole day in his room playing
music. The next day, after I had gone, he became unconscious and he
died a few days later. I had felt when I was there before that it was the
last time I would see him.
The list of his compositions is impressive.
What he has written is big in quantity and quality ... a very
hard worker. Rontgen left behind a series of works most curiously
neglected, but which give him a place next to the most remarkable
musicians of our time.

Moor, Tovey and Rontgen. Here are three very great minds still
unrecognised. But I feel sure that their time will come. Only the
mediocre are impatient. The great know how to wait.
VI
Johann Sebastian Bach
77m Chapter and the two following are planned to demonstrate
the opinions of Casals by opposing them to the statements of other
musicians and critics as expressed in their published works.
At the time of the 1950 Bach Festival at Prades you wrote: "The
miracle of Bach has not appeared in any other art. To strip human nature
until its divine attributes are made clear, to inform ordinary activities with
spiritual fervour, to give wings of eternity to that which is most ephemeral;
to make divine things human and human things divine; such is Bach, the
greatest and purest moment in music of all time."
Yes, Bach is the supreme genius of music. I have reached this
conclusion, so easy to state, and of such enormous significance. This
man, who knows everything and feels everything, cannot write one
note, however unimportant it may appear, which is anything but
transcendent. He has reached the heart of every noble thought, and

has done it in the most perfect way.
I have been told that for many years you have been in the habit of starting
the day at the piano, playing Bach Preludes and Fugues.
That is so. At my house in Sant Salvador my maid Therese used
to hum most of the themes of The Well-Tempered Clavier from having
heard me play them so often.
This music is the perfect elixir of youth. It refreshes the spirit
and induces a calm and cheerful frame of mind for the day's
activities.
One critic has called the composer of The Well-Tempered Clavier
the least psychological musical genius that ever existed.
A complete fallacy, since every psychological nuance is to be
found in this work. Quite simply, the Preludes and Fugues are great
music, and it is inconceivable to think of them as "objective" pieces
in which the performer's personality should not play any part.
What gives them vitality, in spite of their form, is the freedom of
their construction. Cherubini did not accept them as Bach had con-
ceived them. According to him, they were not real fugues because
109
ITO CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
they were free. It shows that Bach thought of the fugue as a means of
expression, and not as a dry and formal thing. He held that when a
part had nothing to say it should remain silent — splendid, not to
overdo anything. The Master only brings the part in again when the
sense of the music demands it. That is the right way to create.
"Never did any teaeher make his pupils a more precious gift (The Wcll-
Tempered Clavier), never has there been an educational work of such
artistic value. In this kind of composition, which because of its complicated
form seems to put technical skill before poetry and inspiration, Bach is able to
express his personality with great eloquence. Each of the ninety-six pieces
has its clearly-defined individuality , each one a physiognomy of its own,
as characteristic as the profile on a medal." 1
Bach's intention in this work is to convey various impressions of
tonality — sometimes with such extraordinary significance as in the
Prelude in B\> Minor, which overflows with feeling; a most poignant
movement, which could have come from the St. Matthew Passion.
Bach also gives us all qualities inherent to the major keys — grandeur,
joy, simplicity, even high spirits. To hell with the notion that these
pieces should he played as if they were just exercises, or little models
of "technical cleverness"! In every note I can detect the throbbing
sensitiveness of their author.

A critic has said that this collection reflects Bach's soul in all its
greatness.
Yes. Bach being the universal genius, there is no emotion that has
not been expressed by him, except stinginess, meanness and all that is
incompatible with a noble mind. In Ins works you find some feelings
which words cannot describe or classify. I have got used to saying
that Bach is a volcano.
What of the Art ofFugUC?
It constitutes a peerless monument to his musical science. We can
hardly imagine such greatness. It is rather as if Bach had said, "Now
I'll show you who I am and what I can do."
Your friend lovey, as one among many, had completed The Art of
Fugue, hadn't he?
Yet.
Dr. Schweitzer does not think that The Art of Fugue was unfinished.
He thinks the error arises out of (he way in which the work was edited after
Bach's death.
1 This quotation, and the others in this chapter from William Cart, are
extracts from Ins book, J. S. Bach {1685-IJ53). (Rouge ct Cie., Lausanne.)

JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH III
From what I have read and from what Tovey told me, I am sure
my friend followed in his work the plan left by Bach himself.
"No-one has known how to make the organ speak as Bach has. He was
its most astonishing virtuoso, its most learned and poetical composer, its
most prolific improvisor." (William Cart.)
I entirely agree with this statement. But it should be added that
Baeh created new resources for the instrument.
"Theatrical effects trere finding their way into church music. Con-
temporary taste, which was becoming frivolous and worldly, demanded
secular tunes, even during services. The true style of religious music ivas
declining. Bach's tnusic seemed outdated. But it is well known that the way of
artistic survival is often to appear out of fashion. Bach fought a rearguard
action, defending alone the post which his fall would deliver into the hands of
the enemy. This sense of isolation makes him disdain the apptoval of the
crowd. He no longer seeks to please others, he watits above all things, his
own self-respect and satisfaction as an artist." (William Cart.)
When he wants to, Bach knows how to get near the people without
using flattery or trying to win its approval by presenting something
facile. I [e knows, better than anyone, how to make use of that deeply
rooted tradition of German Protestantism, the chorale. Cue of the
facts that most reflects the character ot~ Bach is that the theatre never
tempted him. There was no room for concessions to showmanship
in any of his works.
Dr. Schweitzer wonders if Bach's aversion to the theatre would have
persisted if he had remained in Hamburg.
I think it would. If the stage had tempted him he would have
realised his wish wherever he found himself, whether in a village or
on a farm. Once when Bach went to a town with one of his sons (I
cannot recall which one), he said to him about some theatrical show
going on there, "Let's go and hear this little music." This remark,
if not actually scornful, is at any rate detached and ironical and tells
us a lot about his attitude to the theatre.
What do you think of this opinion: "The form of the Cantata Arias
lends itself to varied effects and attractive repetitions. But it undoubtedly
ends by becoming monotonous. It can be said Straight away (hat of all Bach's
output, it is the Arias, cast in the Italian mould, which bear the hallmark oj
their period and have dated most." (William Cart.)
Why think that? You have the contrast between the Arias and the
choruses, each bringing out the value of the other. As for the Arias,
I don't see how they have dated, either in form or in quality.

You say their form becomes monotonous? It is true that the
recitatives of the Cantatas are in the Italian style, but we must not
forget the great riches which music owes to Italian recitative.
Dr. Schweitzer also complains of this Italian influence. "The Arioso,
pure and simple, as found in the actus tragicus, is very superior to the
ritornello aria. It is a free form which represents the ideal synthesis of
recitative and melody. This recitative arioso is a creation of the German
genius, being no more nor less than the original form of what will be brought
to fruition on such a grandiose scale in Wagner's music. This is the form,
so simple and at the same time so rich, that Bach has abandoned for the
recitative aria in the Italian Operatic style. He does not seem to realise that
these foreign influences don't suit his genius, and he does not notice that the
structure of the ritornello will become an obstacle to the natural development
of his ideas." 1
Bach has made his choice. It is not for me to object. He must have
done so because this form attracted him, and if, in this way, he has
created marvellous music why should we regret that it was not
written in some other way?
"Bach, in following the Italian school, arrested the growth of German

music along the lines which Wagner used later. The forms and texts which
he accepted in order to conform to contemporary fashion, are not those the
very things in his output that have become superannuated?" (Albert
Schweitzer.)
I do remember I noticed these criticisms when I read Dr.
Schweitzer's book in the German edition, a fairly long time ago. When
I see Bach adopting a style or a form it means a great deal more to me
than a simple question of influence. But supposing we accept the idea
that the Italian recitative acted as an influence on Bach. The very fact of
its adoption by such a genius is surely a proof of the excellence of this
musical form. And why shouldn't Bach, this man who has created
a universal musical language, adopt as his own a method which appeals
to him? Furthermore, hasn't he given us proof of his amazing capacity
in every kind of composition? It seems to me that there is logic in my
argument. What can we do about it if the character of his music does
not pretend to be exclusively Germanic and if, prompted by his
universal genius, the great master felt a need to absorb all that sur-
rounded him and look to new horizons?
"Things that have become superannuated in his output." I cannot
1 All the Schweitzer quotations are from his book, J. S. Bach, Musician and
Poet.
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH 113
accept this. If a work of art is of a high order its form and the style in
which it is presented are, to me, of quite secondary importance. The
adoption of one style or another does not matter to me. There is no
such thing as an outworn or obsolete form, provided that the music
contained in it is of true value. And what should we say about the aria
and recitative of Mozart? And of Beethoven? The opening of the
finale of the Ninth Symphony? Is there a greater monument to the
Italian recitative?
Curiously enough Bach never went out of Germany, in contrast to other
musicians of his period, who were very cosmopolitan.
No, but he copied with his own hand works by Italian and French
composers, looked at everything that came his way, and became a
patient and attentive pupil of all the great masters. His genius, which
was too powerful to be confmed to any particular form or tradition,
was always drawn to great art, of any kind or any origin. I don't deny
that Bach is a German master, but it is a mistake to try and restrict him
with a national label, and an even greater one to connect him with the
prickly character of modern nationalism. He is among those geniuses
who shine over all nations and all time. And also, as I have said before,
the blame for Bach being misunderstood for so long rests with the
Germans themselves. They used to, and still do, perform the music
of their compatriot without any imagination. I recently heard the
Third Brandenburg Concerto played by a Berlin orchestra and relayed

on the radio of that city. The performance was remarkable in many
respects, but Bach, the poet, was not there.
I remember an amusing discussion apropos of the "exclusive
Germanism" of Bach. It was during a tour in Germany: in Berlin,
the well-known pianist Ansorge and myself were invited to lunch by a
distinguished music-lover, Dr. Meyer. Our host had arranged things
so that the two guests, Ansorge and myself, would first meet in a
drawing-room and get to know each other. We began to talk about
Bach — Ansorge would only admit Bach as being exclusively and
essentially German. I talked to him about the French and Italian
influences in his output. He would not recognise them. Also Hun-
garian, I said, in a slightly louder voice. This unhinged him completely.
I calmly walked to a piano there was in the room and began to play
some Bach piece of the same character as the first movement of the
Partita in G minor. I was trying to give the accompaniment the timbre
of a cimbalom. Do you know what Ansorge did? He flew off in a
wild temper and went to tell Dr. Meyer and his wife that as long as
"this man" was there, he would not come near the house. As a matter
of fact my hosts and I had a good laugh about it.
Now about Bach's religious mysticism. Schweitzer says: "If Bach

adorned all his scores with his S.D.G., it is because of an essentially religious
idea of music. It was his godliness that kept and sustained his laborious
existence — and mysticism was the life-spring of his godliness. He felt a deep
need for eternal rest and tranquillity. Never has the nostalgie de la mort
been translated into music in a more striking way."
In my opinion there has been much too much leaning on the
exclusively religious side of Bach's music. The intensity of his faith is
evident in a great many of his compositions. Bach was a sincere
believer and a man whose occupation led him to serve the Church.
However, I cannot rally myself to this idea of exclusively religious
feeling in his music. I find that very exaggerated. Religious inspiration
is not everything. In Bach we find infinite gradations of musical
allusion: the simple joy of the people, the popular dances, the elegance,
the perfume, the loving contemplation of nature and the rest.
We know that Bach had the most sincere religious feeling: in all
the Passions and the Chorales he has given expression to his faith in
the most complete and the greatest way, but I insist this inspiration
is far from being the only one in his work. I think that Bach was
a poet who felt the necessity of translating all noble thoughts into
music.
/ remember one day, when we were listening to your recording o/Komm
Siisser Todt, you said, "I cannot hear this without being moved in the
deepest regions of my soul."

I believe that: one cannot describe the serene expectation of death
in a more perfect way, nor can anyone go deeper than Bach in any of
the ideas he has translated into music.
About the place the Chorales occupy in the Cantatas, William Cart
says: "The instruments mostly reinforce the melody known by the congrega-
tion, and if they sometimes seem to take flight into more luminous heights,
it is in order to surround it with divine glory. This symbol is clear enough
for anyone to understand what Bach means. In spite of all things human art
can invent, it is the simple Chorale that becomes the most sincere expression
of the Church, and all the Cantata is only a preparation for it."
Yes, the foundation of the work is the Chorale, which comes
from folk-song, and through which Bach could achieve the most
intimate communion with the faithful. The Chorale, with its religious
as well as popular origins, is one of the great musical forms.
"If one begins to study the Cantatas, one gets so accustomed to wonders
that one ends by finding the most astonishing things quite natural. The
abundance of Bach's thematic resources and the ways in which he combined
and developed them remains something of a miracle'' (William Cart.)
Truly, they belong to the miraculous, and adjectives are superfluous

in trying to describe them. One of my dreams has been to conduct all
the Cantatas which are known.
"Bach's nature, with all its strength, was so sensitive and mobile that
the slightest shock made it vibrate. Since all the strings of his artistic nature
were musical they started singing at the least touch. Bach and Mozart are
alike in this respect. Their truest and only mode of expression was through
music: whether they wanted it or not they could not help it."
In this respect I think the comparison between Mozart and Bach
is right. "Since all the strings of his artistic nature were musical, they
started singing at the least touch" is a remark of great subtlety. Whose
is it?
It is in William Cart's book, published in 1887.
Then if it was written in 1887 it is even more interesting since the
real significance of Bach was little known at that time.
Dr. Schweitzer says: "Yet Bach was a poet because what he looked for
in a text before anything else was its poetic content."
Yes, Bach did look for poetry in a text and he knew how to breathe
it into a fugue of the most scholarly appearance. Dr. Schweitzer has
greatly served the cause of Bach in putting forward the poetical aspect
of his writing, for until the appearance of his book there were many
people who could only see in Bach a master full of knowledge, but
cold and academic.
Another comparison between Bach and Mozart: "Mozart begins by
charming our ears in a most delicious way and then gives our body and soul
an indescribable feeling of well-being. Bach lifts the soul away from the body.
Without trying to maintain a paradox, we can say that in spite of his austerity
and the greater age of his forms, Bach is more modern than Mozart." (William
Cart.)
Which of the two is more modern? This question is meaningless,
all the more so because in their own time, neither one nor the other
was understood as they are now.
One of Bach's commentators makes the remark that the Christmas
Oratorio is not in the same style as those of Handel, with dramatic action and
real people who each have an individuality of their own.
In Bach's Cantatas, as in his Passions and this Oratorio, one never
Il6 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
thinks of the theatre, whereas in Handel one does: he is much more
of a showman.
The unavoidable comparison between these two contemporaries: Handel

has a more harmonious beauty. Bach moves you more deeply. Handel imposes
himself. Bach makes you dream.
As I told you before, Handel is more of a showman. Bach never is,
although he can reach a much higher plane of emotion. In the science
of obtaining effects Handel was a great master, maybe the greatest.
Bach never thought of an effect: his music came out of the most
intimate part of his mind and never aimed at anything but the purest.
In the Christmas Oratorio about which I spoke, the canticle which
greets the child Jesus is the one that will be addressed to Christ when per-
secuted and beaten in front of Pontius Pilate. So we find Jesus 1 death glorified
in His birth. Isnt there an idea of the same kind in your Oratorio del
Pessebre?
The libretto of this Oratorio is by our friend Joan Alavedra, and,
in fact, he was inspired by the same idea. Naturally the music adapts
itself to this poetical theme. When they are dancing a Sardana in front
of the porch at Bethlehem, paying homage to the newly born child,
the "Santons" (Moslem religious ascetics) standing by already know
that the child will be crucified. Thus the Sardana already announces
the sacrifice of the redemption.
The Christmas Oratorio contains some pieces which had appeared
in other works, some of them in secular compositions. Some people have
wondered how a composer such as Bach could apply the same music to such
different words; to which a music critic (J. Weber , Les Illusions Musicales)
answers that religious music is not essentially different from any other.
"It is only separated through nuances, to a greater or lesser extent, not through
any principles."
That is true. One could think first about the Gregorian chant, which
has its roots in folk-song. How many tunes coming from the people,
which have been passed from one generation to another, have gone
into the Chorales!
In the St. John Passion do you find anything "sombre and agitated"?
Yes, certainly. And I can hardly avoid telling you that it always
brings back to my mind the day when I took part in a performance
of it at Basle, and had the presentiment of my father's death, as I told
you before.
Furtwangler says about the St. Matthew Passion; "This masterpiece
is the most sublime of all music. 11
A thousand times I agree with this. When I heard this Passion
for the first time in Paris, the impact it made on me was so violent that
I felt ill for about two months. I felt stifled and as if I could not cry
enough. The bigness of it all had shattered me.

About the Chorale sung by a third choir in this Passion (Agnus Dei. . . .)
William Cart says: " Christian art has not produced anything which can be
compared to the emotion caused by this voice standing above the harmonic
flood of the two choirs and the two orchestras"
It is true: the impression made by this third choir is immense.
There are the two choirs in the introduction, and suddenly a third one
comes in singing in unison an amplified chorale. The impression of
this third choir is great, but, to get the real effect, the third choir
should be placed higher up.
"His dramatic instinct" writes Dr. Schweitzer, "is not less developed.
The plan of the St. Matthew Passion, so admirably conceived for a dramatic
work, is of his own invention. In each text he looks for contrasts, oppositions
and gradations."
Bach was lyric as well as dramatic when it was required. His
inspiration is sure, without hesitations. I make a Bach-Shakespeare
parallel, in the sense that both these great geniuses have explored
endlessly the psychological nuances of any emotion.
Some critic has written, apropos of the performance of the St. Matthew
Passion: "It is necessary to avoid sentimentality as much as coldness; one
must combine taste with technical perfection, the solemn style of the church
with the pathos of the situations, without ever striving for an effect."
Especially without striving for effect, otherwise the spirit of
Bach would be spoilt. For a long time one of my dearest wishes has
been to conduct the St. Matthew Passion as I conceive it. I should
like that to be my * 'musical testament". You know that I was
invited to do it in Zurich in 1954? To my great sorrow I had to refuse,
because of my present attitude. I only hope that circumstances will
alter so that I may realise eventually one of my last and most intense
wishes.
Dr. Schweitzer writes on the subject of the Mass in B Minor: "If the
Mass in B Minor is the most vigorous and grandiose work of Bach, it
nevertheless lacks that unity which makes the beauty of the St. Matthew
Passion. Religious subjectivity, which is like the soul of Bach's music,
cannot have a free rein in the Mass. We can say that there are in this work
some sections of a very German subjectivity, for instance, the Et incarnatus
est and the Crucifixus, but on the whole the work has a rather objective
Il8 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
character. The 'Protestant' sections do not compare for greatness with the
ones representing the Catholic dogma."
I agree, the Mass is so divided. However, I didn't find there is
anything missing in it. The Master had no wish to write it in any other
way, and felt the desire to compose it as it is. And what has been the
result? That is what we must ask ourselves when confronted by this
great outpouring of feeling and knowledge. We might prefer Bach
to have given it confessional unity, so that the work would have been
ascribed immediately to the spirituality of one or the other creed. Bach
has written it on a dual basis and I think we must accept it as such. And
I repeat: what does interest us musically and what we want to know is
— what has Bach given us in his Mass?
William Cart thinks that the Mass in B Minor reminds one of a Gothic
cathedral in which the faithful of both confessions can hold out their hands
to each other.
It is obvious that the Mass suggests a Gothic cathedral. But Bach's
music cannot be Gothic; however, when performing or listening to
certain works of his one can think of a cathedral of the Middle Ages.
In Beethoven's Ninth Symphony one would never think of it.
"If wc compare the Bach Mass with the Missa Solemnis of Beethoven
we can realise the abyss there is between the two works. Bach rests entirely
on a biblical foundation. His style was born in the church, his faith is one of
traditional Christianity. Beethoven is a 'modern in whose heart the theism
of the XVIIIth century and the humanism of the XlXth have replaced the
old faith. But the modern master has his moment in the Benedictus: there
he can breathe out all his loving soul. Never has the religion of fraternal love,
of universal charity been sung with more fervour; all the tenderness he showed
to men, and which men reflected, he poured out in this unforgettable violin
solo. A very characteristic detail of this great master of instrumental music;

it is to the violin and not to the voice in this vocal mass, he entrusts his most
intimate feelings." (William Cart.)
There are some interesting ideas in this comparison, but some of
the remarks such as "Bach the 'old master', Beethoven the 'modern
master' ", might lead to confusion. The violin solo of the Benedictus is
certainly a sublime and an extraordinary moment and one of the
summits in Beethoven's work. What a responsibility for the violinist
who plays it!
On the subject of the evolution from Bach to Beethoven, Furtwangler
remarks that the "epic* character in Bach becomes completely "dramatic"
in Beethoven. He recalls the example of Ancient Greece, when Homer
came before the "Tragics" , and he sums up in one paragraph the course of
this evolution through Haydn and Mozart: "But it is in Haydn that we first
find how the great advantage of the Bach period (which continued through
Mozart's happy music) began to disappear. Up till then the wholeness
and coherency of a work was, so to speak, in its nature. From then on this
unity will have to be achieved: modern music begins. With Haydn, and
even more with Beethoven afterwards, we pass from the 'being of Bach
through the 'unfolding* of Mozart to the 'becoming*. A final Chord in
Bach only means the end of a piece of music. With Haydn and Beethoven
this chord marks the end of a composition, the conclusion of a composer s
endeavour. It is the beginning of a new era, which imposes on the composer the
necessity to connect musical logic with ordinary logic, and in this way to
bring about a synthesis which could hardly have occurred naturally — the
movement of the music and the emotion of the soul." 1
To assert that before Haydn the "wholeness and coherence of the
work" would happen of itself— I cannot see that. The composers had
to achieve the formal unity of their works through a procedure which
might be different from that of a later generation, but always keeping
in sight the logic of unification. As for Bach's music, it is neither
square nor static. Can one imagine a "becoming" [Werden) more
intense or more dynamic than his work, since the whole music of the
future was influenced through it? It is true that Beethoven puts the
accent on the dramatic, and this side of his character is often evident
in his compositions. But to say that Beethoven is "nearer" to us than
Bach because of this "dramatic" touch, I cannot accept. (I know that a
great musician like Furtwangler does not pretend to make this assertion,
but his comments could easily be interpreted in such a way.) Bach
and Beethoven exist all around us, and they will exist as long as human
beings are capable of feeling anything. Every creation of the mind
bears, in a way, the mark of the period in which it was conceived.
But what characterises great creations is that they project themselves
towards the future like a shining star. Bach is one of the great
ones who for a long time was put away in a drawer as being too "old-
fashioned". That is why I instinctively reject these classifications which,
without meaning to, present Bach as an "ancient". When I was young,

I found lots of people talking of Bach with great respect, but without
any understanding. Even in our day there are lots of performers who
believe that Bach is a long way away and make the mistake of looking
for "objectivity" and "impersonality" in his compositions. Bach's
1 o P . at.
work is fully immediate and real, just as any of Shakespeare, Cervantes
and Michaelangelo. We musicians should not lose sight of its immediate
vitality and radiance.
Dr. Schweitzer says about Bach's transcriptions of his own works:
"From the technical point of view it is curious to find Bach transcribing
violin works for the keyboard. It may be that Bach considered the violin
style as universal." Schweitzer adds: "When Bach writes for the violin,
or rather, for an ideal instrument which would have the power of the organ
and the completeness of phrasing of the violin."
Well, if you like, but a violin lacks a low register. In Bach's themes
I sometimes hear other instruments than the violin. I do understand
this opinion as far as phrasing is concerned, because of the flexibility
one can get in so many themes with this instrument, but I would not
give it too exclusive a character.

And what do you think about the technical aspect of the Six Suites for
'Cello Solo? Those Suites which had waited for you to reveal all their
treasures!
The Six Suites for 'Cello give an idea of Bach's vision of the
possibilities of this instrument, possibilities which had not been
exploited before. Here, as in so many other branches, Bach was in
advance of his time.
The Fifth Suite is entitled Suite discordable, because it requires the A
string to be tuned down to G?
Yes. This Suite shows the desire and the possibility of new depar-
tures and obviously constitutes a discovery, considering the period
when it was written.
The last Suite is written for the Viola Pomposa — an instrument Bach
had invented.
My impression is that, after the Five Suites, Bach foresaw new
ways of using the upper register of the violoncello which, so far,
were unknown. That is why he invented the Viola Pomposa, which
possesses an extra string tuned up one fifth above the A string.
Have you heard this Suite played on the instrument conceived by
Bach?
No, but with a 'cello built so that it could be played as a Viola
Pomposa. As far as its sonority was concerned, it did not satisfy me.
Now this Suite can be played without the addition of a string. We
constantly notice Bach's preoccupation to go beyond the technical
limitations of the instruments of his period, in the perfecting of the
organ, the research into the intonation of the keyboard, the use of
the thumb and the organisation of modern fingering, the technical
advance found in the violin and the 'cello Suites and so on.
The richness of Bach's writing does not come from an abundance of
different themes, but in the different inflections taken by the same theme
according to the occasion?
That is very often what he does (except in a fugal form): work
the same theme to its end. How wonderful it is to be able to give with
this method so much diversity and yet perfection of form! In Bach
we find ourselves confronted with a theme which goes from one end
to the other of the composition, and what is admirable is that the
listener needs this exploitation of the same theme! Bach, if he had
wanted to, could have introduced some secondary themes; but what
he looks for, and finds, is a feeling of unity, and he proceeds as if the

theme was a subject of conversation. He looks for lots of nuances and
inflections in his theme but does not get away from it.
Critics and musicians agree in saying that Bach has not changed, and
that there is an increasing accentuation of his personality, but that his younger
works predict his future development. "Whereas it is sufficient to study a
page from Beethoven to give it a place in the chronology of his works"
says a critic, "one needs to be very advanced in the knowledge of Bach to
distinguish the different periods of his works."
It is very true. It happens to me also. If I did not know it before,
I should find it difficult to say which period a particular work belongs
to.
Bach is the composer who has made more transcriptions of his own works
than any other composer has done.
Yes, and how much art and tact he has brought to these arrange-
ments! I have been one of the few people to defend transcriptions. To
spurn them is a mistake. In all work there is the element of music,
besides the "colour" of the instruments for which the works were
written. The strictly musical value is above the instrumental value,
and it should predominate. Why, then, shouldn't it be transferred
to other instruments? Bach did it consistently; why shouldn't we
doit?
I was talking the other day with a pianist friend of mine about the
transcription of the Kinderscenen of Schumann for 'cello and piano.
He thought that, as these pieces had been written for the piano, it was
not possible to hear them otherwise ! I know that Schumann thought
of them for the piano and I know also how wonderful they can sound
just on a keyboard. But since the piano does not possess the inflections
of a string instrument, why not play some pieces on the instrument
which possesses these qualities, and especially these Scenes, which are
so delicate and expressive? Of course the effect is different, but why
should this difference stop us?
Nowadays nobody minds — although, at first, people objected —
to the fact that Ravel has arranged the Pictures from an Exhibition by
Moussorgsky, which was not a work for orchestra. Supposing anyone
felt like arranging a piano sonata of Beethoven for orchestra? Why
not!
Edwin Fischer writes: 1 "In order to understand a great composer and to
perform his works as they should be performed, it is important to know also
the surroundings this composer lived in. In order to know these things (in
regard to Bach) it becomes necessary to obliterate from our minds all the
developments which took place after Bach, all the things which in his day
had not been discovered, written or achieved. To understand Bach in his day,
we shall have, therefore, to forget all the music of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven,
all romanticism and also the philosophy and free thinking, the political and
geographical conceptions of the generations subsequent to Bach. We shall
have to imagine all the things which, as far as we are concerned, have dis-
appeared in the past, but were active and visible in his day: the religious
habits of his century, his symbolism, his connection with the Church. Only
thus, shall we understand the Master, not just through ourselves but
objectively."
How can one say that, if you think of the musical side of the
question? How can one do away with one's own feeling of the music
performed? I don't say that it is not useful to be informed on the
general history of the period in which the composer lived and worked:
any cultural acquisition, in enriching the artist's sensibility, will make
him more able to grasp all the esthetic nuances of the composition he is
playing; but the real artist must, before anything else, rely on his own
musical sense in order to know exactly what the work is and how he is
himself affected by it. If the performer begins to think he has to abide
by the old methods, and decide what form it was presented in, his
mind will become prey to doubts which are bound to spoil this
spontaneous expression, which, in a good performance, should come
before anything else. As for the performer who plays Bach nowadays,
he specially ought not to be concerned with the idea of historical
reconstitution. Above all in Bach, because his music belongs to all
time and therefore when performing it one does not want to follow
1 Edwin Fischer ijohann Sebastian Bach. (Berne, 1948.)

the prescriptions of one period, even less to be hampered by the
obstacles and limitations which existed two centuries ago in the field
of technique.
That young man of thirteen who, one day, discovered the Six Suites
for the 'Cello in a music shop in Barcelona, could not have bothered his head
with historical preoccupations!
This young man was just struck by so much greatness in music,
and he applied himself to the study of the Suites for years with all
his enthusiasm and his devotion.
Dr. Schweitzer writes on the question of tempi in performing Bach:
"The mechanism of harpsichords in those days did not allow the performer
to play a modern allegro. When playing Bach's works on ancient instruments,
we realise that his rapid allegro [the maximum of speed one could expect on
those instruments) does not go much beyond our allegro moderato. This
does not prevent us from making use of the better mechanism of a modern
piano to play Bach's works quicker than he played them himself Some
compositions would seem to drag if we wanted to stick to the 'authentic 9
tempo. For example, we find it so in any gigue movements of the great
Partitas. But on the whole, one should not go beyond an energetic allegro.
Similarly, the slow movements of Bach have not got the slowness of our
modern performance. His adagio, grave, lento are equal to our extreme
moderato. The short sound of his harpsichord did not allow him to play his
slow movements as Aowly as we can do it on a modern piano where sound is
prolonged. Quite naturally we shall play certain pieces in a tempo a bit slower
than the authentic tempo, although we should not go as slowly as our modern
adagio."
These indications: not to go beyond an energetic allegro moderato
in a quick movement, not to get as far as a modern adagio in the slow
movements, are, to my mind, vague remarks. The question of tempi
is always decided by the intuition of the artist. He may make some
difference according to the quality of the harpsichord or the piano
he plays on, or else because of the acoustics of the hall or room he
plays in.
The "authentic" tempo is impossible. The tempo should vary with
the performer according to the circumstances. What does matter is
that he should know how to produce the tempo required by his
personal feeling and suitable to the spirit of the music.
Forkel relates that Bach played his most austere fugues with enormous
freedom.
That does not surprise me.

"For a long time people thought Bach's works should be played without
expression. Bach, it is true, rarely writes any sign of dynamics, but it is
because he relies on the feeling and the intelligence of his performers. This
ought to be said: 'Bach knows all the modern effects* " (William Cart.)
I am entirely in agreement with this.
Dr. Schweitzer talks about a "refined rubato". "If the Bach tempi do
not vary from a normal tempo as much as those in modern music, this normal
tempo should be graduated in a most subtle way. A sort of rigid and uniform
tempo does not suit Bach's music.
Very good.
"Actually one does not find in Bach the opposition of themes of a different
kind, as one does for instance in the Beethoven Sonatas. Bach generally
adopts a rhythm in the first bars which will continue throughout the piece."
Exactly.
"But this homogenity of tempo should be simple and expressive. Bach
does not ask us to abolish the beat but he intends a subtle rubato."
This could constitute a rule for all music. Bach does not require
any special rules; it is the general rules of music one should observe
when performing his works. Even so, the word "rule" is slightly out
of place because it implies too much precision. It is the musical sense,
the instinct of the performer, that should decide everything.
"The impression a piece of Bach should make depends on its clarity to
the listener. Whence this very simple general rule, too often neglected by
performers: one should hold back the tempo when the design becomes more
intricate, and be ready to resume elasticity as this design simplifies."
This also could be applied to all music.
Dr. Schweitzer, having told us why Bach so seldom marks the tempo,
tells us that sometimes the actual material of the music calls for a special
treatment of some part of the piece.
That seems obvious to me. As far as I am concerned, I think that
one should notice the particularities of different parts of the same
piece. For instance, in the first section of the Gamba Sonata in G Minor,
there is a moment when I feel the need of a slower *empo than the
initial one.
Dr. Schweitzer declares: "Let us set down three axioms which represent
as many modern principles that one should abandon when dealing with
Bach's music.
"(i) Bach's works begin and end with their greatest sonority. All effects
of pianissimo at the start and at the end of the work are alien to Bach's
style."
Anyone who possesses some musical intuition does that anyhow.
However, let us imagine that I begin to play a fugue of Bach; if,
at the start, it seems to me that a piano is the right thing, I do it without
any hesitation; if, at the end, I feel a forte, I do it. On the whole the
sonority at the beginning and at the end is the one indicated above,
but there can be exceptions and in these exceptions I shall follow my
intuition without abiding by general rules.
"(2) The cadence in Bach does not represent a diminuendo, but always
remains within the sonority of the phrase it terminates, piano if this phrase is
piano, forte if the phrase is forte. One must specially avoid spoiling the
effect of a piano which follows a forte by connecting them by a diminuendo.
The sudden opposition of a piano to a forte is one of the elementary principles
in Bach's music. On this subject, one should study the expression marks in
the Brandenburg Concerti."
On the whole I agree: there are these sudden oppositions from
forte to piano.
"(3) It is a mistake in the fugues to play the theme piano and gradually
to reach the forte through the successive entries of the theme. It is not necessary
to amplify in this way the natural gradation which comes from the succession
of entries.
"The logic of a classical fugue does not bear any alteration of sonorities
in the first entries of the theme any more than logic in architecture allows the
main nave of a Gothic cathedral to rest on pillars of different dimensions.
From the first bar the Bach themes come forward with some grandeur, even
some pride; it is as if they carried the feelings they represent on a higher
sphere, absolutely pure."
I agree in principle with what he says about the first entries in a
fugue. As for the grandeur with which the subjects come forward,
I think it depends on the subject. This "grandeur" depends on the
character of the subject.
It is only in Bach's ensemble works that we notice how different
the sound of our piano is different from that of the harpsichord of
Bach. When he wrote the sonatas for violin and cembalo, the sounds
of both instruments were completely homogeneous. Nowadays,
played with a piano, the sounds do not blend but sound apart from
one another. The listener who has a sensitive ear and has imagined
the Bach works played with a well-matched sonority is bound to
suffer by this antagonism. The difference of tone between a harpsichord
and a piano is evident. However, I believe that the ear can adapt itself
to the sound of the piano. In any case, as the piano has a power of
expression the harpsichord has not, I would always choose it for the
performance of these sonatas, since, in my opinion, the possibilities
of expression are more important than the question of the timbre.
In the works of Bach where the keyboard instrument only has
a role of accompanying, filling up the harmonies of a figured bass,
I prefer the harpsichord, because its timbre mixes better with the
orchestra. In any case, a good pianist can get such an effect if he plays
discreetly.
Dr. Schweitzer maintains that the editions of Bach covered with ex-
pression marks (to save the performer from thinking for himself) do not
help the cause of the Master— just the opposite. It is much better to publish
them as we got them.
I am entirely in agreement on this point.
The indications added by editors can easily lead the performers
along the wrong path. That is why I have always refused to edit Bach's
works myself: and I have declined all offers. I think they should be
published as we had them. As for the tempo, it is for the interpreter
to look for it and to create it.

II What satisfaction it is to be able to play the fugues of Bach on an organ
that is still intact in spite of its ancient mechanism. Only then can one dis-
cover how the modern organ is unable to show the value of the master's
works'* (Dr. Schweitzer.)
This is an idea one should respect. It is always an interesting
experience and a cause for satisfaction to be able to play compositions
as they were played two hundred years ago, and to find instruments
by which one can revive the past. But that ought not to make us
forget that Bach was always looking for improvements in the instru-
ments he had to make do with because there were no others. If an
organist can play on a good modern organ, what he should do is not
to let himself be seduced by the reconstitution of archaism, but make
good use of the new possibilities of his instrument. An organ is of
itself a very mechanical instrument. The expressive value of string
instruments can only be produced through a kind of phrasing that is
done by the advancing or retarding of the notes, by the pauses and by
the length of the sound. In rapid and loud passages an organ can be
impressive, but its tone cannot vibrate with the rhythm of the organ-
ist's hand — and yet, we can recognise immediately if the player is a
real musician.
J have read that F. A. Gevaert — your "missing" teacher — was the
first to order the reconstitution of the instruments of Bach's time, in order to

produce the works of the Master with their real colour. Dr. Schweitzer also
wishes to return to the instruments of the period. "In order to bring out all the
value of Bach* s works, one is obliged to return to the old instruments. Attempts
of this kind have been made in many places. The result has been above all
expectations. 11
If one wants to undertake an interesting, though always incomplete,
reconstruction of the musical atmosphere of a period, I accept the use
of instruments of that period. But in any ordinary performance we
ought to make use of the best instruments available nowadays, for,
in my opinion, respect for the music we perform must be above all
other considerations. We don't want to conjure up the past on an
historical basis (which is always only relatively exact) but to produce
the best version from the musical viewpoint.
Bach was always anxious to improve the instruments, and his
extraordinary vision of what these instruments would be capable
of justifies my doubts of his satisfaction with the instruments of
his time. What performances he would have given with the numerous
and well-drilled orchestras and the good instruments we possess
nowadays ! In his day all wind instruments were out of tune, now we
have them in tune. And can you imagine what the effect of wind
instruments playing out of tune would have on the string players,
whose ears must have become falsified through hearing the wrong
intonation every day? In any case the instruments were played in a

different way. For instance, the violinists of that period held their
bows in the middle !
Therefore, in order to get an "authentic" reconstitution, we
should have to make the flutes and the oboes play out of tune and ask
all string players to play in a mediocre wayl No, to submit oneself
to archaic practice in playing Bach would only do harm to his music,
which rises above past, present . . . and future.
Talking about instruments, you decided during the Prades Festival to
replace the trumpet by a soprano saxophone in the performance of the 2nd
Brandenburg Concerto.
What happened on this occasion is very interesting to relate. We
got a famous trumpet player for this performance of the second
concerto. At the first rehearsal we realised that he could not follow
the tempo I was giving, which was, in my opinion, the right one to
keep the music alive. He had to hold the tempo back, he played wrong
notes, until he owned in front of everybody that he could not continue
in this way. What was I to do? I did not want to change my tempo, so
this player had to give up the performance. It was suggested that
we could try the soprano saxophone which, well played, gave an

excellent result. There were some purists who, when they learned
of the change, were scandalised. Some years before I had already
witnessed what happened to my first trumpet player, who, in practising
the part of the same concerto, lost for ever the proper lip .contact
with the mouthpiece of his instrument. I am not inclined to use our
trumpet in these works because it has to be played too much in the
higher register. The soprano saxophone, if it is well played, can take
its place with advantage.
Dr. Schweitzer, a few pages further on, voices an opinion which I find
almost similar to the one you have just expressed. ". . . anything which will
enhance the natural beauty of the work, or the plastic value of the performance,
anything which will add vigour or delicacy to it, is not only allowed but
actually demanded by the score. If Bach had had our resources at his disposal
he would have used them in this way . . . We can only 'modernise' Bach.
If we perform his works as they were in his day they would not make the
same impression on the modern listener, since he is much more exacting
than the faithful of St. Thomas Church."
That is exactly my opinion.
"It is not enough to play Bach's works, they must be interpreted."
Very good.
". . . interpret them in such a way that, while keeping the style of ancient
music, one brings out the ideas and effects contained in the scores. To reconcile
old style and modern effects, such is the problem of performance."
The old style for Bach, I just cannot accept it, it just is great music.
If Bach had not lived then, and were to appear now, in the middle of
the confusion of our time, he would be proclaimed as the Messiah.
Bach, with his fugues, cantatas, and polyphony?
Bach as he was in his day. His works would be like a sort of fiat
lux . . . and so, how can we talk about "old style"?
We have not yet reached the full knowledge of his output. The
search continues. We have, of course, gone some way towards this
complete knowledge since the days when Mendelssohn and Schumann
undertook to repair the neglect into which Bach had fallen. However,
Mendelssohn and Schumann, in spite of their generous attempt for
which they deserve all our gratitude, did show in many respects that
they had not understood the greatness of the master. One example:
the idea of Schumann's to write accompaniments to the Sonatas and
Partitas for violin alone! We, ourselves, can see from day to day the
growing of Bach's greatness. As for this question of performing it, of
performing it deeply, we are only just emerging from the period of

groping. The best advice is to discard deliberately the old prejudices
and to get as near as possible in our performance to what the music
makes us feel and what inspiration we derive from it. I repeat: there
is no special rule for the interpretation of Bach's music.
VII
Music of Yesterday and Today (i)
May I be allowed to put to you further questions on Bach's great con-
temporary, Handel? How can one explain the fact that Messiah was written
in three weeks, Israel in Egypt in fifteen days and most of his concerti
grossi in one day?
Facility is a more complex problem than it appears. I remember
what Emmanuel Moor told me on that subject, since he was much
criticised for excessive facility. ''They don't know that the works I
may write today, I may have worked at for some twenty years."
How long does the conception of a work go on? The great musician
does not compose only when he puts pen to paper; a constant gestation
operates in his mind.
When you hear works like the Messiah of Handel, The Creation of
Haydn, the Passion of Bach, do you feel a religious emotion?

Certainly. In so far as humility and adoration belong to this
emotion.
Romain Rolland thinks that Buxtehude influenced the organ style of
Bach and the Oratorio style of Handel. 1
With Buxtehude we should mention Schutz and many others.
Bach and Handel were not obsessed by a desire to be original. Genius
is not a closed door; it receives and assimilates influences knowing
that they will not weaken its personality. In the case of Bach we can
admire his humility, that humility which led him to copy other works
and use the ideas of authors he admired.
Richard Strauss opposed the great stream of polyphony and symphony
descended from Bach to the homophonic and dramatic one stemming from
Handel.
I don't see that very clearly. The dramatic sense appears with
Handel in his ability to find one theatrical effect, which later will be
the same with Rossini or Verdi. As for the deep dramatic sense, it is a
basic element to many musicians.
1 All the quotations from Romain Rolland are from his book, Handel (Editions
Albin Michel, Paris.)
130
MUSIC OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY 131
Rotnain Rolland in his study of Handel makes a reference to Purcell and
says that: "because he lacked in invention he did not make enough of his
wonderful ideas'*. Purcell is a very elegant musician, a little Mozart.
Purcell has nothing to do with Mozart. Elegant, yes, and deep and
great! Some of his works have been attributed to Bach! When I was
young one could have called Purcell "the unknown". It is very different
today! For the artist of genius, the hour of recognition always arrives.
About Handel, Saint-Saens used to say that he was especially keen on
the "picturesque", "the colour" and "imitative effect". "He was a painter."
And Romain Rolland says of Handel that he was not "shut up" in himself.
He, more than any other German, was a "visual" composer,
I quite agree.
It has been said that if Handel in his Oratorios used the stories of the
biblical heroes, it was because they were known by everybody.
Yes, I am not very sure of the intensity of his religious feeling.
"Songs of the forest, of the birds, picturesque interludes, almost romantic,
Handel was a pre-Romantic, rousing tempests from choir and orchestra like a
Wagner or a Berlioz." 'You refuse to let rules constrict your personality
could have been said to him by a contemporary. "He 'is like a Beethoven in
bondage" concludes Romain Rolland.
Maybe. It would be very difficult to explain how one "classical''
composer is a pre-Romantic and another is not. . . .
"Language, without any concession to the crowd, can communicate
in a popular way feelings that are common to us all. Nowadays this type of
art and person has disappeared. We find the pure artist now stays at home,
and those who speak to the people are most often entertainers." (Romain
Rolland.)
Indeed, Handel had this quality: he would create a work of great
artistic value which would be understood by every listener. That is
why he was Handel! Now it is different, and the reason is that, un-
fortunately, we have not any genius to equal him.
In the XVIIth century singers embellished melodies with ornaments
and sometimes considerable cadenzas, a custom which has practically
vanished.
In Handel's day, singers used to improvise in passages where they
could show off their voices. It is an Italian tradition. I don't think that,
in modern editions of Handel, these improvisations should be rewritten,
as Chrysander has done.

"Handel's orchestration reveals a sure instinct for balance and economy.
If we want to reproduce his music adequately we ought not to change the
balance of the orchestra in order to make it richer and more modern." (Romain
Rolland.)
I have already told you what I think about this subject when
we talked about Bach. Handel, like other masters of his time, had to
be content with existing conditions. However, we have never seen any
indications from him or his contemporaries to the effect that we should
play their compositions in this or that way and no other. One can
understand that the Sonatas or Trios should be played as they are.
But with an orchestral work why not employ the means at our dis-
posal? At the Crystal Palace in London they gave the Messiah with a
choir of ten thousand voices. In Kansas they also have performances
of this oratorio with thousands and thousands of Americans of Scand-
inavian origin. I really don't see why such performances should be
disapproved of.
"People think that nuances are a privilege of modern art . . . With
Handel the nuances are very varied from pianissimo to fortissimo. If one
does not see crescendi or diminuendi marked, it is only because these
nuances were not written in those days, but, of course, they were intended."
(Romain Rolland.)
Quite right. Dynamics are intended even in polyphonic work,
in Palestrina, and in all composers of all periods.
Reviewing the musical situation at the end of the XVIIIth century,
a critic says: "An abyss separated the master of fugue and the devotees of the
Sonata. One learnt fugue as a means of improving ones study of music,
but the emotion looked for was the sweetness of the Italians. Beethoven
accepts Haydn s influence in the Sonatas and the Symphonies but turns his
back on its convention and rhetoric."
Convention and rhetoric? So many people don't understand
Haydn. His music is solidly constructed and full of seductive invention.
His enormous output is full of novelties and surprises. I would even
say that he is more surprising than Beethoven. With the latter one
can sometimes guess what is coming. But not with Haydn. He eludes
us, he has something new to say and he offers us another surprise.
Adolphe Boschot thinks that Mozart's music speaks most directly to the
"angelic" aspirations of man. 1
It is possible. I have read M. Boschot's study of Mozart with
pleasure and admire it very much.

1 Adolphe Boschot: Mozart. (Librairie Plon, Paris.)
Boschot adds: "For instance, we find Haydn very near him. He might
be his brother, but a less poetical brother. Alas, with Haydn charm is only
apparent from time to time, and fieetingly. As soon as it shows itself, it is
superseded by the galant style and by developments which are too formal and
too precise, that is to say unexpressive. Very often Haydn gives us the frame-
work of which Mozart will reveal the content."
It is possible that M. Boschot has understood Mozart better than
Haydn. But what about The Creation of Haydn? Can one find any-
thing more "angelic" than Haydn's presentation of the marvellous
apparition of the world to a child? Haydn has an inexhaustible imagina-
tion, and the solidity of his musical architecture — solidity which we
also find in Mozart — does not prevent him from being poetical and
expressive. I have said all along: the proper understanding of Haydn's
music is only beginning now. With him (the "father" of the sym-
phony) the same thing will happen as has happened with Mozart in
the last fifty years or so. One of the revelations which will emerge
from the present chaos will be the rediscovery of Haydn, and the
well-deserved consecration of his greatness, which has been so little
recognised for so long.

"Haydn has never attempted to renew the syntax and the vocabulary of
his day"
Always this mania to discover if there has been innovation for
the sake of innovation ! How many works of art has Haydn given us
by using the vocabulary and the syntax of his time? That is what
matters. Bach, Handel and Mozart copied out, and even sometimes
imitated, the works of the masters of their period or of a preceding
one. They have not tried to be original for the sake of being original.
They have been original through the strength of their genius.
It has been said that, between a phrase of Haydn s and one of Mozart's,
it is very difficult to discover an essential difference in its conception and its
composition.
It is true that if one hears a phrase of Haydn's after one of Mozart's,
one can confuse them, but, in fact, the two Masters are very different.
"... the delicate and restless sensitiveness of Mozart's outpouring
is totally different from the peaceful certainty and serene optimism of
Haydn." 1
True. It seems to me that we could describe Bach as being pre-
Romantic rather than Haydn. Nevertheless there are moments when
Haydn dodges in every direction and so surmounts the barriers of all
1 Emile Vuillermoz: Histoire de la Musique. (Librairic Arth£me Fayard, Paris.)

classification. As I told you just now, Haydn has a fantastic power of
invention, and that is what makes his music a constant surprise. I
insist: the real hour of Haydn has not yet arrived. We must remember
that of his enormous production, only thirty per cent had been pub-
lished some thirty years ago and, even then, only about a fifth of it
was played.
Some people say that both Mozart and Haydn share the "rare privilege'
of pleasing both the highbrow as well as the lowbrow.
The lowbrow will also like Bach, Schubert and so many others,
if these Masters are performed as they should be. Do remember what
I told you about what the workmen and clerks who formed the
audiences of the Associacio Obrera de Concerts liked best!
Thanks to gramophone records the works of Haydn are becoming better
known and, as you said, numerous music-lovers can hardly get over their
astonishment at finding such treasures which were hidden until now.
I am very glad to hear it. It marks the beginning of a fair reparation.
In music we have not finished * 'discovering' ' the great masters of the
past!
Can you think of any decisive factors which contributed to this "revival"
of Mozart and to the changes in approaching and performing his works?
In a way we can say that Vienna has followed up the Mozart
tradition, and we might think that this "return' ' is due to the Austrian
capital. But I do not think that is the case. (I have the impression that
this movement took place in many countries, not to say in all coun-
tries.) It seems to me that if this "revival" had had its origin only in
Vienna, it would have been more difficult for it to spread all over the
place as we can see it has done. In my opinion, the real cause is to be
found in the transformations which have taken place in music since
the beginning of our century. In that period we first had the so-called
1 'impressionist' ' school, followed by a general sinking into chaotic
music. It follows that with the intuition of artists and listeners a
natural reaction towards great music has led them to appreciate the
"light" of Mozart.
Adolphe Boschot reckons that the " Wagnerian-fever \ much more than
Wagner himself was an obstacle to the real understanding of Mozart.
It does not seem to me that Wagner interfered with the under-
standing of Mozart, because we find Wagner, in spite of all that has
been said, easy to explain and to understand. It may have happened
that, with the appearance of a figure as important as that of Wagner,
some great names were provisionally put on one side, but that is not
the case with Mozart, since he was not very well known or appreciated
as he deserved before the infatuation with Wagner.
Around the beginning of our century we find the "rediscovery"
of Mozart, which has only been intensified through the propagation
of chaotic music, and the obvious necessity which follows to return
to real beauty and greatness in music.
You have lived through the years when Mozart was neglected?
Of course I have ! I can remember when one of his symphonies
was used to fill up an empty space in a programme where the main
dishes were Beethoven, Wagner, etc. He was thought of as a trinket,
charming, delicious, yes — but a trinket all the same. Yet there were
some real artists, like Saint-Saens, I remember quite well, who were
ready to grant him the great position he occupies now.
"It is not easy to define Mozart's genius. He escapes all definition* 9
Every genius escapes all definition. How can one define sublimity —
or even the charm of a flower?
Someone wrote that Mozart remained graceful even when he painted

something frightfu I.
The "grace" and "charm" of Mozart have become commonplaces.
There are many mansions in the house of the master who also knows
how to picture violence: how could a lyrical composer ignore them,
when he has to characterise wicked personalities in music? And if the
composer gives us an artistic and masterly reading of this character,
what reproach can we bring against him?
Beethoven said about Don Giovanni that a sacred art should not lower
itself by dealing with scandalous material.
As Beethoven grew older, his aspiration towards purity and
fraternity became stronger. The theme of Don Giovanni must have
displeased this noble moralist, but, I should say that in Don Giovanni
only the Da Ponte libretto can be called scandalous.
Could one apply this adjective to the music?
In his letters and notes one can detect an intellectual strength. In Mozart's
letters we often see traces of childishness.
This childishness must not disturb us. In Mozart there must
have existed a continuous joy of musical creation. I have in mind my
great friend, Granados, whose language was also free and without
malice. The puerile expressions and remarks — even when they are
voiced in crude forms, show in these people a kind of childish spirit,

always at the mercy of the creative instinct. Try to imagine the topics
of conversation and the jokes of Schubert when he met his friends in a
Viennese cafe. It is the spirit of relaxation, all superficial and without
importance. It may be that when Mozart wrote some farcical things
in his letters, or when Schubert burst into laughter with a glass of
beer in his hand, that wonderful creations were elaborating in their
subconscious minds, resulting in some of the most poetical works
they have left for us.
There are no rough drafts of Mozart's works. The facility . . .
It is as I told you before, and I don't think we need elaborate.
When Mozart took his pen in his hand, the work was already con-
ceived in his mind. There are some great artists who create even when
they are asleep.
"Within a special domain of musical expression, Mozart was certainly
an innovator and a conqueror. In those days when the different sound of
instruments did not come so much into consideration with the composers,
Mozart showed himself very sensitive to the material of the orchestra at his
disposal. His curiosity in this respect constituted a sort of anomaly. His
predecessors and his contemporaries used an instrument in relation to its

range and texture, hut did not take much notice of its own quality of sound."
(E. Vuillermoz.)
An innovator? This is not such a simple question. In Bach we
already notice a preoccupation with the different sounds of different
instruments. I would certainly say that Mozart was a genius who
continued such innovation.
But is it not the privilege of Mozart, amongst all the lyrical composers,
to have known how to make the most diverse personalities talk musically
with the same ease and perfection?
I agree, and I think his lyrical genius deserves all possible praise.
Before Mozart, nobody, except Bach, had succeeded in mixing so per-
fectly "expression and beauty ", says Boschot. "His six string quartets,
dedicated to Haydn, divide the history of music into two sections." 1
Even if this is not completely right, I accept the remarks, and
what else?
"Mozart," says Boschot, "is accused of having a style of writing too
much in one key. So much monotony; tonic, dominant, sub dominant,
l, 5, 4 ... / Instead of this so-called monotony, there is such a neat plan of
keys in his compositions, such evidence and tranquil certitude, this is precisely
what brings surprises and the power of all expressive effects. One accidental,
one modulation, becomes exciting, just because of this limpidity and this
tonal fixity."
1 All the quotations from Adolphe Boschot arc extracts from his book Mozart.
This opinion on the value of an "accidental" or a "modulation" is
good, but the accusation of being too much in the same key falls to
the ground by its own weight. In the art of modulation Mozart is a
past master. His music is so varied and so far from a shadow of mono-
tony. In his compositions we find a constant stream of varied rhythms,
different character, nuances, modulations, everything applied in the
most perfect and natural way. When the "tonal limpidity" appears
it is always required by the musical sense of the composition.
Beethoven said: "The best work of Mozart remains The Magic Flute.
Don Giovanni has still the Italian touch."
Some of The Magic Flute themes could also be of Italian origin.
Just as Bach uses the Italian recitative in his Passions.
The Italian influence is also evident in Mozart. Is it possible that from
the great works of Italian origin derives the rule that expression is to be found
only in melody, so that "singing" is the essential element of music?

I agree with this last appreciation, but not with the assertion that
"singing can only be found in the Italian School".
Dont we find reminiscences of bc\ canto amongst the composers before
Mozart?
Do these reminiscences come straight from the Italians or are they a
natural expression of melody which might equally come from other
sources? In other words, were the Italians the first to fix the rules of
melody?
Edwin Fischer 1 writes: "When the devil comes out in Beethoven, when
we find a whole scene characterised by a few notes, we should not say: This
is truly Beethoven, but: This is truly Mozart, since it is in Mozart's works
that the great dramatic moments are first to be found in the most striking
manner."
Possibly there are some instances when we could make such
comparisons, but the works of Mozart and those of Beethoven belong
to two very different worlds.
Wouldn't you transcribe some Mozart work for the ' cello and record it so
that we may have some of his music played by you?
I never had the idea of doing such a transcription. (There is already
a transcription for 'cello of a bassoon concerto.) I have often thought
that Mozart, who wrote for so many instruments, must have written
a 'cello concerto. But nowhere is there any mention of it. Since
Haydn and Boccherini have given us works of such importance from
1 All quotations from Edwin Fischer arc extracted from his book, Considera-
tions sur la Musique.
I38 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
the technical point of view, it is difficult to understand why Mozart
did not write a concerto for the 'cello. Sometimes I put the question
to myself: did Mozart think that in his day 'cello technique was
not sufficiently developed? But on the other hand, I imagine that
Boccherini (who was before Mozart) must have been a great 'cellist,
in view of the masterly technique revealed in his works.
Beethoven did not write a 'cello concerto, but he wrote a triple
concerto in which the 'cello part is the most important. However,
it proves that the 'cello was not played well enough in his day for
Beethoven to use it as a solo instrument. With Brahms, who wrote the
Double Concerto, the same thing must have happened — and yet when
he heard the Dvorak concerto he said that if he had known one could
produce such effects on a 'cello, he also would have written a concerto
for it. All this tends to show that the development of the 'cello as a
solo instrument is fairly recent. Bach is an exception, in that he foresaw,
two hundred years ago, the future development of the instrument.

Some musician has written about Mozart: "His art took him to the
highest spheres of spiritual maturity to which any human being could attain.
That is why he is so difficult to perform if the simplicity of his style is to be
preserved."
We should perform Mozart — as any other great composer — in
the way we feel about his music, and we must do it in all earnestness
and without prejudice. Possibly we may do the wrong thing; but it is
better to be carried away by our feeling, than to get tied up with
theories which would prevent us from experiencing it.
"A unanimous admiration has never been granted to Rameau, Bach,
Mozart, Schubert, Wagner, Debussy and many other composers who have
endowed music with discoveries more fertile and more original or positive
than Beethoven has; however, this unanimity has sprung to life quite effort-
lessly round his name. For some years now, important musicians have shown
signs of surprise at this anomaly, and hope that posterity will value with
more precision and justice the contribution of a great musician whose character
has been unwittingly misrepresented in literature. It is striking to realise that,
in fact, Beethoven owes his dictatorship more to poets and novelists than to
musicians.** (Emile Vuillermoz.) 1
Why use this word "dictatorship"? The immense radiance of
Beethoven may have momentarily outshone the glory of other

1 All quotations from Vuillermoz are from his book, Histoire de la Musique.
masters. This sort of thing has always happened. But time has always
given to everyone the glory he deserves. As for the musicians' attitude
towards Beethoven, what should we say about Schubert, who is so
close to him? And of the devotion of Schumann and Liszt? And the
"unswerving" veneration of Wagner? I don't understand why such
opinions should be reproduced. In any case, the greatness of Beethoven
does not lie in the amount of discoveries he made in music but in the
significance and transcendency of his message. In my opinion, anything
that has been said — truly or falsely — about him will not diminish
the radiance of the light such a mind has brought us, and it will
always be looked upon as one of the most glorious gifts humanity
has received.
". . . The abyss that separates the commonplace passages which abound
in the nine symphonies from the sublime thoughts that we find everywhere
in the sonatas and the string quartets" (Emile Vuillermoz.)
All geniuses, in the course of their lives, have been through a
process of development which is influenced by their personal ex-
perience. But in all genius, the germ is the thing to observe: and with
Beethoven, perhaps more than with other great composers, this germ
appears already in the first Opus. That is the most important fact to
notice, as against analysing the process, which inevitably bears the
marks of all stages every composer must go through.
It has been said that in the first Trios and Sonatas, the real Beethoven
is already there.
Yes, the early Opuses already carry the germ of the Ninth Symphony
and of the Missa Solemnis.
Opus I is the delicious Trio in E|? major which you played with
Istomin and Fuchs this year (1953) in the Abbey of St. Michel de Cuxa?
Yes, but Beethoven had written it when he was twenty-five. One
can imagine the attempts and the gropings which must have preceded
it, until he reached the mastery we already witness in this work.
Do you accept the famous division of Beethoven s works into "three
manners*?
Yes, as long as we only wish to classify the period of some of his
works, but not in order to draw irrelevant conclusions.
Would you say that the compositions of the third period are deeper and
"musically superior" to the others?

Deeper, yes. The Beethoven of the later years seems to hover in a
mysterious and sublime sphere. In any case, I would not dare to say
that, purely as "works of art", the later works are superior to the early
ones, not even to the earliest ones. One cannot fail to see that the
Opus lis a masterpiece in the fullest meaning of the word.
Debussy criticised Beethoven for "describing" instead of "suggesting"
or "insinuating", which, according to him, is the real role of music as an
art.
One can "describe" or "suggest". What really matters is the result,
not the method.
In one of the early string quartets of Beethoven we find the title Malin-
conia. Do you think that Beethoven might have been the first to describe
in music this melancholy which became a sort of disease amongst artists
affected by le mal du siecle?
As I pointed out to you before, we find that Bach has "described"
all manner of feelings, including melancholy. And I think one could
say the same thing about Mozart.

Dorit you think we ought to establish the difference between sadness and
melancholy in order to keep the latter for the romantics, who made it their
own and "exhibited" it — with varying degrees of sincerity, I feel bound to
say.
Maybe. Although sadness and melancholy are different, it would
sometimes be very difficult to draw a line showing exactly where
the two are separated. Especially with music, where one cannot put
one's finger on any intellectual conception and where emotional
reactions, with performers or listeners, differ endlessly.
All depends on our idea of romanticism. I see it first in Bach,
if one thinks of romanticism as a strong expression of feeling. In
Bach, all is expression, often bursting, overflowing.
And what about the romantic attitude to nature, not as scenery outside
the artist, but as an element in which he is absorbed? Beethoven, who wrote
"Nobody has loved nature as I have" , may have been the beginner of this
movement.
It also depends how we consider nature as an inspiration in music.
Who can say precisely how certain Italian composers of the XVIIth
century reacted to nature, or Bach, or Handel, and so many others?
In music, it is more difficult than in literature to establish neat divisions
between one tendency and another, for instance between classicism
and romanticism. Of course the pathos of Beethoven emphasises
certain aspects, but to go further and assert that these aspects have their
musical origin in him is a big step which I am not ready to take.
Do you think that the quality of pathos in Beethoven comes from the
"concentration of his soul"?
But with Mozart we also find, in spite of certain appearances, a
"concentrated sour*.
Arthur Honegger says: "What always puzzles the masses is that the
great composer was deaf. One cannot deny that a great deal of the admiration
devoted to Beethoven is due to his infirmity. To tell the truth, once we forget
the tragic side of this situation, the fact remains that, as a creator, he could
never hear the performance of his work, which must have raised many
technical difficulties for him. However, I am tempted to say that this affliction
forced him to 'wall' himself in, and helped him to concentrate with all his
genius, and, in so doing to avoid the 'insipidity and 'banalities' of those
days." 1
This deafness naturally affected Beethoven's character. However,
I would say that the great strength of his mind already protected him
from the usual banalities of life, which surrounded him just as they
do each one of us.

How do you see Beethoven as a man?
Just as he appears in the documents we have about him, the testi-
mony of his contemporaries and the descriptions of his biographers.
I have not got a personal picture of him in my mind. Although I can
say that I have seen Beethoven and have spoken to him ... in a dream
of course!
It was the Beethoven of the last period, a man stricken by a great
sorrow, but a very serene sorrow.
When writers, not musicians, speak of Beethoven . . .
It all depends how they set about it. For instance, I very much
like the biography by Edouard Herriot. On the other hand, without
wishing to depreciate the value and the interest of Romain Rolland's
writing, I fear that when he sometimes gets mixed up with very
technical questions, he generally shows that he is not qualified for it.
It has been said that in Fidelio the composer appears more like a poet
than a lyrical author for the stage.
Yes, everyone seems to think that Beethoven did not feel at ease
with the stage. It may be true. Everyone to his own opinion. But can
anyone deny the unforgettable impression Fidelio makes on the
listener?
Wagner recounts in Mein Leben that after the final rehearsal of the
Ninth Symphony in Dresden in 1849, Bakunin said to him "that if all
music were to be destroyed in the coming universal conflagration, we ought
at the risk of our lives to unite to preserve this symphony".
1 Arthur Honegger: Je suis compositeur. (Editions du Conquistador, Paris.)
It does indeed deserve to survive eternally, but perhaps Bakunin
was mainly thinking of the Hymn of Brotherhood, in the last movement.
Seid umschlungen, Millionen! — and then, when we hear this call
in our own times — and think of the hydrogen bomb . . . ! In spite
of all gruesome predictions and dangers we must not lose our faith.
I have always believed the day would come when the Ode to Joy
would be sung by all the peoples of the earth. I inscribed this thought
in the Book of the League of Nations at Geneva.
Vincent d'Indy has said that Beethoven s Sonatas are dominated by the
search for an idea. On the other hand, Furtwangler, having asserted that
Beethoven is neither a poet, nor a moralist, nor a philosopher* but only a
musician, goes on to say: "It appears that Beethoven, more than any other
musician, tends to answer the question put by his ideas in the most purely
musical form possible. ... He does not go half-way to meet the poet. And
that is why he is not lyrical like Schubert, or a dramatic musician like Wagner.
If he appears to be less willing to reconcile words and music, it is not
because he is less of a musician, but because he is more so, more exclusively a
musician." 1
First of all, I think that nobody can be "more exclusively a musician"
than Schubert is. That Beethoven has answered his ideas by elaborating
purely musical forms seems to be quite evident. But I must say that I
don't see very clearly what Furtwangler means with all this — perhaps
his words are a bit exaggerated. Otherwise, how could we explain
the character of supreme exaltation we find in the Hymn of Brotherhood
in the Ninth Symphony so intimately adapted to the central idea of
Schiller's text? I only give this as an example.
Curiously enough Furtwangler says about the finale oj the Ninth
Symphony: "This theme — a theme par excellence, a theme of the highest
type, the discovery of a great musician if ever there was one, this theme could
not be in anyway conceived in order to comment or expound one particular
text. Just the opposite: it looks as if it were the poem which expounds the
theme."
This theme becomes the musical climax (exclusively musical)
of this symphony, but I cannot agree with anyone who says that
it was not inspired by the Ode to Joy. When I hear it, I get an impres-
sion which is almost religious, a sort of feeling of fraternity, and it
penetrates me like a glorious musical rendering of the poetical
humanitarianism of Schiller.
1 All the quotations from Furtwangler are extracted from his book, Entretiens
sur la Musique.
"With Beethoven great discoveries, especially the invention of themes
and of details, are numerous. But that is not what his genius is made of
and those who see traces of hard work almost everywhere are not far from the
truth. But his intuition goes much deeper, and that, in his best works, allows
him to find a grouping of themes, made to complement each other by some
inevitable law." (Wilhelm Furtwangler.)
Supposing Beethoven had one quality only; for instance, that of
inventing great themes, but was lacking in the one Furtwangler talks
about, he would not be the great composer he is. However, we find
him complete because he possesses these two qualities amongst many
others. As for the themes, it is true that we can find in his note-books
all the transformations they underwent, which show the difficulties he
encountered before these themes finally took shape. If we take the slow
movement of the Eroica Symphony, we shall see how many phases it
went through before its completion. Nothing of the kind happened
with Mozart or Schubert, whose themes emerged entire and complete
in themselves, at least, so it seems to me.

Beethoven, I feel sure, had to fight with his material, and his
works did not reach perfection until they had undergone many
transformations. These transformations sometimes consisted of
changing one note only, as we see in the initial theme of the Ninth
Symphony (which is in my possession) where the previously modified
note corresponds with a similar chord, and where this transformation
simply gives a different rhythmical aspect to the final version.
"In Bach we find that the whole piece with all its developments exists
implicitly in the theme. In fact, Bach never wanders away from the material
of his principal theme, even in a fugue where there are counter subjects, the
style remains essentially monothematic. But in Beethoven, though the need
for development in any theme is just as urgent, the way to it is not rigorously
planned, as it is with Bach. The reason is that, with Beethoven, the develop-
ment does not rest exclusively on the first theme. He has many, and through
their contrast and interpenetration, the development proceeds on different
lines." (Furtwangler.)
Yes! That is what we find in Bach and in Beethoven. The latter
has felt the necessity of mixing up different themes. It can be compared
to a tree-trunk from which start so many ramifications. And some-
times we find Beethoven producing all of a sudden a completely
unexpected theme. One is tempted to ask "Where does it come
from?' , With Bach we find that, the requirements of musical ex-
pression being different, he does not proceed on the same lines. As

we said before, Bach goes right down to the bottom of the initial
theme, and exploits it deeply. Is the Beethoven form an innovation?
Of course it is, but he achieves it simply by saying what he has to say
without veil or artifice.
Hans von Bulow has said "The Well-Tempered Clavier is the Old
Testament, Beethoven s Sonatas the hew" '. Can we still say that?
Yes, but I would place The Well-Tempered Clavier in both the
Old and the New Testaments. As I have told you before, I think
that it is the foundation of all music.
Andre Coeuroy 1 says: "Individualism is the most striking attribute of
Romanticism. The sort of individualism which leads some musicians to show
not only their personality in their works, but even the vicissitudes of their
existence. We find nothing in Bach, Mozart, or even in Beethoven, which
might suggest that." Idont suppose you will agree with this?
It is not the whole question. What I don't see is how there could
be such a cleavage between the works of a musician and the "vicissi-
tudes of his existence". It is inevitable that one should affect the other
at every stage. On the occasion of the departure of one of his great

friends, Bach wrote a piece full of the sorrow of parting. We could
find so many examples like this and in any case, what do we know of
the feelings of the ideas and dreams which have inspired the com-
positions of these masters?
Talking of Schubert, someone has said that he had no purpose or doctrine.
He is just "full of music*.
Well, without being pedantic, he could translate his feelings into
music in a way which proved what a great composer he was.
Some say that his life did not tally with his genius, others, that it was a
great example of modesty!
Yes, his life is an example of simplicity and modesty. In Schubert
we find a great artist, unassuming and unaffected. In fact, a rare
example amongst artists of all periods!
"He writes a short work with perfection; the lieder, the waltz, the
impromptu, the moment musical."
I agree, but what of the long works?
"In such cases Schubert does not follow the classical system of developing
his themes. Romanticism comes into it in the sense that he will paint the
same theme in different colours and change its harmony and its key. No other
1 La Musique des origines d nos jours. (Librairie Larousse, Paris.)
composer of the Romantic school has been so prolific in the domain of harmonic
change" (Andre Coeuroy.) 1 This is an arguable opinion!
Very arguable. And what do we say about Beethoven?
Is Schubert a symphonist? The Unfinished very often played — the
C Major Symphony, not so often. The others . . . ?
We are beginning to understand the other symphonies. There
was a time when people talked about the lengthiness of Schubert's
works. It doesn't exist! One day in Vienna, at the house of Karl
Wittenstein, I saw the old manuscript of Schubert's Second Trio
for piano, viola and violoncello. On it I saw annotations and a cut
made by Joachim — it just shows you how wrong great men can be!
No cuts are required in Schubert. Joachim made the same mistake as
Schumann, Gounod, Grieg and so many others in regard to some of
Bach's works.
As for the string quintet with two violoncelli you have played . . .
So many times and always with the greatest admiration and the
deepest emotion!
In Schubert do you feel that indefinable nostalgia of which he is supposed
to have the secret?
If one had to enumerate all the things one can find in his music !
There is an inner sensitiveness which has nothing to do with the stage —
although we have Rosamunde.
I prefer Rosamunde to hundreds of lyrical pieces written for the
stage.
"In the piano works" says Andre Coeuroy ', li Schubert follows the sonata
form which he does not try to change at all. But in the short pieces, with
more freedom of form, he becomes more of a precursor and opens the
way to the Novelets of Schumann, as well as to the Songs Without
Words of Mendelssohn, the Pelerinages of Liszt or the Impromptus of
Chopin."
There is some truth in this, although we must not forget that
Beethoven was also a precursor in this form; in his Bagatelles he used a
form which was best adapted to pure fantasy.
In Ueders Schubert has not been equalled.
I agree! Not only do we admire the beauty of the melodies, but

the accompaniments acquire an importance and an expressiveness
which only a master could achieve.
"He does not try anything new in the construction of a work, but he uses
the classical form to expound his own emotion." (Andre Coeuroy.)
1 Op. cit.
Why should he invent anything new, if he found the usual
form of the Sonata and the Symphony suitable to his own creation?
He has given us in his mind certain things that are completely his
own. When we hear a work of Schubert we never think that it
resembles Beethoven or any other composer. It is "his own music"
— entirely his own — and it can say things and move us as nothing else
can.
You once performed the Mass in B|? with your orchestra and the Orfeo
Gracienc, didnt you?
Yes ! It is a work which is very seldom done.
Like so many others of Schubert! Dont you think that posterity has been
unjust to Schubert? Out of his immense production, only a small proportion

appears on concert programmes.
Schubert is very much played in chamber music concerts. As for
the Symphonies, they were neglected as were those of Mozart and
Haydn — they were considered as minor works. But this state of
affairs seems to be disappearing. But in any case, as time goes on, the
more I find Schubert one of the purest poets of music.
"Schumann, who started to compose rather late, has remained a sort of
artisan, exquisite and unique, but more at home in intimate music than in big
works." (Andre Coeuroy.)
That may be . . . each artist is what he is.
"As soon as the piano intervenes in his symphonic music, the interest
increases. Thus, the greatness of the Piano Concerto in A Minor." (Andre
Coueroy.)
I don't agree with this remark; with the piano or without, it is the
same great poet who speaks to us.
The Violin Concerto which Schumann wrote at the request of Joachim,
and which gave rise, a few years ago, to some stormy debates. . . .
I don't know it, so I can't say anything.
Many biographers content themselves merely with noting the existence

of the 'Cello Concerto.
It must be because they fail to see the interest and the value of this
work. It is one of the finest works one can hear — from beginning to
end the music is sublime.
"Schumann's themes are generally brief, rarely more than four bars, very
often written in an ascending line which gives to the melody an interrogative
character, very typical of Schumann s restlessness."
That is true !
Talking of Schumann, Furtwangler says "His flights faltered prematurely".
Many have spoken of his difficulty, even the impossibility for him in develop-
ing his themes. "The conciseness of his themes," says Coeuroy, "has brought
about the criticism of 'short inspiration*.**
There is no question of "brief inspiration" with Schumann. I find
that in any of his compositions the inspiration ever weakens from be-
ginning to end. Schumann is pre-eminently a person who acts under
the influence of some mystical inspiration, what the French call an
inspire, and I mean it in its highest sense. The structural elements of his
works are those best fitted to his needs of expression, and it would be
out of place to speak of any incapacity for development. If his themes
are short it must be simply because this conciseness suited his inspiration
and not because Schumann could not or did not know how to develop
them.
Rene Dumesnil wrote: "Schumann s genius is one of the most varied that
has ever inspired a musician.**
I absolutely agree!
"One day when Schumann tried to define his personality, he created for
himself a Symbolic second self, which seemed for him the only solution of a
psychological problem! Hence his reincarnation as the twin brothers and
enemies: — Eusebius and Florestan. Here was an indication of his great
perspicacity, which all his biographers have had to recognise.
" Schumann s dual personality consisted of: — an elegiac dreamer and
passionate apostle . . . all his life is dominated by this instinctive duality in
his artistic and philosophical tendencies. This inner instability, alas, ended
in the tragic paroxysm in which he lost his reason.** (Vuillermoz.)
This opinion is interesting. In all great masters one can discover
not only a duality, but also a multiplicity of tendencies. If we wished to
go further in analysing Schumann's genius, we would find many other
elements and peculiarities to be investigated.

Talking of his lieders: "The melody itself is, as it were, supported by the
sense of poetry, to which Schumann responded eagerly, all the more, because
in his youth, he was surrounded by poetry, hence his sure and subtle know-
ledge of literature, which gives him an advantage on Schubert.** (Andre
Coeuroy.)
What is true is that in his lieders, Schumann not only interpreted
the character of the text, but also took care of each word, which,
perhaps, Schubert did not do as much; with the latter, inspiration
generally worked in the atmosphere of the written text, in order to
transfer to the music the poetical idea, although we sometimes find
him following the magic of the words very closely. In any case it
would be idle to assert that Schumann is inferior or superior to
Schubert.
What do you think of Schumann s opinion when he says, "Any modifi-
cation in the works of the great composers, any omission or addition, should
be completely barred as being detestable"?
It is the biggest affront that can be made to art. 1
One can do a worse injury to art to allow a performance to be in-

expressive and dead because of a so-called respect for some things as static
as the printed notes and signs of music. Writing as we know it being a very
incomplete means of expression, how could the composer indicate every-
thing? Does Schumann {or any other composer) give all indications that are
needed?
It just happens that a number of musicians say that instrumentation
is Schumann's weak point, and there are conductors who take the
liberty of modifying some details in the instrumentation of certain
passages in some of his symphonic works. Personally, as I do not share
this opinion, I have always respected the text of the original version
when I conduct, but it is not for me to condemn those who sincerely
think that their devotion to the music they perform imposes such
minor alterations.
If we speak about Beethoven, should we condemn some correc-
tions (as Wagner has himself made) in the instrumentation of the
Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony? Cerainly not!
If we proceed from Schumann to his great friend Mendelssohn , why is it
that his music has been so neglected for some time now?
It may be because he knows too much in comparison to the
apprentices of our days.

The grace, the clarity and the distinction of Mendelssohn! Some people
think he is the Murillo of music.
Yes, I have heard this comparison! But everyone can make com-
parisons. Personally, I prefer the musician to the painter!
J have read that the admiration of Mendelssohn for Schumann and Liszt
was not entirely without reservations.
I do not know of his reservations about Schumann, but I have heard
of those concerning Liszt. I wonder if they were not all more or less
1 As Casals asked in the chapter on Bach: "Why did Schumann write piano
accompaniments to the Six Suites for Solo Violin? These are completely foreign
to Bach's music!" {Translator's note.)
dictated by questions of the various cliques then existing: Mendelssohn,
Schumann and Brahms, and on the other hand, Wagner and Liszt.
Would you say that Mendelssohn is a romantic "without the excess or
frenzy' of Romanticism?
Yes, a romantic who felt at ease within the mould of classicism

and who was able to solve, with an elegance and imaginativeness
peculiar to himself, the most difficult problems of form.
Did the style of Mendelssohn have repercussions on music in Germany and
elsewhere?
Indeed it did. There was a time when every musician had to submit
to the Mendelssohn fascination, so strong was the influence he had had.
At that time all musicians — and I was one of them — had to understand
Mendelssohn before appreciating Beethoven. He has certainly been
neglected in recent years. But I feel sure he will come to his own
again.
"Liszt was the first to insist on the complete independence of the fingers.
When he played he did not use the wrist and the hand only, but also employed
the articulations of the elbow and the shoulder, including the arms, which were
thus set free; he crossed them over, leaping from bass to treble at a speed like
that of a conjuring trick. Movements of the torso which, hitherto, had been
kept rigid, were part of a technical scheme to distribute the flow of movement of
the arms and fingers, even to the back of the pianist: his whole body expressed
his emotion." (Emile Haraszti.) 1
All great artists are innovators. Liszt's conception of the piano was
to give it an orchestral character. He probably was not even conscious
of making any discovery or of the movements of his body while he

played. All he was aiming at was to treat the piano as if it were a
powerful orchestra, and that was the cause of different movements and
positions.
I have read that Liszt heard Paganini in Paris, and was so tremendously
impressed that he spent a long time practising with the idea of making the
piano do as much as Paganini did on the violin.
Yes, but before he went to Paris Liszt already had such personal
ideas about the piano; his conception of the instrument had not come
by learning or imitation; it was just his own. It is true that Paganini
made a great impression on him, as he did on all those who heard him,
1 Liszt et la Musique Hongroise, in La musique des origines h nos jours. (Librairie
Larousse, Paris.)
and that happened because this great virtuoso used the resources of the
violin as no one had before him.
Liszt must be the composer who has written the greatest number of
transcriptions: apparently more than Jive hundred. Some people say they
are not all equally good.

Some may be better than others, but they all show that they have
been written by the master of the piano.
"Of all his works, the twenty Hungarian Rhapsodies are the most vital
examples of his Hungarian style. Perhaps it was under the influence of
Chopin's Polonaises that he used the melodies of the dilettante composers of
his period, popularised by the tzigancs." (Emilc Haraszti.)
Of course Liszt knew the folklore of his country, but I do not
consider him as a typical Hungarian. Although the Rhapsodies sound
Hungarian, in their composition Liszt applies the same ideas as in his
other piano works (always searching for orchestral effects). There is
nothing especially Magyar in Liszt's writing as a whole.
Do you remember when you were in Hungary and asked Bartok and
Koddly whether they thought that the Liszt of the Rhapsodies had been their
predecessor in the creation of a national music?
I can't say I remember that. Whereas with Bart6k and Koddly I
feel that their music is impregnated by the savour of their soil, I don't
find the same influence in Liszt; whether this happens on account of his
universality, or of the circle he lived in, or his ideology, I can't say. He
has shown in his Rhapsodies that he could assimilate the popular
characteristics of his country, and it is strange to find a man, who when
he wanted to could be entirely Hungarian, showing so little trace of it
in his other works. On the other hand we find Chopin is Polish to the
marrow of his bones. Liszt is the creator of the Symphonic Poem,

although these works arc not, really, programme music. However,
one can say that Liszt started the idea ot^ a programme in music; he
discovered and developed a musical form based on first and second
themes, episodes, etc. . . . from which emerged the Symphonic Poem.
/ believe you admire Berlioz?
Yes, certainly. One is tempted now and then to use the adjective
"fantastic" to describe his works, probably because we find in him an
artist who has broken right away from accepted procedure. This gives
a feverish, sometimes frenzied, quality to his music, which is neverthe-
less full of genius. The Damnation of Faust is a work I admire enormously.
()// the question of Liszt and Wagner: "In Liszt we find that when he
uses characteristic themes they play the same part as the leitmotiv of Wagner.
But who had the priority? We have not got sufficient data on this subject
yet, but it seems obvious that the accidentals and unharmonics of Tristan
would never have been written without Liszt. . . ."
In the correspondence between Liszt and Wagner, we can see how
the man who wrote Tristan acknowledges his debt of gratitude to his
friend and benefactor. The Symphonic Poems of Liszt are, in a way,

Wagner avant la lettre . . "even if one admits that Liszt's chromaticism,
when it started, had a flavour of Chopin {although Liszt went much further
than Chopin in his harmonic progressions)"
I never found any trace of Chopin in Wagner. It is Liszt and not
Chopin who influenced Wagner's chromaticism.
". . . Liszt was a forerunner in the field of revolutionary harmony. In
Berlin, people were violently against these harmonies, which they described
as 'dissonance' and 'musical terrorism .
In Liszt, as in Wagner, there is no "musical terrorism". All can be
explained, and all is linked together. "Terrorism" came later. . . .
"It was the piano which helped Liszt to develop his harmonic richness,
which in its chromatic flights sometimes produces the most daring effects. Chopin
and Schumann also owe the profusion of their harmonies to the piano."
(Emilc Haraszti.)
Daring effects? Yes, but not in any way strange: even easy to under-
stand. In the same way Schumann's harmonic structure is perfectly
easy to understand: he, himself, invented his own chomaticism.
Chromaticism and the profusion of modulations can already be found
in Schubert. I don't think that it was the piano that was responsible for
the developments of chromaticism in these composers, but only the
music they wanted to write.

J have read that in i860 Brahms, Joachim and others published a manifesto
against the "music oj the future" which was aimed at Wagner as much as at
Liszt.
The divergences which existed between these two groups were
very regrettable. Fortunately, when great masters are involved, time
always seems to obliterate such details while consolidating their
prestige. Future generations will remember Wagner, Liszt and
Brahms and forget the rivalries and the polemics of that time.
You always speak with great admiration of Liszt's generosity and of the
disinterested protection he extended to so many of his friends. It has been said
that Weimar marked a date in the history of music.
Not only Weimar: it is the radiance of his musical achievement and
of his fabulous personality which will place Liszt very high in the
history of music. The universality and the generosity of his genius
caused him to be interested in all creations and musical manifestations
of his period. (There is an exception which must be recorded: Liszt,
who was an enthusiast of Wagner, did not recognise the high value of
Brahms' music.)
As he got older he still had a great desire to help young composers. It was
through him that Saint-Saens 1 Samson and Delilah was produced at
Weimar.
I well remember the veneration Saint-Saens had for Liszt. And, I
presume, a great deal of gratitude.
I remember your telling me one day that you had been able to trace all the
contemporaries of Liszt you have known, the extraordinary and lively per-
sistence of the great impression which he made on them.
Yes, indeed. I could verify this with all the former pupils of Liszt
who have been my friend, — all great pianists. Busoni, Siloti, d'Albert,
Sauer, etc. For example, Siloti, who was a perfectly normal person,
would sometimes say to me in a most natural way: "I am very happy
today. During the night Liszt told me this and that," and his wife
shared his enthusiasm. I said: "Bravo!" What else could I have
said? It would have been cruel to start arguing with him on the
subject.
Alexander Borodin, after a stay in Weimar, wrote: "Liszt never imposes
his method on his pupils, neither does he make detailed observations regarding
the position of the hands or the touch; he allows the greatest liberty as to the
means used to obtain the desired result."
Then what did he do? How did he teach?

Did Siloti not tell you?
No, it may seem incredible, but he never spoke of the ways in
which Liszt taught. I could see that it was a subject he did not want to
discuss.
What about the other pupils of Liszt whom you have known, Busoni,
Sauer and others?
They did not speak to me about it either. Yet all my conversations
with Siloti invariably ended by talking of Liszt. My friend gave the
impression that it was the Master himself who was playing. (As a
matter of fact he had the same figure, the same face, the same hands
and the same wart on the cheek — a perfect double in fact.) Busoni's
way of playing was different. Of course with pupils of this kind, one
can understand why it was not necessary for the master of the piano to
waste his energy in teaching technique only. Nevertheless I should
Piano and pipe

Casals with a
young Chinese
pupil
s*
Casals, Prades, 1949
very much like to know of what exactly his lessons consisted. It was
not only his pupils, everybody was subjugated by his personality.
Siloti told me that at a gathering with Kings and Princes, it was Liszt
who was the real king.
What about the concert that Anton Rubinstein . . .

. . . gave one day near Weimar? Yes, Siloti told me about it. Liszt
had advised his pupils to go and hear the celebrated pianist, and report
to him afterwards. Next day they all came to see Liszt and told him
with enthusiasm how they had enjoyed the concert. At that time Liszt
had given up playing in public, but having listened attentively to his
pupils' descriptions of the concert, he got up, went to his upright
piano, and without saying anything performed the whole programme
of Rubinstein! "How wonderful it was . . . even more than wonder-
ful," Siloti said to me. . . .
Enesco said that "people have not yet forgiven Liszt for being a great
pianist and a great composer at the same time' 1 . 1 I wonder what causes this
suspicion of "virtuoso's music 1 ' amongst music-lovers?
Unfortunately it certainly exists. (Enesco himself, and many
others, have been victims of this attitude.) It seems to me that the oppo-
site would be more logical, since the high value of a performer should
awake more interest in his compositions. What can we do about it?
I have thought of Liszt as a great virtuoso and I have always regarded
his music as being the work of a great master.
Liszt wrote about Chopin: "It is no use writing tempo rubato, it does
not teach anything to those who know nothing." Later on, Chopin ceased
to add this indication to his music, as he realised that, given enough intelli-
gence, the player would see the need for "irregularity" himself 2.
But of course! Only today, when I was playing one of Bach's

Partitas on the piano, I thought to myself, as I always do: how is it that
* 'purists' ' don't realise that following written notes a la lettre is a
mistaken course, quite contrary to the music itself? The written note
is like a strait-jacket, whereas music, like life itself, is constant move-
ment, continuous spontaneity, free from any restriction. How can
great artists confine themselves to the rigidity of written signs? Let us
imagine the human language shown in values, and that linguistic
"purists" compelled themselves to follow the rigidity of these values.
What would be the result?
1 All quotations from Georges Enesco are from his Entretiens radiophoniques
avec Bernard Gavoty.
2 Franz Liszt: Sur Chopin.
Cortot writes 1 that in Chopin s correspondence one finds "few suggestions
which, for many people, would have put the technical performance on a plane
of secondary importance, the imagination rather than the fingers at the service
of the inner significance of sonority 1 .
But Chopin was particularly careful with the indications of
dynamics. In that he was very different from Granados, who used to
say that anyone playing his works only had to feel and decide the
tempo for himself. This way of writing put me in an awkward position
in New York before the first performance of Goyescas. The conductor
and the American musicians kept on asking me exactly how this and
that should be played. And when I translated their questions to
Granados he said, "But tell them to play as it seems right to them!"
What do you think of Chopin s works for the ' cello?
There is a Sonata and a Polonaise. They are quite well written for the
'cello. Chopin is not a composer who believes in writing easy instru-
mental parts for performers, an attitude I approve of, since it is the
best way to improve instrumental technique.
And what of the famous Nocturne you played when you were young?
Half a century ago I used to play this transcription as an encore.
Everywhere I was asked to play it, and as soon as I had played the last
work on my programme the audience would shout "the Chopin
Nocturne!" I gave in against my will. I soon decided not to play it any
more, in order to avoid becoming known as the musician of the
Chopin Nocturne. . . .
An old gramophone record of this transcription has just reached
me — and I must say, that as I listen to it, I cannot repress a certain
emotion when confronted by this nostalgic reminder of my long
distant youth.
Heinrich Heine said about Chopin: "Poland gave him his chivalrous
character and his 'historical' melancholy, France, his graceful elegance,
Germany his dreamy profundity. . . . But now we dont think of him as
Polish, French or German, he has a higher origin: he comes from the
country of Mozart, Raphael and Goethe. His real home is in the birthplace
of poetry.
I don't agree. I find his music essentially Polish; if you select any of
his subjects and look for the origin of his inspiration, you'll find it can
only come from his native land. I just cannot see what there is in
Chopin that could be French or German.
1 Alfred Cortot: Aspects de Chopin. (Editions Albin Michel, Paris.)
When you were studying in Barcelona, did you hear any opera of
Wagner?
I cannot remember exactly, but I don't think I did until later on.
There were some musicians and music-lovers at that time who said that
Wagner "killed" melody and also that he gave the wind instruments an
importance out of all proportion.

Right from the beginning I thought that Wagner's music was
great and that he used very natural means of expression which were
easy to understand.
Were you impressed by all his symbolism, his philosophy, and other
considerations that were outside the realm of music?
No. I was not interested in those: it was the music which impressed
me straight away.
Have you been to Bayreuth?
Yes, I think about 1907.
What is your recollection of it?
I thought the actors were not very good and not up to their task.
Did you meet Cosima in Bayreuth?
No, but later on I met her daughter, the Countess of Gravina.
The name of Hans Richter is inseparable from the Wagner story. When
you used to talk to him in Manchester, did you find that he had remained
faithful to the memory of his Master, in spite of all he had to go through with
him?
Yes, years did not seem to have obliterated any of it.
Your friend, Ysaye, having heard Tristan for the first time, speaks of an
"annihilation in rapture". When he got home, having taken his shoes off he
threw them on the fire, at the thought that in this life one had to give up
ecstasy in order to attend to things as dull as unlacing one's shoes.
I did not throw my shoes in the fire after I heard Tristan, but I
remember how deeply moved I was, I am sure quite as much as my
dear friend Ysaye. There must have been very few musicians of my
generation who did not fall under the spell of Tristan.
In France, it was Lamoureux who first produced Wagner on the stage
[in Paris) in spite of all the protests expressed in an unfortunate pamphlet
called "Une Capitulation".
Lamoureux's admiration for Wagner made him put aside all other
considerations. He firmly believed that, in spite of a very justifiable
resentment, his countrymen should not be deprived of hearing the
work of a musical genius. When in 1899 Tristan was given in Paris for
the first time there was no fear of any scandal, for Wagner's cause had
already been won in France. But when Lamoureux first produced

Lohengrin a real battle took place in the theatre, during which shots
were fired.
Tell me: I imagine you must have had a great admiration for Hans von
Biilow.
Of course I had. And that reminds me of a very interesting conver-
sation I had at a party in Venice with the Countess of Gravina (who,
as you know, went with her mother when she left her first husband.)
I said to the Countess that I very much wanted to possess an auto-
graphed manuscript of her father's music. She said, "What a pity, I
have nothing to give you: I had a leaf from the sketch of the Twilight
of the Gods but I gave it away to someone quite recently. (Wagner in
those days was already looked upon as a semi-God and the Countess
obviously thought I was referring to her mother's second husband.)
"Forgive me, Madam," I said, stressing my answer, "it is an autograph
of your father I wanted to have." She was most surprised and said, "No
one has ever asked me for such a thing."
Some critic has written that some eighty years after Wagner's death "the
only works he is remembered by are a few grand operas, which were those he
least cared for".
As far as I am concerned, what interests me in any opera is the
music, and that of Wagner is always the music of a great master. (The
day before yesterday I was listening to the second act of Lohengrin on
the wireless. How beautiful it is, and how pale some of our contempor-
ary pieces sound, as compared to it.) The "drama" in the libretto of an
opera is to me almost without importance, just as are the symbolical
and philosophical allusions it tries to convey.
With a certain amount of irony Schonberg once said, talking of post-
Wagnerian operas: "A symphony for full orchestra with accompanying
voice." According to Schonberg, Wagner managed to keep some dramatic
structure together in spite of the symphonic tendency he followed, but he
says that this structure tended to disappear in Wagner's successors.
I must own that I have not followed the development of Opera
since Wagner. (It would have been a very different thing if, for
instance, it had been a question of Mozart's operas.) Yet I must say I
have been very interested in Richard Strauss' operas. I think they are
the most important ones of our period.
Darius Milhaud thinks that the works of Wagner were the prelude to
the Hitlerian tragedy.
Up to a point, it is possible. But if we investigate further perhaps
we ought to talk of Brahms and even of Mozart who, after all, was the
creator of German opera. Did I ever tell you what happened to

Brahms when he was in Copenhagen?
No.
Brahms went there to conduct some of his own works, and he was
taken to see the Thorwalsden Museum, which is an object of national
pride for the Danes. Do you know what Brahms remarked? "Why
are these sculptures here? They ought to be in Berlin." This caused such
indignation that Brahms had to go away without conducting the
advertised concerts. It is often natural to find national feeling in some
work of art; the danger is when this feeling is used to exalt the greed
for domination.
Do you remember your visit to Tribschen with Emil Ludwig in 194s?
Yes, I remember it very well. My friend, who had no sympathy at
all for Wagner, said to me, pointing to a copy of the magnificent
portrait of Wagner by Renoir (the original of which belongs to
Cortot), "Look at him, the old comedian. "
Nietzsche also, after his great quarrel with Wagner, said he was very
much of a comedian.
Yes, but before the rupture, Nietzsche had been under the spell of
his friend and he had spoken in the highest terms of the reforms in
lyric drama started by Wagner.

When you were at Tribschen you sat at Wagner s piano to play the
Prelude of Tristan.
Yes, and I was very surprised to find Wagner's piano completely
out of tune
The way Ludwig described this visit seems to show that you shared his
antipathy for Wagner as a man.
No. I think one should show some tolerance; the vanity and the
terrible bad temper of Wagner must have caused some very disagree-
able scenes, but, in order to judge him, one should first remember the
atmosphere in which artists of that period lived. In any case, the works
which survive a great artist are what matter.
It has been said that great musicians like Bruckner and Mahler have been
eclipsed by the amazing radiance of Wagner.
It is true.
Apparently nowadays, through long-playing records which have been
made, their works are getting much more known outside Germany.
I am glad to hear it. As I told you before, I do believe that great
works of art come to be recognised in time. In the case of Bruckner,

it was even touching to see his modesty. Do you know that he used
to hide himself in order to see Wagner in the distance as he came out of
the theatre? From what one of his pupils told me, Bruckner's nature
was so angelic that he went into a trance while he played the organ.
You once told me thai your first contact with Brahms 1 music had been an
overwhelming experience.
Yes, it is very true. I was a child then and no one had told me
anything about him. I did not have to think twice before I realised I
was hearing the music of an exceptional master.
"He forces his romantic extravagances into a mould of strict classicism.
He only seems to be at ease with the most rigorous counterpoint'' (Rene
Dumesnil.) 1
If, in order to express what he had in him, he chose a "strict
classicism" and with it wrote great music, there is nothing to criticise.
Brahms had enough genius and craftsmanship to choose the means
which best suited his musical conceptions. Why not accept a composer's
ways of saying what he has to say, as long as they lead to great
artistic achievements?
About Brahms' music, Darius Milhaud said, not very long ago, "Bogus
greatness, long drawn out"
No, Milhaud is wrong. Brahms is a great composer amongst the
great ones.
"Whoever likes or dislikes Brahms cannot avoid his great personality,
which is precisely the reason why he is accepted or rejected; his music calls
at once for adherence or refusal. There is no middle way." (Rene Dumesnil.)
If one is sensitive and not perverse, one can only reject what is bad,
ugly or stupid. Are there any trustworthy or truthful people who could
apply these adjectives to Brahms' music? Therefore, those people Mr.
Dumesnil has in mind in his article have not got the right to intervene
in the cause of the composer. Brahms' position in France should be
made clear once and for all. Mr. Dumesnil could do that very well.
He knows that the French public would like to hear Brahms, but that
a number of musicians and critics always run him down and try to
stop further performances out of pure prejudice. The proof of this
prejudice of the critics and composers towards Brahms' music, is
contained in the false accusation that this music is too Germanic. (The
same might apply to Mahler, Bruckner, Reger, etc.) Pierre Lalo,
1 Le Monde; Paris, jth August, 1953.

the celebrated critic, is largely responsible for this state of affairs, which
spread from France to countries like Belgium, Switzerland (the
Romande part), Italy and Spain. It may be due to incomprehension on
his part, but I should say it is mostly dictated by bad faith, which is
sad to relate. I have known a time, in Paris, when it was impossible to
speak of Brahms to Debussy or Ravel, and even to Faure. It hurts me
to think of it. I can remember an article in Figaro signed by Alfred
Bruneau after a performance of the Brahms Violin Concerto at a
concert of the Colonne Orchestra. He only wrote: "Mr. Carl Flesch
played the long and heavy concerto of Brahms/'
Did Faure also dislike Brahms?
Faure always asked me to sit on the jury for the yearly 'cello com-
petition when I was in Paris. One year the candidates had to play a
Brahms piece, and I have not forgotten the remarks Faure made to me
on the music !
Some people have said that the misunderstanding of Brahms' music in
France could he compared to the same misunderstanding of Faure s music in
Germany. Did you play Fauri in Germany during your tours in that
country?
Yes, I have played Faure in Germany, Austria and in the German

part of Switzerland.
And how did the public take it?
Always very favourably, although I must own that Faure is almost
unknown and little played in Germany.
iC Brahms was criticised for having written his Requiem in a 'dead'
language, which is not even the language of Beethoven or Mozart, hut that of
the pre-classic period. What we want to know is whether Brahms, having
gone to this 'Fountain of Youth', reappeared younger or older. The answer to
this is a question of taste. But it is impossible, without being unfair, to accuse
him of having dived into it." (Rene Dumesnil.)
He "dived" into it willingly and that's all. The question is: Is the
Requiem a great work?
I have read in Brahms' correspondence: "If we cannot write with as much
beauty as Mozart and Haydn, at least let us write with as much purity in
the counterpoint and harmony."
That is splendid. There is advice I would gladly give to any young
composer.
Is it true that when Brahms wrote his Violin Concerto and his Double
Concerto he got his great friend Joachim to give him advice on the technical
side?
l6o CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
Yes. Brahms followed some of Joachim's advice, but not all. (I have
read their correspondence on the subject.) For instance, in the bowing
in the theme of the Finale of the Double Concerto, Brahms did not agree
(and quite rightly) with Joachim's indications, since they did not fit in
with the character Brahms had given to this movement.
This Concerto is, I believe, dedicated to Joachim and Hausmann.
Yes. Joachim having parted from his wife, Brahms took her side,
with the result that their friendship was broken. One can guess the con-
sternation this rupture caused amongst their mutual friends, especially
Hausmann and Wirth. Eventually these two managed to effect a
reconciliation between Brahms and Joachim. This was the reason
why Brahms wrote the Double Concerto, to show his gratitude.
It is a masterly work. I possess, at Sant Salvador, a photograph
dedicated by Brahms to Joachim and Hausmann in memory of this
occasion.
Ysaye, when talking of the Violin Concerto, said: ". . . the technical
knowledge is what makes it so interesting in every way". On the other hand,
when talking of the Beethoven Violin Concerto, Ysaye wrote: "Do not let
us forget that the work, which is the object of this study, is primarily lyrical
and the raison d'etre of the violin {its singing quality) is at the bottom of
it all, whereas in the Brahms Concerto it is outrageously lacking." 1
Did Ysaye say that?
Yes.
It is hard to believe. And also, does this singing quality of the violin
ever stop in the Brahms Concerto! Furthermore, you ought to have
heard how Ysaye played it.
The large symphonic output of Brahms can only be considered as a con-
tinuation, not as progress.
But what is progress in art? That is a question I'd like to put, and I
should like to have some pertinent answers.
On one occasion Vincent d'Indy (who had previously sent one of his
compositions to Brahms) went to see hir : and was not received. Brahms
easily lost his temper and often gave slashing answers. Did I ever tell
you what he said to a 'cellist?
No.
It was during a performance of the second Sonata in F, with
Brahms playing the piano part (which has very turbulent accents at the
beginning). The 'cellist said to him: "Master I cannot hear myself," to

1 A. Ysaye: Eugene Ysaye — Sa vie, Son oeuvre, Son influence, d'apres les docu-
ments recueillis par sonfils. Preface de Menuhin. (Les deux Sirenes, Paris.) P. 393.
MUSIC OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY l6l
which Brahms, who probably had reason to complain of the 'cellist's
playing, replied: "How lucky you are!"
There is an opinion on Brahms given by a German critic which is very
different from that of Vincent d'Indy: "What distinguishes Brahms from a
number of small composers is the fact that he brought new ideas to the old
forms and has also disciplined and brought under control the forces of fantasy
and imagination, thus bringing together the contradictory forms of classicism
and romanticism." (Miller-Blattau.)
Yes, this seems to me fairly true. Brahms is given to great emotion
and he never sinks to dreary academism. He never even dreamt of
being an innovator, but all the same he has been one by giving to his
music the natural imprint, the soft and deep light of his personality. I
should have liked to have known him. Some of his friends who are also
mine have told me of what I missed.

VIII
Music of Yesterday and Today (ii)
Now I would like to question you about some musicians you have known
personally. You must have seen Albeniz again after he had heard you at the
Cafe Tost and offered to take you to England?
Of course ! A few years later I had occasion to see Albeniz frequently.
I have read somewhere that Count de Morphy also took an interest in
Albeniz. He sent him to study the piano at the Brussels Conservatoire when
he was fifteen.
Yes. Did I never tell you how Count de Morphy met Albeniz? The
Count was travelling by train with his wife and daughter when he
heard noises under the seat. Leaning down, he discovered a boy often
or twelve, hiding. It was Albeniz. "Who are you?" said the- Count. "I
am a great artist," answered the boy . . . The childhood and adolescence
of this great musician was a series of romantic adventures!
Tell me about Albeniz as a pianist. I was told that he did not play in
public after 1892.
I only heard him play his own works, but I always thought he was
a remarkable pianist. His hands, which were rather small, had an aston-
ishing strength and suppleness. I remember calling on him at the

Continental Hotel in Barcelona when he was wearing just a pair of
trousers and smoking his usual cigar. He was finishing some compo-
sition which he immediately played to me on the piano. I had heard
him before in Madrid at Count de Morphy's house and in Paris,
where he lived near my Villa Molitor.
Do you think that Pedrell had much influence on Albeniz and on
Granados?
Not the slightest. When very young Granados had been a pupil
of Pedrell, and later on of Massenet in Paris, but I can definitely say
that the counsels of both teachers had very little effect on my friend.
One can say about Granados, and also about this other Catalan com-
poser, Juli Garreta, that they were both completely self-taught. As for
Albeniz, I am sure that his conversations with Pedrell were of relatively
little use to him as a composer. Pedrell was not the man to teach
musical structure, and, on the other hand, Albeniz was essentially an
162
improvisor and was much more sensitive to the colour and atmos-
phere of Spanish scenery than anxious to follow didactic rules.

After Albeniz died, Pedrell wrote an article for La Vanguardia of
Barcelona in which he quoted what he had once said to Albeniz: "Down with
rules! Burn all the harmony text-hooks, the counterpoint ones also, and those
on composition and instrumentation which have not been written for you and
would stifle your natural genius."
Yes, Albeniz was like that, and one cannot expect to teach anything
to such temperamental people. But, some years later, when he went to
live in Paris, he came under the influence of his friends of the Schola
Cantorum, d'Indy, Bordes, etc., and this influence is reflected in the
architectural structure of the works he wrote in that period.
I knew Pedrell very well. He and Count de Morphy were the first
who tried to create an authentically Spanish opera. A remarkable
scholar, Pedrell has written the most authoritative books on the popular
Spanish music of the XVIth and XVIIth centuries. He rediscovered the
treasures of folk music forgotten in the XlXth century, and he advised
young musicians to use such material as inspiration for their com-
positions. By and large, his contribution to and his influence on the
musical renaissance of our country has been of a very positive and
beneficial kind.
"lam a Moor," said Albeniz.
It is so ! And it is curious to see how far a Catalan can become like a
Moor. (That reminds me that one of my friends told me that the best
flamenco singers are the Catalans who sing in the cafes of Barcelona.)
Pedrell, Granados, Garreta and de Falla's mother were also Catalans.
Granados, in spite of the typically Spanish element in all his works,
was the first composer, and the most remarkable one, to write music
with a real Catalan flavour without making direct use of our traditional
folklore.
Do you think Albeniz and Granados were "fascinated" by Wagner, as
one might think on hearing Merlin by Albeniz or Liliana by Granados? 1
What lyrical composer of that period was not "fascinated" by
Wagner? But, except for a few traces of a general character, one cannot
detect any real influence of Wagner in the compositions of Albeniz,
and even less in those of Granados. I should like to know what has
become of the original manuscripts of most of Granados* operas. (The
MS. of Goyescas, which was bought by my friend Mr. Huntington,
is now in the Hispanic Museum in New York.)
1 Henri Collet; Albeniz et Granados. (Librairie Plon, Paris.)
Henri Collet thinks that the Spanish composers who came after Albeniz
and Granados have not surpassed Iberia and Goyescas.
Certainly not as far as personal genius and true inspiration are

concerned.
Some people have said of Albeniz, that he could have been called the
"Spanish Liszt" ', for he was always ready to devote himself to somebody or
to some idea.
Yes, it is perfectly true. His kindness and his generosity were
proverbial. The door of his house was open to friends and strangers
alike. I remember the last time I saw him at Cambo, in the French
Basque country, where I went when I heard he was very ill. He was
suffering acutely but never complained. He only talked about his wife
and his daughter. "They are both angels," he said to me. And he was
crying at the thought. Albeniz was an artist with a beautiful and noble
nature.
Did Granados belong to a quartet with Crickboom?
Yes, and so did I, I think I told you that Granados and I gave many
concerts together.
What was he like as a pianist?
He made me think of Chopin. Chopin as I imagined he was: nervy,
delicate, listless, ailing, not a great worker but a born pianist. He could
tackle any of the big works written for the piano, and would improvise
passages to avoid working at them, without the slightest compunction.

In the trio, Albeniz-Granados-Falla, which place would you assign to
Granados?
First I must tell you that the works of the three of them show a
display of a very varied nature which makes up a real Spanish School
in the midst of "universal" music.
Granados is the most authentic creator. He does not go to the
sources of folklore for inspiration — although his themes are very
characteristically popular, they are his own personal creation. Neither
does Albeniz use folk tunes, and yet a number of his themes sound as if
they had been based on popular songs, which makes it perhaps a little
less original. One could say the same about Falla, whose originality
lies especially in the "dressing up" and his rich variety of harmonies.
So, of these three composers Granados is incontestably the greatest, the
most original and the most delicately poetical. On the other hand, Falla
is the most learned and the one who dominates most the technique of
composition. And after him we must put Albeniz, and give third place
to Granados who was, as I told you, a completely self-taught composer.
MUSIC OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY l6$
Granados has been compared to Schumann because of his melancholy
quality.
No, he had a most seductive and childlike gaiety which overcame
the melancholy. Of course his music has (like all good music) an
endless variety of mood. To my mind he is more like Schubert
because of his spontaneous inspiration. Granados is "our" Schubert,
our great poet.
What about his Tonadillas?
They are absolutely delicious. As I told you before: Granados goes
back to the traditional tonadilleros, gets inspired by Goya, revives the
maps and the majas of Madrid, and writes music sparkling with local
colour. These Tonadillas are complete creations in which the person-
ality and genius of the composer are expressed. I would add that I
have never met a better interpreter of his vocal music than Conchita
Badia, a Catalan pupil of his.
You were in New York when they presented the Goyescas for the first
time, I believe?
Yes, I took part in their preparation and assisted at all the re-
hearsals. Granados was there, sitting in a corner,, like a frightened child
who does not dare say anything.
The first performance of Goyescas at the Metropolitan stands out
as a date never to be forgotten. I have never witnessed such an ex-
plosion of enthusiasm in the theatre. The audience not only applauded
like mad but were crying at the same time. This audience was mostly
composed of the Spanish and South American colony in New York,
and they were therefore able to understand the real character of the
work.
I have read that when Granados was invited by the President to play
at the White House in Washington he missed the boat on which he was
travelling back to Europe.
Yes, it is true. Later he went back to England, and from there he
and his wife boarded the Cross-Channel boat, the Sussex, which was
torpedoed without warning by a German submarine. This was a
terrible loss for Spanish music and for music in general.
You were also a friend of Manuel de Falla.
Yes. He was a most charming man and an Andalusian to his
fingertips.
Robert Bernard writes: 1 "As opposed to the rich and romantic lyricism of
1 VEcole Espagnole, in La Musique des Origines a nos jours. (Librairie Larousse,
Paris.)

Albeniz and Granados, Falla is a classic with an acute perfection of form,
supported by a supremely aristocratic musicality"
This is true.
And what of your admiration for Juli Garreta?
The fact is that I don't know of any other case we could compare
to that of Garreta, the case of a self-taught man who dealt with the
greatest musical forms: sonatas, quartets, symphonies, with the in-
credible ease this Catalan composer had at his command. (You will note
that neither Albeniz nor Granados ever tackled this class of com-
position.) After all, Granados had some teachers, even though he didn't
get much out of them, whereas Garreta remained entirely self-taught,
living all his life as a clockmaker in the small town of Sant Feliu de
Guixols. In his sardanas and symphonic works you can find some music
of the highest order. This "wild flower", which never received any
cultivation, was a true miracle. There was in Garreta the germ of a great
master, a germ which could not develop properly without the studies,
the guidance and the propitious surroundings so necessary for the
flowering of such a talent, the sort of "larva" which develops into a
Beethoven or a Brahms.
Albeniz used to say, that some foreign composers, believing they had
written certain of their works with a real Spanish flavour, had, in fact, just
produced pieces like Polonaises. This opinion, all the same, could not apply
to the Capriccio Espagnol by Rimsky-Korsakov?

Certainly not! This work of Rimsky-Korsakov, although its con-
struction is basically Russian, seems to me an admirable and extra-
ordinary interpretation of the Spanish spirit as seen through the eyes
of the Slav.
Furthermore it is rather surprising to find the interest Russian
composers have in Spanish subjects, considering the distance and the
difference between the two countries. We fmd Glinka, the real founder
of truly Russian music, writing works inspired by Spain.
Cesar Cui found that the Danses Espagnoles of Granados were similar
to Russian dances. Is there any parallel between the musical products of these
two separate poles of Europe?
The resemblance is evident. Both countries have composers using
popular tunes and folk-songs arranged and harmonised according to
the artistic procedure of each country and each composer. But this
does not solve the whole question. The Russians, being intensely fond
of colour, have naturally been attracted by Spanish music. Of course
Spanish music has also attracted the French, but in a very different
way. The French have approached it with more intellect, whereas

the Russians feel an instinctive thirst, deep and at the same time wild,
for colour. That is what produced their ballets.
(I remember how passionate Glazunov became when he talked
to me about Spanish music, although he was generally very calm — and
he liked to recall how Glinka had already realised all the ootentiahty
of our music for theirs.)
You have a great admiration for Russian composers?
Yes, and I can't explain the rapid flowering of Russian music. I
speak, of course, of great music, apart from the traditional folklore
which exists everywhere. But the process of formation, which lasted
for centuries in other countries, seems to have borne fruit very rapidly
in Russia.
Numerous musicians think Richard Strauss is the greatest composer of
the XXth century.
That is possible. In any case I admire him enormously. In all his
work you find such clarity and precision; his way of treating and
bringing out instrumental colour is positively extraordinary and I
doubt anyone having surpassed him in that direction.
If it were not for your moral convictions, which keep you in Prades, you
could play the Don Quixote of Strauss to commemorate the fiftieth
anniversary of the first hearing of this work in New York, in igo4, when
you were the soloist.
It is true. Alas, I must give up so many commemorations!
What do you think of impressionism?
To my mind musical impressionism, of which Debussy and Ravel
are undoubtedly the leaders, is a decadent deviation from the stream
of great music. Not that I deny the value of what these two composers
have created: their new artistic formula is of great interest arid denotes
an exquisite poetical charm and is very suggestive. If one wanted to
put a label on impressionism (if labels could prove anything) one
could write on it "decorative music". Debussy's melodic line is far
from being remarkable: it is through his harmonic invention that he
has given to his works the interest and charm of which I was speaking.
You knew Ravel when he was very young?
Yes. It was at the time when we all visited Mrs. Ram. In those days
Ravel was still a student attending Faure's composition classes at the
Conservatoire. He asked me one day to listen to one of his latest

compositions. It was the Pavane pour une Infante Defunte. I told him that
(as I thought) it was a masterly little work. He was surprised, as I
remember it, and, of course, as I told you, he was still a student.
Enesco used to ask: "Who is not touched by the charm of Ravel or
Debussy? But, besides this charm, I should like some broader and more
spacious music* (I cannot vouch that these are his actual words, but it was
what he meant).
I quite agree with Enesco.
And what about Fame?
Faure may have contributed to the impressionist school of music
with his great delicacy and his capacity for harmonic invention, but
he derives from the central growth of art. To use a simile, we could
think of Faure as coming from the trunk of great music, while Debussy
and Ravel are only offshoots of a branch.
/ have heard it said that Faure had the rare privilege of being "the man
of his work**.
Yes, both as a man and as a composer we find in him a deep and
exquisite nature.
Talking of Faure s originality where harmonies are concerned, Vuillermoz

writes: "Counterpoint as a means of writing reached the highest point of
perfection with Bach. His masterly virtuosity in applying the practically
unalterable rules of counterpoint was not transmissible and could not be used
by his followers: but novelties in the domain of harmony, on the other hand,
can still enrich music and are eagerly sought after."
Personally, I don't think that contrapuntal devices have been
exhausted. Although the procedure is the same as before, some com-
binations of counterpoint can present individuality and even novelty
according to the personality and creative power of the composer.
Indubitably, if anyone says that Bach has been the greatest master of
polyphony and counterpoint, it cannot be denied.
"Some works of Faure' appear to be the quintessence of refinement in
musical language before its corruption.** (Max d'Ollone.) 1
This is true.
The broadminded attitude of Faure towards his pupils has been praised
and recognised as beneficial to the teaching of composition when it produces
such varied names as Ravel, Enesco, Florent Schmitt, Nadia Boulanger, and
others.
There is no doubt about the excellence of Faure's teaching, but
pupils with a spark of genius, like Enesco and Florent Schmitt, have
1 Le Langage Musical. (La Palatine, Paris — Geneva.)

not been "formed" by their master, however great he was — genius
forms itself, and professors, however eminent, contribute only to a
very modest extent to their development.
Would you say that, when teaching an instrument, the personality of the
pupil should he respected?
Personally, I have rarely approved of the way pupils played when
I heard them for the first time (even in the case of a very gifted pupil).
As far as I am concerned, I think there is only one kind of technique
which is of any value, that which is exclusively at the service of music.
Never have I been able to say to someone who came to ask for advice
and guidance, "I need not say anything since all you do is perfect." Of
course I have always been glad when I liked the personality of a new
pupil, but as a rule I am bound to say to him: "You are far from having
reached the top" or "You have not yet got a complete conception of
your art as far as music and technique arc concerned. My role is to
correct what needs correcting; I can't accept any initiative which I
think unsound and can only teach you in my own way. You must
realise this if you wish to work with me. Later on, of course, your
personal reactions will become entirely your own responsibility."

Did you know Schonberg well?
Yes, I was in touch with him, I followed his evolution and, through
conversations I had with him, I know what his anxieties and aspirations
were. I know where he stands, and when I hear that he and some
modern composers are put together in the same category I say: No,
there is a mistake. In Schonberg we have a man who deliberately
chose the path of research with complete sincerity towards himself.
Some people thought that, because he was successful, he allowed himself
to write insignificant works in the belief that they would naturally be
applauded by people who were unable to understand his compositions,
but wanted to look as if they did.
Schonberg was not like that: he had musical genius and he revered
all composers who deserved it. (What would some of the iconoclasts
of our time say if they had heard him say, as I have, how well he
understood and admired even a composer like Donizetti?)
With the prophetic instinct of his race and his profound devotion
to music he wished to explore unknown spheres, like atonality, 1 with
1 As a matter of fact, Henry Purcell used atonality in some of his Fantasias
in Four Parts (No. 4) which he wrote in 1680. (Translator's note.)

the object of finding out what could be done with it. His attitude was
one of self-sacrifice — it consisted of putting on one side the "known"
methods (in which he excelled) in order to penetrate into the "un-
known". His goal was not to break with the past, but to increase the
treasures of music with the new possibilities produced by his researches.
What was he like as a person?
Oh, delightful! Very simple, full of charm and possessing a brilliant
intelligence.
You have played a 'Cello Concerto of his?
Not in public. I'll explain to you what happened. On the occasion
of a music festival in Vienna, Schonberg had found the Figured Bass of
an unpublished Concerto by G. M. Monn (a remarkable and unknown
composer of the XVIIth century). Schonberg's work on it was masterly
and I played this Concerto a good many times, especially in Vienna
where it was given its first performance. Then Schonberg discovered
another work of Monn from which he borrowed the themes, and
made a 'Cello Concerto of it after he had added a good deal himself.
He sent it to me with a dedication and I thought it was a highly
interesting work. I worked on it for some two years; just as I was on
the point of playing the Concerto, the music publishers, Schirmer of

New York, who had acquired the rights of the work, told me that I
would have to pay one hundred dollars for each performance. I said
I did not agree, and on hearing my answer they reduced it to fifty
dollars. This haggling made me feel so sick that I said I would have
nothing to do with it. (Schonberg, having heard of this, wrote me a
letter in which he begged me not to accept Schirmer's terms.)
Feuermann played this Concerto for the first time and in spite of the
remarkable performance he gave, the work had no success at all. I never
heard any more about this Concerto except when a 'cellist called
Bartsh played it on Paris Radio. It is a pity that it has not become
known, as I think it is a masterly work.
What do you think of the result of Schonberg' s innovations?
By and large I think that some of his ideas will help in the normal
(but not purely cerebral) development of music. But, on the other
hand, I think that some of his innovations will prove fruitless. I
remember one day in Vienna when Schonberg talked to me of his
plans. In spite of all his enthusiasm, I could not escape the vision of the
abyss which was opening beneath his feet!
I have read that some of the former pupils of Schonberg and Alban Berg
said: "The twelve-tone system cannot form a school. It is only a valueless

doctrine in itself, in which Schonberg has experimented on his own account,
and when passing it on to his pupils he always warned them against taking
it too seriously."
Of course it is natural to find pupils following the teaching of their
master, even taking it too seriously. They cannot all have as much
talent as Schonberg had, nor his great sincerity when experimenting.
And have we not seen already how ridiculous some people can be
when they are afraid of looking old-fashioned?
Our compatriot Roberto Gerhard, when he came back to Barcelona
after a stay in Vienna, had been so influenced by the innovations of
Schonberg that he wrote exclusively in that style. He managed to
express his talent, but it became sterile since (as I think) any music
which is not expressive has no reason to exist. I told him, "You are
walking in a maze and you must do everything you can to get out of
it." Later on, Gerhard changed his way of writing, but in his latest
works, which are of a different kind as far as structure and style are
concerned, one can detect the mark of Schonberg. I feel sure that this
period under Schonberg, and the experience he had through it, have
been useful to him. Any kind of new ideas are profitable to those who
have something to say.
Did you know Alban Berg?

No.
Have you seen Wozzeck?
I only heard a recording of it on the radio.
What impression did this work make on you?
That of a master who moves in a world that is not mine.
Do you think ofatonality as fundamentally wrong?
Not wrong in principle. I have used it myself to describe some
kind of musical vision, especially in my Sardana for 'celli. 1 But before
and after these descriptive passages, I have written som^ real music.
1 "Pablo Casals has composed six Sardanas, one of them being written for an ensemble
of at least, thirty-two *celli, divided into eight principal parts. The middle part of the
symphonic work combines the air of the Castell in D Major, with an imitation on the
drums of a Gregorian chant in F Major and a processional march in B\> Major. It is
meant as a sound picture of the noise at a local feast, in a southern town flooded with
light. Clever imitations and dynamic gradations prevent this surplus of melody, harmony
and rhythm, from degenerating into chaos. Eventually it all clears up and a new melody
emetges. It ends with a final theme, which starts quietly and gradually gets more spirited,
recalling previous themes. It was written in 1930 to celebrate the annual Feast of Vila-
franca del Panades, on September 4th, and the rumbling noise .of the processions, the fair,
the military bands, Sardanas dancing and Castells (human mountains) produce a
wonderful impression. 1 * (Rudolf von Tobel, op. C.)
(Vincent d'Indy wrote to me about my Sardana for 'celli 1 congratu-
lating me and explaining that he agreed with my way of using aton-
ality. At the end of his letter he quoted a bit of the Sardana that he
specially liked.) A composer has a right to use any means, even aton-
ality, at a given time. We find Bach, Chopin and Wagner using it as a
means to create an impression. But can music be reduced to a series of
impressions as our modern composers try to do? It has no sense. It is
absurd to turn atonality into a system.
Rene Leibowitz, one of the most ardent followers of Schonberg, has
written on the connection between the chromaticism of Wagner and atonality:
"The chord D-F-A-C [2nd degree of C Major, for instance), can be altered
chromatically and become D$-F$-A b-Qjf. Of course, this altered chord
can still be explained by the system of superimposed thirds but, in fact, it
consists of only one third (Dft-Fjf), a second, (Fty-Afy (=Gjf)) and a
fourth (Gjf (=^4b) Of)- One can also {and one had to do it constantly in the
Wagnerian period) give to this chord a definite tonal function by calling it
really the second degree ofC. Chromatically one can always explain everything.
This chord we talk about becomes one based on the 1st degree ofC, if the D#
goes up to E, the Fjjj, to G, and the A\> (if the Cft, thought of enharmonically
as D[?, comes down to C) comes down to G. But one can also avoid giving
any functional explanation of a precise character, which is exactly what
Wagner does so often. It leaves a feeling of doubt. Another chord as vague
as the first follows, and so on. A series of chords of that kind creates a com-
plete confusion of keys. If we add to this a melody without any fixed*
points (the sort of perpetual melody Wagner dreamt of), some moving and
varied voices in the middle register, and an irregular rhythm, we can see
clearly that if tonality exists in Wagner, it will end by being swamped under
the weight of such complex polyphony." 2
I cannot see why tonality must "end by being swamped", and I
cannot see either why the systematic use of atonality should have been
an inevitable consequence of Wagner's chromaticism. Schonberg
himself confessed to me his intention of exploring this unknown region
to see what it had to offer. But I am afraid his followers did not all
1 The Sardana for Violoncclli is dedicated to the London 'Cello Club (Herbert
Walenn, London Violoncello School) where it was played; as well as in Barcelona in
ip34, as a homage to Pau Casals, with sixty-five 'cellists, in Zurich in 1946 and 1951,
on the occasion of Casals' seventieth and seventy-fifth birthdays, with the participation
of ninety and one hundred and twenty 'cellists respectively, and in Paris in October 1952,
at the Palais de Chaillot with eighty French 'cellists^ including Maurice Marichal,
Paul Bazelaire, Andre" Navarra, etc.
a Schonberg et son Ecole. (J. B. Janin, Paris.)

show the same restraint and high musical conscience. They went
deeper into the annihilation of all music. They didn't even do it with
sincerity! More often than not there is only complete hypocrisy; that is,
striving for effect.
"Some people saw a sort of innovation in the Chromaticism of Tristan.
. . . But they forgot that Wagner when he wrote Tristan did not mean to
write 'something new* or to enlarge the harmonic language, or to 'make
progress', but only to find the means of expression necessary to his poetic
vision and the harmonies he wanted for the atmosphere of Tristan."
(Wilhelm Furtwangler.)
I am of the same opinion.
"On the whole Furtwangler seems to he against the composers who try to
expand the possibilities of the musical language. He asserts that the great
composers of the past never thought of 'doing something new* in the language
of music, but have in fact done so without meaning to, simply by trying to
say sincerely what they had to say. This is not so: the corner-stone of all
'tonal' music is precisely the one that was composed uniquely to demon-
strate the advantages and possibilities of this music — The Well-Tempered
Clavier by Bach, the work which has set the seal on tonal music in
such a majestic way." (Antoine Golea, Journal Musical Francais, June
I953-)
This assertion of M. Golea is not well founded. As we all know,
Bach, in The Well-Tempered Clavier, wished to show his contemporaries
all the possibilities contained in tonality, some of which had not been
used in his day. Does Bach look like an innovator in this work? He
does, but in doing so he uses only a natural musical language. Inno-
vation is one thing, annihilation is another. I advise those who wish
to "demonstrate the advantages and possibilities" of "contemporary
music" to start by writing comprehensively because, unless they do,
one cannot begin to talk about music.
Furtwangler says that contemporary music "has a limited number of
listeners but nevertheless these are passionately convinced ones".
It must be an artificial passion since there is so often in this music
nothing to understand. These "passionate" people form a minority,
which does not understand either. After all, they are not made differ-
ently from us, are they? Look, I am going to play to you a section
from a 'Cello Sonata written by a contemporary composer (who, I
am glad to say, has given us other proofs of his talent).
(Casals takes his 'cello and begins to play a series of me wings and
scratches. I must say that to watch him with his pipe in his mouth, his
face showing perplexity as if he was waiting for something which does not
happen, is a very funny sight.)
Can anyone honestly pretend that this music (?) would create any
emotion in the listener or even mean anything at all?
Francis Poulenc has said: "What the Ninth Symphony did to stir up
the people of the XlXth century, The Sacre du Printemps does already for
those of the XXth century."
This time I completely disagree with my friend Poulenc. Although
I acknowledge the talent of Stravinsky and the interest of the Sacre du
Printemps, I think that to compare these two works is nothing short of
blasphemy.
Do you like The Firebird, Petrouchka, the Stravinsky of the early
period?
Very much. But what he has given us recently is not the real
Stravinsky. It seems to deal only with cerebral problems which exclude
all feeling. The real Stravinsky is melodious, colourful, beautifully
sensitive. Unfortunately all these qualities seem to have disappeared
and that is very regrettable.

When Stravinsky says he loathes what he describes as musique-
religion and adds that we ought to like music for itself and not for the
emotions it provokes . . .
What is exactly the meaning of "liking music for itself"?
Stravinsky writes in his Poetique Musicale: "I am beginning to think
together with the general public that melody should keep its place at the
summit of the hierarchy of all elements which constitute music"
Bravo ! I rejoice to hear this.
You told me once that one could establish a parallel between Picasso and
Stravinsky.
Yes.
Picasso has said: "All my pictures are only experiments."
For centuries the masters of music have kept their experiments to
themselves and thought that they should only give to listeners the
works which they had felt, thought over and allowed to mature.
One cannot stop evolution in the Arts.
We should not confuse natural evolution with a complete rupture
with the past. A musician can get rid of restraints and find his own way
without breaking, in a fit of temper, with all the ties which connect
him with the experiments of his predecessors. Evolution following a
normal course has always existed, and always will exist.
"We used to think that when an artist had originality it was revealed
without effort on his part. We found that the pleasure of the unexpected was
born of those occasions when we were denied the pleasure of the expected. The
variety, the very modifications a musician brought to the construction and
the language used, were worked out within the accepted framework. But, in
most present-day compositions, since the listener is unable to anticipate
anything while the music is going on, the sensation of the unexpected has
disappeared." (Max d'Ollone.)
It is true. The exaggerated desire for originality leads to worse
aberrations. Each one of us possesses as much originality as the most
modest creation of nature. How many leaves are on this tree in the
garden, and yet there are not two alike! If you see a friend coming
in the distance you will know him by his gait; there is no need for him
to gesticulate in any fancy way in order that you may know who it is.
Why? Just because he has his own characteristics, his originality in fact.
In music it is easy to gesticulate and talk nonsense, in order to appear
original; the difficulty is to put one's own mark on a composition

while using the accepted language which is comprehensible to all.
"So one can see that in the best works of the classical and modern schools,
the alternate use of consonance and dissonance (which is the equivalent of
repose and movement), the question and the answer, the desire and the satis-
action, was a normal procedure, not only in the psychological and intellectual
sense, but also in the physical sense." (Max d'Ollone.)
Of course. Everything can be explained, but this cannot be done
unless we stop a moment to think about it. An explanation of what has
been is necessary in order to understand what is to come. In music,
without alternate movement and repose, which corresponds to the
difference between tension and relaxation in physiological life, there
would only be confusion at the start turning into chaos afterwards.
"We seem to be getting near the time when people will look with some
astonishment at the selfishness of those composers who scorn the idea of pleas-
ing and moving their listeners, and are concerned only with the praise of a
small clique, and their own inaccessible little egos. Music will have to become
conscious again of its possibilities and of the part it should play in society
in order to survive. As the language of feeling, of humanity, accessible to all,
it will live as long as the world. But as a pastime for the few and as a stimu-
lant for jaded, nervy people, its days are numbered." (Max d'Ollone.)
This is very well said. Composers can use any material as long as
they make a coherent whole of it, a whole which will express true
life in music. What is inadmissible is to despise all feeling and to confine

oneself to laboratory experiments and the speculations of the brain.
At the basis of this attitude, which is that of most "contemporary
music", one can perceive vanity and impotence. I am the first to wish
for the appearance of new flowers, but not of new monstrosities. I
have said it for so long: if we are persistently faced by blunders, we
must have the courage to say "no"!
At the end of his life Ysaye wrote to his son Antoine: "I can only see
chaos in the products of today — sometimes I have the impression of a mon-
strous joke played by gifted hut negative people. Art, which I thought of as a
unique and ever unfinished monument to which each generation, each school
is bringing its contribution, looks as if it had come to a dead end. I suffer for my
inability to believe any more in the strength and truth of youth, and that is why
I have come to ask you this question, for deep in my inner self I hope I am
wrong. I cannot systematically reject all new compositions without wishing to
find out what they mean. Such an attitude would be the betrayal of myself and
would destroy the meaning of all my own struggle."
These words accord so well with the noble personality of Ysaye,
always so open and generous towards most of the composers of his
day — Cesar Franck, Faure, Debussy, Chausson, and others. I also have
known the perplexity Ysaye talks of, but have eventually come to
a definite attitude: I will have nothing to do with what is called
"contemporary music".
C. M Widor said, as he was listening to a very dissonant work of his
young pupil Darius Milhaud, "The worst of it is that one gets used to it."
I don't know which of Milhaud's works this was. But there are
certain things I shall never get used to.
Some of the works now recognised have taken a long time to become
understood.
If familiarity is necessary for comprehension the chaotic music I
speak of would have had plenty of time to establish itself. The reason
why the public does not wish to hear this music is not because it is
new. What they feel is that it is lacking in human warmth.
Busoni thought that we ought not to consider as important the qualities of
timbre, sonority or colour in music, and that our senses should not interfere
with our musical pleasure which is of a purely cerebral and intellectual kind.
Paul Hindemith said, "You must think of the piano as a percussion instrument
and treat it as such."
I knew Busoni, I know Hindemith, and I cannot understand that
men of such value can have said such things.
What do you think of composers who had reintroduced the Greek modes
in modern works?
I don't see anything wrong in this, any more than in any other
experiments which will enlarge the field of music. I have often thought,
for instance, that composers should get to know Hindu music because
of the richness and invention of its popular songs. We have already
seen what has been done by incorporating negro spirituals and Chinese
folk-songs. On the whole one cannot say that it has had much influence
on universal music, but I think that the insertion of some Hindu music
would have some happy results on the very development of what we
consider is a superior art.
What can we expect by the use of new intervals like quarter-, third-, and
tenth-tones?
I don't think that research on those lines can lead to any valuable
results.
And what do you think of the "concrete" music we sometimes hear on the
radio? This kind of music is always recorded and does not need to be per-
formed. Using only some special instruments the authors will produce the
sound of wind from high altitudes, as well as the noise of an engine running at
full speed, or steps on stairs, or the noises inside a dentist's room.

I don't know any of these specimens, but I can say that they don't
constitute music. Although I like to hear a furious wind and see trees
bending under a violent squall, I have never thought of applying the
qualification "musical" to the sensations I receive on these occasions.
Different manifestations of nature can inspire a composer, and he may
even try to reproduce them (there are countless examples); but in
themselves they never constitute real music. We can observe the same
difference between the natural beauty of a landscape and the artistic
beauty of the same landscape seen through the eyes of a painter.
The public often goes wrong . . . although Toscanini insists that the great
public is almost always right.
In the average concert the audience is made up of people who may
or may not be capable of pronouncing a sound judgment. But I can't
deny that, taken collectively, this audience is endowed with penetration
and intuition. The test of public performance has become more
necessary than ever. It constitutes a safeguard against unwelcome
experiments which, in fact, the public refuses to accept.
"A young composer's symphony," says Honegger, "has all the dis-
advantages in relation to any great classical symphony." [Disadvantages
about being performed at all, of course.)
That is obvious. I have always believed in the necessity of institu-
tions, subsidised by the State, where new works could be heard at free
concerts. The public would have the chance of getting in touch with
new composers. As long as the latter did not think it their duty only
to demonstrate extravagant styles of music in their works; that
would inevitably make the public want to go and hear a Beethoven
Symphony instead. How could it be otherwise?
Atonal music, people say, is a reflection of the uncertainty of the chaotic
period in which we live.
Art should be used as a means of keeping alive the cult of an ideal,
instead of for the propagation of morbid tendencies towards disinte-
gration. Why should an artist be obsessed by the uncertainties of our
time, instead of reacting against them by showing his faith in those
human values which have survived so many collective catastrophies?
The artist, as a man, will always find occasions to intervene, if he thinks
he should intervene, in the conflicts of his time. But art cannot be the
slave of these conflicts. However dark our times may seem, art should
bring a message of hope.
Prokoviev said: "I have been trying to find a melodious and clear language
without renouncing the harmonic and melodic shapes universally acknow-
ledged. And this is where the difficulty comes in: to write music with a new
clarity:' 1
The great masters have used the recognised harmonic system, but
they have done it with such art and individual genius that their works
always seem new. In Bach and Mozart I can easily perceive a "new
clarity". I think that Prokoviev and Bartok are both extraordinarily
gifted musicians. Some of their compositions will certainly survive
triumphantly the test of time. The rest of their work I am not so sure
about.
And Hindemith?
I have not seen Hindemith since 1932, when I played with him,
Schnabel and Huberman in Vienna at some chamber music concerts
I shall never forget. Never mind what his theories were, he has left
unmistakable proofs of his remarkable talent as a composer.
A critic wrote about one of his last works, Nobilissima Visione, that
Hindemith had used again "a language which speaks to the heart".
All to the good.
What ofMilhaud?
Milhaud has a great gift for composition and has given us some
magnificent works. It is a pity that he also thought he had to be

1 Cf. I. Nestiev: Prokofiev. Traduction de Rostilav Hofmann. (Editions du Chene,
Paris.)
"modern" at all costs. I have a most touching letter from Milhaud in
which he tells me of the impression I made on him the first time he
heard me, when he was very young.
Honegger?
It seems to me that he is one of the contemporary composers of
greatest musical value. (I think that the best composer of our time is
Ernest Bloch.) In spite of his "modernism" Honegger refrained from
going beyond certain limits. He has been influenced by modern
tendencies but has known how to choose some innovations and
reject others, while remaining faithful to what we may define as a
musical idea, the thing that so many contemporary musicians have
just abolished.
Musicians as modern as Honegger and Hindemith have said about
dodecaphonism: "This serial system prides itself on having very strict rules.
These people look to me like convicts, who having shaken off their chains,
voluntarily tie up their feet with weights in order to run quicker! . . ."
(Honegger.) "One can invent as many arbitrary rules of this kind as one
chooses. But if one chooses to use them to produce a new style of musical
composition, I think one could find other rules less narrow and more inter-
esting. The idea of dodecaphonism seems to me more theoretic than all the
pedantries of the professors of traditional harmony." (Hindemith.)
I am delighted to hear that Honegger and Hindemith say those
things. What is necessary is that composers understand the art of
expressing oneself musically. Those who have nothing to say should do
something else. And those who truly feel a deep necessity to compose
should do so in ways which may be new but which must in any case
be simple and comprehensible. I insist: it is not the procedure that
matters, but the result. In the long run, time will choose, and give to
everyone the place he deserves.
Simplicity in forms of expression has never been prejudicial to a
sincere creator, for he always knows that originality is above all a
gift. I have heard a lot of music in the course of my long career, but
every time I hear Haydn I have the impression that I hear some newly
discovered thing. Great music, if well performed, is sufficiently rich to
keep intact the sense of novelty and to increase the desire to hear it
again.
How far we are from the time when Bach wrote those wonderful Cantatas
just for the congregation of St. Thomas's Church! And we are even further
from the humility of the Great Cantor, who after the Sunday service put
away the Cantata in a drawer. . . . In our day there seems to be a cleavage
between the artist and the collective sensibility. To "get in touch", to "com-
municate", has become very difficult, if not impossible. Isnt that the blind
alley into which not only music, but contemporary art generally, has got?
Nowadays if an artist composed like Bach, painted like Velasquez, or wrote
like Shakespeare, he would be told that his works gave an impression of
having been "seen before", or "heard before". On the other hand, if this
artist is obsessed by the desire for novelty, he takes the risk of running into
chaos, or at the best his work will only be understood by a minority. Can you
think of any way out?
In our day an artist cannot compose like Bach, paint like Velasquez,
or write like Shakespeare; even if he tried he would not succeed. (Of
course we are not talking of common imitators, they are not worth
thinking about.) The work of Art carries with it the personal con-
ceptions of the artist, and those are never the same in different
artists.
You have used a word, in talking of Bach, which is of prime
importance and explains so many things: "humility". All great
creators know that life and art don't begin with them, and in this we
find the greatness of their humility — they are more intent on moving
us than on surprising us. Contemporary music shows a regrettable
tendency to exclude anything human or natural, and especially any-
thing which might be pure emotion. What sort of communication can
be established with others if one has such an attitude? Without sinking
into melodrama or sentimentality an artist can find many ways to be
great and human.
Honegger is very pessimistic on the future of music: "At present, what
plays the most important part in compositions is the use of rhythmical shock in
contrast to voluptuous melody. At the present rate we shall have by the end of
this century an elementary, barbarous music which will combine elemental
melody with brutally scanned rhythm. This will admirably suit the deformed
ear of the music-lover of the year 2000!"
I do not share these pessimistic views. Aesthetically, the receptive
faculties do not disappear any more than the discriminative moral
faculties. There are periods of crisis and straying, but man finds again
the notion of things that are beautiful and pure.
Furtw angler says: "Technical questions like tonality and atonality,
historical considerations, are all secondary in relation to this other question: in
which proportion does the music of today represent adequately what we are?

How much o/ourselves do we find in this music? This question is positively
a question of conscience: it would determine the truth of our musical expression
and the authenticity of our existence as musicians."
These words seem to hit the nail on the head. The criterion of
conscience is what will prevail in the end, because the great things of
humanity will never change and what we shall always find in artistic
creation is the man, the man in flesh and blood and not an abstract
creature. Today we still like what is beautiful, even if the works are
thousands of years old, like Chinese and Indian poetry. They have the
same reason for existing as our true music has. Their life is the same
today as in all eternity.
IX
On Interpretation
What of the personality of the artist in interpretation?
Everyone is different, and each of us must apply to this work all
the drive and deep impulse of his nature. We have only to look round
us to realise how all bodies are organised and to notice the harmonious
variety of anything which has a life of its own.
An artist must be strong enough to feel independent of everything

that has been done, and of everything he has learned, and he must
convince himself that to "feel independent ,, of any routine or tradition
is his main duty and purpose.
He goes the wrong way who does not question himself or listen to
the "voice" of his artistic nature — provided that he has such a nature,
of course. What does matter is what we feel, and that is what we have to
express. With Bach, for instance, I knew that my duty was to reject
strongly the examples and the traditions around me, and to persevere
in search of my own way of feeling these works.
Can it he said that there is a style for Bach, a style for Beethoven?
I was talking with a great friend of mine and a great musician about
this very question quite recently. It was apropos of a Mozart work.
Some people think that there is a style for Bach, another for Mozart,
and that it is necessary to go into research to build up the true style and
bring it to life. Obviously each great composer should have his own
style since the greatest power for creation, life itself, shows us what
particularities there are in the humblest creature in existence. Therefore,
why shouldn't a great master have a style? Now then, the performer
looking at the score in front of him has got to reconstitute, not a
so-called objectivity, but all the different phases which the author's
mind went through when creating this work, and in doing so,
observe the reactions which they produce deep down in his own
mind.
How curious this fetish of objectivity is! And is it not responsible
for so many bad performances? There are so many excellent instru-
mentalists who are completely obsessed by the printed note, whereas
182
ON INTERPRETATION 183
it has a very limited power to express what the music actually means.
Great masters may have been as conscientious as you like when writing
their scores, but they are always guided in their writing by a state of
mind we call, in turn, feeling, passion, dreams.
All this infinite variety cannot very well be translated just by the
writing of notes, and yet it is through these notes that we must recon-
struct all the author's state of mind! Are there any set rules for this
re-creating process? I cannot think of any.
On the subject of "the fear of giving way to romanticism ", Furtwangler
says: ". . . if a musician is capable of abandonment and passion he will not be
afraid of appearing romantic and sentimental, nor will he have to avoid
emotion in order to avoid its pitfalls. . . . This fear of sensibility, this fear of
oneself is farcical, as if "making music" had, for a musician, any other sense
than having confidence in himself instead of the fear of oneself"

Can the artist who has confidence in himself do anything but
let himself go? There is nothing worse than being held back by fear.
The value of the performer's work consists of getting as near as he
can to the deepest meaning of the music he performs, which, in a
big work, offers him such a rich complexity of expression, and which
the written signs of the "printed note" can only partly suggest.
Willingly or not, the performer is an interpreter and can only
render the work through his own self.
On some occasions I have heard you say that just as a, b, c, etc., do not
make a word, by the same reasoning the written signs of music are powerless in
making "music*.
Can anyone doubt it? We cannot see the musical idea which gave
birth to a composition, but our talent and imagination, coupled with
constant work, will help to reveal it to us individually and not objec-
tively, for the understanding of everyone. Sometimes, looking at a
score, I say to myself: "What marvellous music. But I must make it so/'
The performance must give to the work the full meaning of its exist-
ence and translate this ideal existence into reality.
May I be allowed to quote another opinion of Furtwangler? "First the
actual notation: through it the performer gets to know the work: he traces
backwards the steps of the composer, who gave life to his music before putting
it down on paper while he wrote it down. The heart and the marrow of this
music is therefore like an improvisation which he tries to write down. Where-

as, to the performer, the work appears like something exactly the opposite of an
improvisation, as a thing written with fixed signs and unalterable shape.
Next the performer must guess the meaning and work out the mystery of this
music in order to get to the work itself, which it is his business to bring to
lifer
Magnificent! What is necessary is to bring to life what is written,
to infuse life, instead of avoiding it with timidity. No theory, however
learned it may be, nor any edition, however covered with annotations
from the editor, can ever replace this interpretation: the heart of a
melody can never be put down on paper.
I have noticed how often you use the words "life" and "living" when
talking of interpretation.
This is because, on the one hand, I consider life as our great adviser
and, on the other, for an artist, and especially for a performer, the
essential problem is to produce a vital creation. We must reject all
things that are not clear or may be artificial. By no means should one
consider this rule as an invitation to sloth; quite the contrary! Often
we find that nothing is more difficult than to rediscover the marvellous
simplicity of live shapes. First they must find an echo in our minds;
after which we must pursue the work of investigation and elucidation
of the different problems. An endless work. Years of study have
confirmed the importance of this work. Every day I discover new
things.
Even in the works you have studied and played for the last sixty years,
such as the Bach Suites?
Yes, even in those, and especially in those. Only a few days ago
I realized that I was making a mistake in one of the Suites.
There are artists who, not daring to let themselves go, will give way
to something worse: routine (sometimes under a false pretence of
looking for technical perfection). But, at the end of routine, we find a
mechanical, congealed performance, the opposite of all art.
The interpretation of a work must be something organic, not
mechanical, something which makes you know how to vary all
repeated passages, how to establish a gradation of detail in the general
unity of the work, how not to be put off by some small rhythmical
liberties which the music demands, and, finally, how to remember two
very simple things: first that the natural origin of melody was vocal,
secondly that true rhythms come from the natural movements of
man, steps and dance.
Is there any danger of the artist overreaching himself?

Not for the real artist. His intelligence and his good taste will guard
him against taking too much liberty. Besides, this liberty is the opposite
of any arbitrary initiative, since it should be the product of pains-
taking and constantly renewed study of the work. What an abundance
of varieties, possibilities and nuances is to be found in the music of the
great masters ! Only a suggestion of all this can be detected in the
written score. Signs don't change, of course, and yet they may every
day reveal new things to the sensitive performer. The more he studies
them, the more marvels he discovers. It is not a question of being
original at all costs, in the bad meaning of the word; if the artist
wanted to show off an artificial originality having no connection with
the language the composer has used to communicate his thoughts, it
would be heresy. It is precisely his devotion and humility towards the
music which will allow him to get a glimpse of the heights where
hovers the creative spirit.
An eminent musician has written about rubato: "This temporary
rhythmical liberty always reveals (rather like a barometer) the truth — or the
falsehood — of the musical impulses felt (or fabricated) by the conductor,
player or singer**
Any performer who has not got a high conception of the work he
has to play will probably use means which will not help his inter-
pretation. It is all a question of equilibrium being maintained by good
taste. The rubato in itself is such a natural means of expression, that we
could almost think of music as being a perpetual rubato. It is just the
same when we speak: even without noticing it, how many times do
we accelerate or retard the rhythm of our words to make them more
expressive?
Rudolf von Tobel says that according to you "no composer is grateful
when, against our feeling and our convictions, we persist in following the text
like a slave** }
Composers are very grateful when the performer succeeds in
realising through intuition their truest and deepest intentions, instead
of following blindly the written text, and this really proves how in-
sufficient and vague are the indications they can give us. Further, I
have noticed that Saint-Saens, Moor, Granados and many others did
not perform their works twice in the same way; neither did they
observe strictly the indications they themselves had written.
"It is a fallacy to say that the performer, over and above his study of the
music, should reconstruct the concrete intention of the author in his per-
formance. The intention of the composer can only be indeterminate in regard
to the realities of performance . When he listens to the execution of his work,
the composer rediscovers it through this performance, and by definition the
1 All quotations from von Tobel are taken from his book, Pablo Casals. .
l86 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
only performance that will he valuable to him is also the one which has
given to his composition its greatest vitality" 1
A composer will always dislike any performance of his works at
the hands of a mediocre player. Nevertheless, this same composer will
not only accept different versions of his work, but will enjoy the variety
when it is produced by real artists. I don't think Beethoven thought
otherwise on the subject of different performances of one of his works,
as long as they showed zest for life and the freshness of novelty which,
I repeat, only a real artist can infuse into a performance.
Ravel used to say, tf Just play what is written. 11
What nonsense!
Did Ravel hear you play his Trio with Cortot and Thibaud?
Yes, and he seemed satisfied although we interpreted his indications
in our own way.
Didnt he show any enthusiasm?

Oh, Ravel never showed any enthusiasm! As soon as he became a
celebrity, performers did not matter much to him. He did not go to
concerts and was not interested in a good performance. (The only
thing that preoccupied him was, naturally enough, his work as a
composer.) Having known him since he was very young, as I told you
before, I felt a sort of pity when I discovered some aspects of his
nature.
Ysaye would say y when he talked about Anton Rubinstein playing
Chopin 1 s Funeral March: "I have often thought, and I am not the only one of
this opinion, that the performance had more value than the work itself
Rubinstein remade it, completed it, added something that was missing. He
turned it into one of those poems which stir the most intransigent soul. 11
Yes, I also think that sometimes, even fairly frequently, an inter-
pretation can be better than the work itself.
There are some examples where a performer has for ever attached the seal
of his personality to a certain work. We can all think of your interpretation
of the Bach Suites. Ysaye wrote about the Beethoven Violin Concerto
played by Joachim: "It is forty years since the Hungarian Master played this
work, which had not been much noticed before, but he played it so beautifully
that his name seems to be coupled with the work ever since. It is he, if I may
say so, who has made a masterpiece of it. If he had not produced this ideal
rendering of the work, it is possible that it would have been put aside and
forgotten. But no, he has revitalized it, enlarged it, transformed it! . . "
1 Gisele Brelet: V interpretation Crtatrice. (Presse Universitaires de France,
Paris.)
Fifty years after it was written, Joachim reinstated this Concerto.
The violinists of Beethoven's day either did not attach much importance
to it or else thought it was too difficult. The imprint of Joachim's
rendering of the work has not disappeared yet. I heard the great
violinist play it. Although I did not agree with all he did, I remember
there were in his performance many moments of the highest order,
which I thought were perfectly adapted to the spirit and character of
the work.
Ysaye goes further. He adds that in the performance of Joachim "everyone
can see the way, and follow it to the end, without losing his personality, or
becoming too dependent, or moulding his individuality to that of Joachim. His
rendering being the mirror of Beethoven s thoughts, it is permissible to be
impregnated by it, even advisable not to try anything else, in the certainty
that here is the truth and the light which illuminates, and will always illumin-
ate, the road for those who want to follow it."
And how could one do that? Joachim's performance having gone,
how can we avoid the different performances which followed his and
will continue to do so? How can one avoid different renderings? In

spite of Joachim's example, Ysaye himself had a very personal con-
ception of the work, which did not at all resemble that of the great
Hungarian Master. . . .
While you perform do you feel a sort of dual personality?
Yes, as you go from the physical part, which the artist must use, to
the musical creation, another part of our being comes in. I spoke to
Bergson about this.
You mean about the respective parts the intelligence and the instinct take
during a performance. . . .
The sort of intelligence which is too self-sufficient might do harm
instead of good. When all is said it is instinct which not only creates
but directs the performance.
Mozart and Schubert are two exceptional cases of intuition whose works
rise above the limitations of the intellect.
Of course, in music, as in everything, technical exercises bring
facility and stimulate deep research. However, although intelligence
is a powerful auxiliary, intuition remains the deciding factor. There are
many intelligent people who think constantly and, as a result, get into
a muddle. I have had two extremely intelligent friends who, through a
constant fevej; of thinking, often ended in complete confusion.

Do you think of yourself as an intuitive?
Yes, all I do is based on intuition.
But you dorit stop there; you just go on with hard work.
Intelligence helps the process of development and the progressive
integration of perceived forms, but it must be nourished and directed
by intuition. The fruitful blending of these two qualities depends on
the amount of each of them.
When you arrived today I was studying a Bach Recitative. I
worked at it for a few weeks, first on the piano then on the 'cello.
Complete understanding through intuition does not come to me at
once. I feel that I shall achieve understanding of the work as I wish,
but I have not yet comprehended it completely. As to my faith in the
final result, I could not say if it comes from faith in my instinct, or if I
think my intelligence sufficient to capture the forms I have perceived
through musical instinct.
You are now seventy-seven, and, in your solitude in Prades, you still
spend weeks studying a recitative. . . .

I have always done it, and it is not because I have learned some-
thing through studying that I should stop doing it. 1 A member of my
family said to me, talking about this recitative, "How do you manage
to be so patient?' ' And I answered: "Why not? It is so difficult to find
out the proper shape of all these notes, and their connection with each
other and with the ensemble of it. To sort it all out is an immense work.
However, you can now notice how different it is from when I began."
One cannot undertake the performance of a great work without first
sorting out its principal trends, its architectural sense and the relation
between the different elements which make up its structure. What we
must look for is the meaning of the music: that is only to be found
when the performer approaches it with honesty and humility.
Does that mean that the truth of the music can vary?
Of course, if every time it varies it tends to greater simplicity and its
meaning becomes more apparent. The artist is responsible for the
music he performs. He must experience it and create it again. It is
necessary to insist that the greatest respect he can pay to the music
consists of giving it life. That is the first commandment.
1 Bruno Walter relates (in Theme and Variations, Alfred Knopf, New York)
that once in London, when Casals was to play the Schumann Concerto with him, on
arriving at the Hall for the last rehearsal he found Casals practising exercises in the
artists' room. As he apologised for arriving so early, Casals just said "all right** and
went on playing. During the rehearsals, says Walter, Casals played the Concerto with a
saintly devotion and perfection. When, in the evening, he came again to the Queen's
Hall, he found that Casals was conscientiously playing his exercises again, and he
listened to them for about fifteen minutes.

A celebrated violinist who belongs to a younger generation than yours,
Yehudi Menuhin, has written this about interpretation: "The task for the
performer consists in establishing an equilibrium between the composition
and his own conscience. He tries his very best to reproduce the essence of what
the composer has formed in his mind. At all costs he must keep in touch with
the author's conception, and yet the possibility of this conception being
revived depends entirely on the reality of his own conviction and of his own
emotions."
This is very true. When Menuhin was very young and was being
taught by Enesco, the latter invited me to go and hear his pupil play a
Bach Partita at a concert in Paris. I remember sitting in a box with the
Menuhin family. After the concert Enesco took me aside to find out
what my opinion was. I told him I thought that his pupil was ex-
tremely gifted and had a perfect technique, but I also told him what
to my mind was missing in his performance of the Partita, namely, that
it was not fully alive. To which Enesco replied, "The reason is that in
Bach's day one did not do that sort of thing.' ' Confronted by this
assertion I thought it would be useless to pursue the argument. In spite
of the admiration I have for this very great artist and a friendship so
dear to me, I was sorry to find him tied up with this idea, which I
consider as a traditionalist prejudice. In Bach's time, people did not

use spiccato bowing of course; but why not use it now if the music
demands it? To my mind no expressive accent in music should be
excluded any more than, in speaking, one should eliminate any means
of reinforcing the expression and helping the nuances.
Ludwig questioned you on the decisive role of inspiration, to which you
answered: "This is an error. Unless one keeps watch over one's feelings they
cant be properly used as an artistic means of expression. It is only when
reason is in command that inspiration can provide something. I do not believe
that playing is just magic."
These, probably, are not exactly the words I used with my friend
Ludwig. It is not that reason should be in command. It is at the basis
of inspiration, which becomes, as one might say, a sort of exaltation
of what has first been ordained and fixed by the intelligence. I am, of
course, talking about musical interpretation. In fact, I have always
thought that inspiration and work stimulate each other.
What about vibrato?
When used in a string instrument, the vibrato has an expressive
function which you might compare to that of the voice in singing,
but it remains obvious that vibrato in itself cannot be expressive, because

that depends on how it is applied. The vibrato is a means of expressing
sensitivity, but it is not a proof of it.
A modern composer said that "he works with joy". Could you say the
same?
This is a claim which it would be very difficult to make as an
instrumentalist. With the composer there may be the joy of working,
a joy which will probably be mixed with the bitter pangs of the work
coming from the recesses of the soul. Nevertheless, with him, the
hours can pass very happily so that he loses all sense of time. The instru-
mentalist — at least I feel that way — does count the hours ! And he does
realise the torment of each minute. Some passages he has to repeat
today, he will have to repeat again tomorrow. One has a conviction
that one never gets near the goal in view. 1
The colourful impression most people have of virtuosi was contradicted
by Enesco when he said: "Poor devils! They are just like convicts (con-
demned to hard labour), martyrs . . . sometimes saints.* 1
How true ! When he goes to bed after a concert he sees his perform-
ance like a nightmare . . . of what it has been . . . of what it could have
been.
Does this happen to you?

And how! Every time and always ! Once I get to bed, I go through
the whole thing in my mind and I see again, with perfect exactitude,
everything which went off the rails, and I go through every single
note. I cannot get to sleep until I have made this examination, exacting
and painful.
And this may happen after the public has called you back a dozen times?
That side of success is only a thing of the moment, soon forgotten
by the artist.
During some conversations Enesco had on the radio with Bernard
Gavoty, he said that "on the one hand the impeccability which is expected
from a virtuoso nowadays, and on the other the longing he has to evade the
mechanical slavery, create a real conflict for the performer".
This is very true, and it has its origin principally in gramophone
recording. Making a disc, where at least an external perfection is
required, is conducive to mechanical performance. At a concert per-
1 In 1952 a barrister from Bombay sent a eulogistic letter to Casals in which he said,
"For me you represent amongst performers what Bach and Beethoven represent amongst
composers.'* Casals answered him: "I can only tell you, in all humility, that I have
spent all my life working towards the ideal every artist should have. But I can
also say that I am a long way from reaching the summit of the ideal, although I
shall pursue it to my dying day."

formance a slight hesitation or mistake may pass unnoticed, or in any
case the general musicality of the performance can make up for it.
There are some aspects in a performance — such as a slight mistake
humanely understood — which should be considered of secondary
importance, or, at least, ought not to become an agonising obsession;
but the fact is that when making a gramophone record where every
little detail is registered, the imposition on the artist is a real servitude
and, what is worse, a dangerous servitude in regard to his inspiration
or his musical feeling. We are now surrounded by mechanism
everywhere.
The question of accelerating the tempi . . .
This is a serious and subtle problem. The question of tempo can be
decided through the sense of measuring time in space, a sense which I
believe I possess. This is a gift which does not belong to every artist and
it is difficult for those without it to realise how the lack of it can make
trouble in their performances. Yesterday afternoon, for example, a
violoncellist came to see me. He had a masterly technique and a lot of
feeling, and yet he had not got this sense of time in space. While he
was playing the Allemande of one of the Bach Suites, he did not realise
that in the succession of chords which form a cadence, these chords
come too late one after the other, with the result that this " widening"
made one lose the notion of the original tempo, and, in this case, he
was not doing the repeats ! (If he had been the result would have been
fatal.) But nowadays artists who possess this sense of tempo risk losing
it or, at least, forgetting it because of the modern tendency to play too
fast. There are many reasons for this: the improvement of instruments
and the technical achievement of performers, and so on. The modern
tendency is to accelerate as much as possible all the quick tempi in order
to achieve a success which is not very valuable. This inclination is
spreading everywhere. A week ago, as I entered the drawing-room of
a friend in Perpignan, I heard a gramophone record of the Scherzo
from Mendelssohn's A Midsummer Night's Dream, and as I noticed the
technical perfection and the speed of it, I thought it was an American
orchestra. But at the end, as I realised it was played by a European
orchestra of high repute, I had confirmation of what I consider to be a
bad tendency: the systematic acceleration of tempi. This tendency seems
to me very dangerous and as far as I am concerned I shall do all I can to
counteract it.
Prokoviev wrote: "Some hundred and fifty years ago our ancestors were
devoted to the gay pastorals of Rameau and Mozart; in the XlXth century
everyone preferred slow and grave rhythms. Today we ask from music and
from everything else speed, energy and movement."

This is true, and it is the reason why inspiration is so often lacking
nowadays: somehow we must make an impression, even by artificial
means. Systematic speed is artificial, and what is so regrettable today is
the fact that these artificial methods should also deform the works of
the great masters.
How do you come to know the real tempo?
There is no set rule: the words allegro, adagio, and so on are only
indications'* . The musical instinct of the performer must discover the
tempo implied by printed words.
Your concern with precise tempo gave rise to a controversy after
you had conducted the Brahms' Variations On a Theme of Haydn in
London.
Yes, I did conduct this work. The controversy you allude to was on
the subject of the 7th variation, marked 6/8 Vivace, which most con-
ductors beat in two. Brahms, as well as Schumann, thought of these
time signatures as meaning quite different things, and in 6/8 each note
of the triplets has an effect which does not exist if you beat it in two.
It is in the 6/8 time that this variation should be played. My rendering
of it started discussion in the Press and in musical circles which lasted
all the week. The whole thing became a sort of scandal until, on the
following Sunday, The Observer wrote, "I was thankful to hear this
variation played in its proper tempo for the first time, in fact as
Brahms himself performed it."
To come hack to the subject we discussed in the chapter on Bach and
Handel, what do you think of this "historical fidelity", the respectful
interpretation according to the customs of the period in which the work
belonged?
Any historical knowledge is interesting and valuable, but the per-
former must deal with the music he is to play on its own merits. The
artist of today cannot know or imagine with any certainty how a work
was played in some remote period; anyone trying to pursue this way
of "historical fldelity ,, risks becoming a crank, or being cramped by
tiresome constrictions, and either possibility is contrary to the personal
and actual conception required in any performance worthy of the
name. We cannot revive feelings that are buried in the past. We don't
know if we play better or less well than people did formerly. My
opinion is that we play better because of the improvements in instru-
ments, and also because we have benefited by the precious examples of
the past. Haven't we got positive evidence that we know more and
understand better than our ancestors how to play, for instance, Bach
and Mozart?
In the Cahiers de Conversation of Beethoven, we read that a friend
said to him, "Yesterday they massacred your Fifth Symphony." It looks as
if these crimes were the order of the day then as well as now.
Neither the ' 'purists" nor the "archaeologists" convince me. How do
you imagine the orchestra sounded in the days of Mozart and Beethoven
when all the wind instruments were "out of tune", as I explained
to you before? And how much did the orchestral players of those days
care for proper intonation? And that's only one thing. You all know
that one of the duties of the leading violinist of those days was to drag
the rest of the orchestra along. And that is exactly what happened: the
leader was always heard very slightly ahead of the other instruments.
That was considered normal; today we laugh about it. If only we
had some gramophone records of how Beethoven Symphonies were
played in those days! Many illusions would be destroyed. The great
masters may have made do with the material at their disposal, but that
does not mean they had no wish to improve or augment their orches-
tras. We read in one of Mozart's letters to his sister of his enthusiasm on
hearing one of his compositions played by forty fiddles! Musical
geniuses of all periods have always shown that they saw the necessity
of enlarging and improving all the means of performance. And here is
another point to consider: a masterpiece is something which is an
actuality at all times. It is just the opposite to a fossil, since it continues
to move us — thanks to its greatness and richness; we people of today
should approach it with our own sensitiveness and conception of
beauty.
Times have changed . . .
That is true, but I have an irresistible desire to blend together
the different periods in a general perspective, so convinced am
I that humanly and spiritually there is something common to all
music.
So when a contemporary pianist says, "It is imperative now (having
settled the question of tempo) to put ourselves in the mind of the composer
when he conceived his work." . . .
That is obvious, as it is equally obvious that each artist must find
his own way of "putting himself in the mind of the composer".
People say that when you study a work you read it first and sing the
principal themes, after which you play the whole thing on the piano. Only
when you have gathered some of its meaning do you take the 'cello and bow.
Yes. It is necessary for the musician to have technical mastery as
well as a general conception of the work, and to know how to apply
them to the particular work he studies. Nevertheless, during- this
study and performance, he must guard against being a slave of technical
possibilities, however good he is, and avoid anything which might

lead to routine and monotony.
What do you think ofGieseking's method which he has inherited from his
master Leimer? He never allowed him to use his instrument before he had
completely assimilated the work in his head.
Hearing inwardly may give one a complete knowledge of the work.
But I think it is not enough for an artist to learn music only through
his eyes: he needs to experience sound physically. Although sound by
itself will not change your idea of the work, the transmission of sound
to the ear communicates a sort of exaltation which is beneficial and
fruitful. When experiencing sound, I find that its richness helps me to
create my performance in a way unlike simply reading from a score.
The proof of this is that the artist finds something new in each per-
formance, thus going further than he had decided when studying it
visually !
Diran Alexanian says of you, "When he plays, each note is a prophecy
or a recollection] this magician induces in us the presentiment of what is to
come, as well as the remembrance of what has been." 1
That is what I imagine form should be in the real meaning of the
word. That is what musical interpretation requires: nothing should be
isolated, each note is like a link in a chain — important in itself and also
as a connection between what has been and what will be.
There are some artists who only feel inspired by reading or performing a
piece when, at a given time, they recollect a landscape, or remember reading
something which has helped them to penetrate the musical sense of the work
in question.
That seems natural to me. When my pupils play, I sometimes ask
them: what do you feel, what do you see? An artist has imagination
and fantasy, and when he gives himself to music he ought to feel and
see things, however vague and indefinite the vision.
What about his preoccupation with technical difficulties?
It all depends on his technical potentialities, and on the work he
1 Traiti theorique et pratique du violoncelle. (Editions Mathot, Paris.)
has done to overcome his difficulties. In any case, preoccupation with
the instrument ought not to interfere with the performance or be
noticed by the listener.
"The problem of interpretation" says Furtwangler, "is not one of
technical difficulties. One must realise that formerly when we naively admired
'technique', it was a very different thing from what it is today. It was not the
technique of a Bach or a Mozart [later, that of a Paganini or a Liszt) which
struck the listeners of their day. Every time, it was their personality which
found expression through the appropriate technique and exactly fitted their
message."
This is so obvious that the fact that we should have to discuss it is a
reflection of the confusion we are in nowadays.
"Casals," said Alexanian, "does not leave anything to chance. Every-
thing he does is intended, thought out, selected from amongst all the different
procedures which would lead to almost identical results. And perhaps it is
this simple word: "almost" which should hold our attention . . . Casals has
what he believes everyone should possess — control of all his thoughts, of all
intentions, even those secondary ones which prevent complacency with
approximate results. What he wants is full realisation, and until he has found
it, he makes himself a docile and persevering servant of his reason."
It is only natural to try not to leave anything to chance. At no
time do I want to go astray; each moment I must know where I am,
in order to maintain a proper connection between all the different
elements and not to lose the right proportions. I don't see why every-
one should not do the same, or how any performer who is conscious
of his responsibility could be satisfied with the "nearly" or the
"approximate".
One day, last summer, sitting in this room waiting for the post to come,
I heard you rehearsing a Beethoven Sonata you were supposed to record in
Switzerland with Serkin. You stopped very often and annotated the parts.
Considering you have played this work hundreds of times during the past fifty
years, I could not help admiring your application.
Ah . . . you see, the reason is that, in a way, I always have to begin
again. It is necessary to keep watch over habits, usual methods and
careless confidence, any of which may endanger the spiritual state
which is interpretation. We must try to work in such a way that for
each performance our receptivity should be as free as it was when we
first studied the work.
75 it true that in the course of time you have played certain passages in
more than fifty different ways?
I have not counted them, but it is very likely. It is as I told you:
however much we vary our playing in the course of our discoveries,
we can never exhaust the multiplicity of nuances and subtleties which
make the charm of music. And besides, how can we expect to produce
a vital performance if we don't re-create the work every time? Every
year the leaves of the trees reappear with the spring, but they are
different every time.
People say that one of your most surprising faculties is the capacity you
have for listening.

While I play I can hear the minutest details of my performance; I
control them and my memory registers them. Isn't this the privilege
and the torture of all performers?
Do you listen with a very strict sense of criticism?
Absolutely strict: I play, I listen, I judge myself.
You once told me that your contribution to music had consisted mostly in
recalling the importance of its elementary and fundamental aspects.
Certainly. That is what I mean when I say that we know a lot of
things but we forget the ABC. My aim has always been to revalue
everything to do with music by the most natural means. This is an
easy task for those who are able to see clearly the mutations of musical
performance. The interpretation of a work is a series of expressions
very like the series of vocal nuances and varied gestures which add to
the expression of the spoken word: a little suspense, a question mark
here and there, and so on.
Many people have noticed your insistence on the prime importance of
intonation in performance.
Intonation must be the proof of the sensitiveness of an instrumental-
ist. Neglecting it is not acceptable for a serious performer and it

lowers his standard, however good a musician he may be. It is curious
to realise that this concern with good intonation is relatively recent
among instrumentalists. When I was young I was stupefied to hear
great players like Sarasate and Thompson play out of tune with the
greatest ease in the world. In fact, having read many books on the
classical period, I have never seen any reference to instrumental
intonation, which makes me think that they did not attach much
importance to it. And yet I can hardly believe that a composer like
Mozart would not have felt the necessity of it. A great genius is always
ahead of his time.
Would you tell me why you use the term "expressive" intonation? 1
Intonation, as it is conceived today, has such sensitiveness and
subtlety that the intonation of note must affect the listener, quite apart
from any stimulating accent. The necessity of observing it is under-
stood and observed by all good instrumentalists. In our day, the
public would not accept a good soloist if he did not play in tune.
Singers are taught "tempered" intonation, but I have noticed that the
most gifted and the most artistic ones realise the importance and the
subtlety of perfect intonation. The principle I am speaking of is of
varied character in its application to string instruments. I make an
exception for double-stopped playing: in this case one must com-

promise between expressive intonation and the * 'tempered' ' one.
75 there a marked difference?
I can give a demonstration which would astonish many people:
for example I can prove with my system that there is a greater distance
between a D|; and a Qjf than there is in a semitone like C-D|? or CJ-Dtj.
It is a pity that such an essential part of performance as this real
intonation should be, is still so neglected by some teachers. The other
day when I was giving a young pupil his first lesson, I asked him how
he had been taught; he said he had been taught intonation from the
tempered piano. So you see what work he will have to do to correct
this!
How do you reconcile "tempered" instruments with expressive
intonation?
That is a kind of conflict which is, to me, more apparent than
real. In those orchestras which possess great technical perfection and
employ some first-class soloists (who practise this subtlety of semi-
tones) the conflict does not arise, which proves that the ' 'fusion* '
1 (Here is a confused quotation of Alexanian, trying to explain what he thinks
Casals means by "expressive intonation", but it does not really explain the point.
Casals actually means that diatonic semitones are smaller than chromatic ones, and
therefore it becomes a question of a sharper note being nearer the next note above
it (such as Fjjf to G) than to the semitone below it (such as G to G\>).) (Note of
translator.)
"In matters of intonation Casals does not concern himself with the comma,
a distinction imposed by mathematical calculation between any given degree
of the scale and its enharmonic equivalent. His insistence on the true quality
of sharps and flats has a solid basis. He hirdly recognizes sevenths or leading
notes unless their specific harmonic tendencies draw them right away from
the inertia of tempered pitch to the point where they are almost identical
with their goal. This is what Casals calls lajustesse expressive. And it is a thing
which no musician can ever forget after hearing it in Casals* playing."
(Alexanian.)
between the "tempered' ' instruments and expressive intonation is
perfectly possible.
You told me of the painful impression you get on hearing very good
performers who are satisfied with the approximate intonation.
Yes, if an instrumentalist misses some difficult part of a passage,
that does not influence my judgment, but I must say that I cannot
forgive an approximate intonation in a so-called artistic performance.

I want to feel that the performer has a constant care for perfect
intonation which reflects his musical sensitiveness.
It must be very difficult to acquire perfect intonation for a student of a
string instrument?
Of course it is, and I feel convinced that it should be dealt with at
the beginning of his studies. Either because of insufficient listening
power or through having contracted the habit of compromise, which
is "tempered" intonation, the student will need to undergo a "cure"
for his aural sense. Only yesterday I had the joy of seeing a pupil of
mine, after long explanations and demonstrations, beginning to
realise how much better he could hear the exact sound. The effects of
any neglect of this kind at the beginning of studies (which is very
frequent) can affect a player through the whole of his career, however
gifted he may be.
J have read thai your sense of distances is so accurate that you were able to
play the Haydn Concerto when you had such a bad cold that you were quite
unable to hear yourself play.
That happened to me more than once.
Shortly before the Prades Festival of 1952, you received a letter from
Alexander Schneider in which he said, "When we arrive this year, I wonder
if you will have put new strings on your 'cello?"

I have a great affection for my strings and it costs me a lot to change
them. They always sound best just before they break. My friends seem
to enjoy this attachment. ... I keep my strings on as long as possible,
and if one breaks before a concert it worries me a lot because I have to
do a lot of preparation in order to get used to the characteristics of a
new string.
And what happens if they break during a concert?
That has happened to me and it is far from being funny — but one
must know how to control oneself. I must say that an audience is
always sympathetic when this happens.
You have introduced many reforms in 'cello technique.
These modifications, which I applied when I was still very young,
were always suggested to me through the necessities of the moment
(but I never had any preconceived ideas of making innovations). Some
of these technical ideas of mine are already widespread, but it does not
mean that, at first, they did not shock many players of the old school. 1
One of these modifications consisted of using the extension of the
fingers in a general way; this makes the playing easier and avoids a lot
of shifts which are often detrimental to the music played.
Some people think that you have an exceptional hand which allows you
to do these fingerings.
No, I have not an exceptional hand, but it is a flexible one which
allows me these great extensions of fingers I told you of. If one's hands
are too small it would be better to give up playing the 'cello. But with
a normal hand a 'cellist should be able to include this extension of
fingers in his technical equipment. These extensions should be practised
in such a way that the maximum result can be attained with the least
possible contraction of the muscles. In each case I choose the fingering
which seems the simplest and the safest. I used to employ these exten-
sions on a large scale but I have given up some of the more tiring ones
in favour of the nearly natural fingering. We never gain anything by
trying to do things against nature. Neither is it necessary to do so,
since it is sufficient to know how to use the means nature has put at
our disposal.
I have heard you insist on the necessity of taking every chance of relaxing
muscular tensions.
That is very important. Playing the 'cello is so difficult and requires
such a tension of the left hand that it becomes necessary to do certain
exercises to maintain its flexibility in preparation for a performance.
One of the things I teach my pupils is to know how and at what
moment they can relax the hand and the arm. Even in the course of a
rapid passage it is possible to find the right moment to relax. (This
may happen within the tenth of a second.) It becomes a fundamental
necessity in performance and if one does not take it into account there
comes a time when one cannot relax (it is like being unable to breathe)
and exhaustion sets in. This fatigue of the hand and arm mostly comes
from the tension of the muscles produced through emotion and "stage-
fright". However, the will of the performer must overcome this
1 Casals receives many letters from 'cellists who show their appreciation and gratitude:
here is an extract from a recent one written by a 'cellist in Cleveland: "I know now that
if my interpretations are successful I owe it all to you: you have changed the old
way of playing the 'cello through your musicianship, the finger extensions (new
fingering) and the suppression of unnecessary glissandos."
obstacle, and to this end the conscious practising of relaxation will
prove very beneficial to complete control during a concert.
What about physical exhaustion?
Alas! I have known it more than once. It comes from too much
work and general weariness. If one is forced to play in such a state it
becomes a real martyrdom. One just feels empty and unable to give
anything.
In spite of your long years of playing in public, I believe you have always
been nervous before a concert?
Think of the number of great performers I have met in my long
career — they all suffered from stage-fright, with some rare exceptions.
(Fritz Kreisler, for instance, used to say he felt perfectly "at home" on
the platform.) But can you imagine that I have not known any artist
as tormented as I am with nerves? The thought of a public concert
always gives me a nightmare.
Even now?
Yes, even now.
If I am not mistaken, when we talked of relaxation, you had your ideas
confirmed by Coues method. It was through auto-suggestion?
No, I was not interested in the auto-suggestion part of Coue's
method, but in the fact that it taught one to relax completely different
parts of the body, which is a thing many people could not do even if
they wanted to. If you pay attention you can notice that when we
think we are in a complete state of relaxation, we can generally find
some part of the body that could be relaxed more. And don't you
believe it is easy to do unless we have been through long exercises,
which are exactly what we want, to keep up the suppleness of the arm
and the fingers.

Do I understand that the necessary impulse to produce these flexible
movements must come from the centre of the body?
This is, I believe, a theory entirely my own — at least no one ever
talked to me about it, not even Monasterio. Only this impulse, coming
from the centre of the body instead of each extremity, will group the
different movements in a unified whole, producing better results and
less fatigue. This impulse, coming from what I call the centre of the
body, is rather like an image of what I feel at the time, not an easy
thing to identify or to name.
This constant search for flexibility may partly explain the fact that at the
age of seventy-seven you can still astonish those who listen to you performing
works as exhausting as the Bach Suites?
It may have had a beneficial influence on me, and if at at my age
I am able to continue playing the 'cello it is probably due to the
muscular and nervous equilibrium which my organism fortunately
possesses.
But dorit you think that this precious equilibrium is partly due to some
mental factor also? When you take your 'cello it looks as if some trans-
formation came over you. Do you think you would keep the same balance and
suppleness if you took on some manual work?
Very probably, if such work interested me a lot. But I am an
absolute dud at doing any odd jobs or anything of that kind. Oddly
enough my father and my two brothers were past masters at anything
practical. The only "manual work" I understand is to play the 'cello or
any other instrument. For instance, when two little boys came to see
me the other day to show me the flageolets their parents had bought
for them at the fair, I immediately seized one and played some well-
known tunes for their benefit.
There is another question I want to put to you: everyone has always
noticed how you make an entry: the very first note you play. . . .
Bravo ! What you ask me is a very important and subtle question.
It is not given to everyone to know how to play the first note of a
work. When I hear my pupils play the first bar of a score, I often
stop them and say, "No, this is not like a beginning." And yet it is not
particularly a question of technique, but of sensitiveness, which is very
difficult, if not impossible, to define or analyse.
I would say that your way of playing requires a great variety in the
accents, and its superabundance of nuances would explain the wealth of
colours on your palette.
The performer must first decide on the character of the piece he

plays. Normally, nuances and accents will be different with each per-
former; either they are right or not: there is no rule in existence to
settle these questions. Nevertheless the beauty and expressive value of a
performance demands from the player an endless wealth of nuances in
every part of the work he plays. Accentuation does not mean uniform
intensity. Nothing that was uniform could move us. In fact it is the
diminuendo following a forte accent which gives it its value, and what
will give a piano indication a lively feeling is to bring slight variations
of intensity into it. What happens in painting? When the artist wishes
to make a colour stand out, he tones down the ones around it: in the
same way with music, an accentuated note will stand out and keep its
value, not so much because of its special intensity but principally
because of the shade which succeeds it. These remarks find a parallel
in a law of nature: Let us shout very loud and observe the endless diminuendo
which follows. The performance of music cannot exclude this most
natural reality.
On the whole, musical accents should be placed according to the
character of the work in each of its sections. To know how to grade
them according to their importance will on the one hand establish
their relation with each other, and on the other, with the bulk of the
work, thus unifying them into an organic whole.

My conception of musical accentuation offers some analogy with
the use of the spoken word, that is to say with the endless inflections
we use in our voices so that the words find their real meaning.
In the early years of my journeys through Europe and America, I
heard that people were wondering "what is special about Casals?" I
feel sure that the special things they thought I had came from the fusion
of the principles I have been talking of. 1 When they are more wide-
spread and applied to the orchestra, they will give it new and more
rational expressive possibilities.
What was the origin of these principles?
When I was very young my instinct led me to observe and realise
the amount of subtleties and nuances contained in music; later on I was
able to make comparisons and analogies between my observations and
the natural reality — so rich, so varied and so marvellously expressive
of the spoken word. I can still remember the surprise of my teacher,
Monasterio, when I talked to him about my ideas.
You barred the habit of constantly using the bow in all its length, didnt
you?
Yes, I opposed any method which advocated such a course — I
find that whenever something seems to go against music it is reflected
in an ugly and inelegant gesture; even in my childhood I felt awkward

whenever I watched violinists or violoncellists using the whole bow
all the time. It seemed useless to me. The bow, being an element of
performance, should be used according to the music one plays. It is
quite natural to use it in all its length for long notes just as it is to use
only part of it for shorter notes. The right hand should have the
power to use whichever part of the bow is appropriate to the musical
meaning of each note.
Both in the French School of playing and in the Belgian one
1 A critic has written saying it was very difficult to talk of "Casals as a musician"
because "everything he does seems so natural that there is nothing to say!"
(which have influenced each other), there has been a leading pre-
occupation with what they call Varchet a la corde, which has become
such an obsession that, in many cases, it went against the requirements
of the language of music. This has led to an abuse of strength on the
string and has resulted in a lowering of the musical interest through
the impression of monotony it produces. My conception of inter-
pretation prescribes a great variety of colours in loud as well as in soft
passages. The range of expression goes from the softest pianissimo to the
loudest fortissimo; besides, as I told you before, even a fortissimo will not
sound like one, unless we add a diminuendo, which is precisely what will
make the accent sound important.
Therefore you can understand why I oppose the principle of
Varchet a la corde as anti-musical conducive to monotony and contrary
to the economy of energy which a performance demands. Thanks to
my pupils and followers, my views are already widespread and fairly
well understood.
In order to acquire the maximum of suppleness in the handling of
the bow, the first thing and the most elementary is to hold it properly.
One sees such curious things: only the other day as I was giving the
first lesson to a new pupil, I noticed that he was holding his bow with
all the fingers pointing to the right, which produced an unnecessary-
contortion of the wrist, bound to be tiring in the end. The bow must
rest on the first joint and should press on the point of articulation of the
first and second joint. In that position the. hand is placed naturally and
the wrist is free.
At one time you had a piece of cork round the nut of your how, and one
noticed the number of 'cellists who adopted it — in the belief they had dis-
covered your "secret".
However supple one keeps one's right hand, the thumb is bound to
exert a considerable pressure. I began to have cramp, and I thought it
was due to the drawing of the fingers too near to the thumb (which
also happens to writers). That was why I had this piece of cork fixed on
the bow, and I was amused to see how some other 'cellists imitated me
without any physical reason for it. But that was a long time ago and
fortunately the cramp went and with it the piece of cork!
Diran Alexanian speaks of "the eternal logic of Casals, always based on
the reasoning which leads to evidence!" Ludwig noticed that in the course of
conversation you often used the French word raison. Was this what was
meant by the person who described your work as "controlled inspira-
tion'?
Alexanian (who is an exceptional person) and myself have ex-
changed views for years on the question of 'cello and performance;
these talks with him have always been most stimulating. He talks
about my "eternal logic". But is this logic not guided and nourished
by intuition?
In order to answer your question, I must explain that when I was
young standards of interpretation were in a state of confusion. I felt
it was necessary for me to bring my personal contribution into per-
formance, without losing a sense of responsibility. I tried to bring
order and normality into my playing.

All that must have required self-discipline.
Naturally !
But do you think discipline and spontaneity can work together?
In every branch of art, as well as in music, the work of preparation
ruled by discipline should finally disappear, so that the elegance and
freshness of the form should strike us as being spontaneous.
Could one say that Ysaye and Paderewski still belonged to a romantic
age?
Possibly !
On the other hand, a critic has said that he finds in your mind the classic
and the romantic.
I don't know, it is possible ! You know that I don't care very much
for this sort of classification.
In the days of Liszt, Chopin and Schumann, when romanticism was at its
height, do you think your interpretations would have been appreciated as
much as they are now?
If I had lived then, maybe I would not have been the same as I am
now, and very probably my musical conceptions would also have been
different.
I mentioned Paderewski just now: a critic, Marc Pincherle, says that he
was "inconsistency personified^ but, more than anyone, could give in his
best moments the highest impression of real creation!
Paderewski belonged to the period of confusion I was talking about.
In his performance there were sublime moments, and at other times he
would produce what I would describe as "musical whims" wrongly
applied.
And Busoni?
Busoni was a very great artist with whom I played on many
occasions. I had such sympathy and admiration for him that, even
when I did not agree with him, I always respected and accepted his
convictions — I could not say the same about Paderewski. There was an
astonishing aspect revealed in some of Busoni's performances; perhaps
a spirit of contradiction, or more likely a deliberate purpose of de-
forming what he felt. For instance, he played the Cesar Franck Prelude,
Choral et Fugue in a diabolical way, a composition so full of mystical

elevation. Knowing Busoni as I did, I could see that he was working
against himself and was deliberately distorting the work.
Have you played with Arthur Rubinstein?
Yes, and he was very young then, perhaps eighteen, and hardly
known as a pianist.
Which pianists do you admire most?
There are so many remarkable ones, but I think Rudolf Serkin
stands apart for his profound and extraordinary musicianship.
A name to be remembered is Eugene Istomin, a young American
of Russian parents. When I first heard him at the Bach Festival in
Prades he was only twenty-five, but he made a great impression on
me. I had not met such a mature artist of that age, and I would
include him among the greatest pianists.
Amongst the contemporary 'cellists, I know you have a great regard for
Feuerman and Piatigorsky!
Yes, what a great artist Feuerman was! His early death was a great
loss to music.
What do you think of Pincherles opinion of present-day violinists?
"Amongst the younger of the international champions {including Menuhin,

so prodigiously gifted in many ways), I cannot see the appearance of any
personality as generous and deeply original as that of Joachim, Ysaye or
Kreisler."
I don't think Joachim was conspicuous for his originality (at least,
the Joachim I heard). His performances aimed so much at being classical
that they became rather cold.
I had the impression that he was afraid of exceeding certain limits,
and consequently did not let himself go. Every time I heard him play
alone or with his quartet, he made me feel that he did not always
produce what there was in the music he played. But, mind you,
Joachim had, obviously, a great personality, and his performances
always commanded respect and sometimes attained great heights. And
after this " classicism' ' we had the overflowing imagination of Ysaye's
genius.
Another great artist who has influenced the younger generation
of violinists by his personality is Fritz Kreisler. A few years later came
Georges Enesco, a great interpreter for whom my admiration was
limitless. And Jacques Thibaud, a star from Heaven, whom I consider
as a natural product of the French School (although he was later
influenced by his elders, Ysaye and Kreisler).

Following in chronological order we find Jascha Heifetz, an
incredible violinist whose expression may sometimes sound excessive,
but is so perfectly harmonious with the rest that it gives his playing
impressive brilliance.
And we must not forget the two great names of Joseph Szigeti and
Yehudi Menuhin.
Young Isaac Stern has, in my opinion, happily acquired the best
characteristic of his illustrious predecessors, and he has done it in a way
which has created a natural and harmonious whole.
Do you think there is progress in the domain of interpretation?
I think there is — and I sometimes wonder what artists like Liszt or
Anton Rubinstein were really like, and what effect they would have on
us if we heard them today.
In the days of our grandfathers (or even fathers) we were much
struck by virtuosity, but, today, general standards of technique have
so improved that we are not impressed by it any more, unless there is
real musical thought behind it.
Have you had your superb Bergonzi y cello a long time?

About fifty years — I call it a Bergonzi-Goffriller, because it is one
of the most beautiful instruments made by Mateo Goffriller, a
Tyrolese who settled in Cremona. I have never found a violon-
cello which suited my hands better. It takes a few years to get
used to an instrument, to master its possibilities and to know its
limitations.
Before you had this 'cello, did you play on the Gagliano which Queen
Maria Cristina gave you?
Yes!
How is it that you never played on a Stradivarius?
I have never been tempted by a Stradivarius. These superb
instruments have too much personality in my opinion; if I play on
one, I cannot forget that I have a Stradivarius in my hands, and it
disturbs me considerably. I said to a friend one day, talking of these
instruments, "Their Majesties mind very much how one plays on
them!"
All the same, you very nearly bought one of them!
It is true — a very long time ago. I was once fascinated by a Stradi-
varius 'cello belonging to Mr. Mendelssohn and considered the best
one in existence. I made him an offer, but he did not accept it. Now I
am glad he did not, for the reasons I have given you, and also because
it was too big for me. It would have had to be shortened, which might
have spoiled it. Mr. Mendelssohn emigrated to America when the Nazi
persecution was on. He had a tragic end, but his 'cello is now in the
hands of a well-known violin dealer in New York.
The Spanish Royal family had a quartet of Stradivarius instruments
which had been specially made for them, and it had a second violon-
cello equally splendid. I am certain that if I had asked her, the Queen
would have been pleased to lend me this second instrument. Some time
after the change of regime in Spain, the republican authorities ex-
pressly put this instrument at my disposal. I felt very grateful, but
decided to decline the offer. However, at that time I went to visit the
Royal Palace in Madrid, and made arrangements for the instruments
to be well looked after and preserved from deterioration.
I can remember a period when your Goffriller was being repaired and you
played on a modern instrument!
Yes ! The excellent violin-master of Mirecourt, Mr. Laberte, made
an exact copy of my Goffriller for me. This instrument, although
completely new, had some wonderful qualities.

One day, while I was rehearsing a concerto with Ysaye conducting
the orchestra, he asked me, "Is it a Strad?" I did not say anything but
just smiled. But when I explained what it was, Ysaye could not get
over it.
Unfortunately, when I took this instrument to America for a tour,
the different climate was so harmful that it lost a great deal of its
magnificent tone.
This seems to be a proof that modern instruments ought not to be under-
estimated, as they generally are.
On this subject I can tell you about a very curious fact. My friend,
Auguste Mangeot, the Director of the Monde Musical in Paris (and the
founder of the £cole Normale de Musique), had often discussed with me
the difficulty for students and young musicians of acquiring old Italian
instruments, and the quite unjustified contempt people have for new
instruments. We decided to "have a trial" (it was about 1910). We
organised a competition which took place at the Salle des Agriculteurs
in Paris. There were forty 'cclli, some of them by Stradivarius and
other well-known makers. I played on them all, except for three or

four which were played by a 'cellist called Lcvenson. We had given a
number to each instrument and a list to each listener. While I played
the hall was kept in darkness, and when the lights were put on the
listeners wrote down their impression of the last number. Do you know
which instrument got the highest praise? A 'cello made by the maker
Paul Kaul from Nantes. (This instrument had been brought to me by
Paul Kaul and his associate a few months previously, when they asked
me to play it.)
Another competition took place two or three years later, and it was
for violins this time. Curiously enough, it was an instrument made by
the same Paul Kaul which won the competition.
Your patience with, pupils is well known, but I see that you also have to
give them a lesson in modesty on occasion!
Most of the 'cellists who come to see me and wish me to hear them
ask if they may play a Bach Suite. "Play whatever you like," I say,
"even a Waltz. By the way you handle your instrument, I shall see
straightaway how you stand."
Young musicians complain of their difficulties in making a start.
These difficulties have always existed. I advise my pupils and any
young musicians to resist the temptation to give recitals in the big
capitals. They would spend all they have earned through years of
work, as well as what they have not yet earned. Anyone who has real
talent gets recognition sooner or later.
Also, nowadays, there are international competitions.
Perfectly true! In my young days they did not exist. However,
when I read the results of these competitions, I cannot help thinking of
the numerous and bitter deceptions they may occasion. As a matter
of fact I don't envy those who sit on the jury for these competitions.
I remember only too well what happened to me in Paris once. Faure,
who was then Director of the Conservatoire, asked me if I would
write the sight-reading piece for the 'cello competition. I agreed to do
it, but at the same time I warned him that my piece would only take
into account the standard I imagined should be that of a laureate of
the Conservatoire of the French capital. Faure agreed and said "Do
what you think is right."
The day of the concours the hall was absolutely filled with the
students, their families and their friends. Now what happened was that
not one of the candidates could read the piece I had written. This
started a terrific scandal, and I had to be let out through a special door,
escorted by a few friends! This is what it costs to be honest!

When you hear some of your performances recorded on gramophone
records, are you satisfied?
Not always. I very often do not recognise my tone. To my mind,
once the playing has gone through a machine it loses the vitality the
artist has put into it. Maybe it is bound to happen!
And yet the technique of recording is improving all the time.
That may be, but I still prefer the recordings of some thirty years
ago. The tone is not so bright but more faithful.
I should like to hear what has been done with the recordings of the
Bach Suites I made in [937 and 1939, which have been adapted to
long-playing records. It took me over a year to prepare these. T should
be interested to see if the slow movements are not spoiled by mechanical
factors, and if the personality of the performer comes through. As a
rule, I prefer to hear the records I have made played faster. In the case
of my records of the Bach Suites I like to hear them a tone, even a
tone and a half, sharper. The difference of keys does not worry me
at all.
Are you still decided against writing a treatise on 'cello playing?
Yes! I have spent my life meditating oil the instrument and the
works written for it, and, no doubt, I could say endless things on the
subject. The performance of a few notes perfectly placed requires an

analysis which would occupy pages of writing. So think of the length
of a book which would deal with all these matters in detail!
And yet, this is not the principal reason; just as with the written
signs of music, printed words cannot transcribe the meaning of music.
How could one communicate the richness and the life of a single
phrase by writing about it? And the hundreds of varieties in dynamics
that are contained in a whole work? I don't think it is possible. Besides,
what is written remains frozen, petrified, whereas my technique is
always on the move. And since technique for me is a means and not
an end, it naturally follows the lines o{ my own experiments and
evolution.
What about gramophone records, which would register some of your
lessons, not only with words but also with % cello playing as you do?
That would be much more interesting. One American firm did
approach me about it, but I did not see clearly what this firm had in
mind, and I abandoned the idea.
From what you have told me, and what you have said, it follows that you
are not thinking of publishing your editions of 'cello works? Not even the
Bach Suites, for which you probably have received dozens of offers?
No ! There will not be any edition of mine, of either the Bach Suites
or the Beethoven Sonatas, although I have been asked by quantities
of publishers to do it. (For the Suites I use the facsimile edition of
Anna-Magdalene, Bach's copy.)
My way of performing a work does not last longer than the actual
playing of it: that is to say, I don't know, and cannot know beforehand,
if I shall not introduce modifications when playing it afresh. What
would happen then when those who listen to me realise I am not
observing the indications I wrote myself, and which they may have
observed literally? This is what I was saying previously — my technical
means develop side by side with my personal conceptions, and I don't
see how I can communicate these unless I do it with my 'cello in my
hands and — by chance — bringing some new contribution to each
performance. I don't agree with those who, preparing some new
edition, in order to justify their work, cram it with their personal
additions. It creates such confusion; there are already too many
editions, and mine would only add to the general confusion. The only
thing that matters is the personal way of performing the notes and
values we have in front of us, and there is no edition which can do that
for us.
Alexanian says that you have established "a complete code of instrumental
logic which can be continued and developed by anyone who will seriously
study the violoncello" .

Of course, the study of 'cello-playing cannot stop at the stage to
which I brought it. What would you say of a tree which only came
out one spring? For a tree to be fertile, its boughs must grow every
year.
Much better than any treatises or editions, my pupils, all those who
have had direct contact with me, will carry on my method and my
conceptions. They will transmit and develop them. With musical
interpretation, as in any other artistic activity, there cannot be any
definite boundaries.
Before and During Exile
Is it a long time since you went to play in Russia for the last time?
Yes. I have often spoken to you about my great friend Siloti, who
was the beloved disciple of Liszt. His wife came from a great Russian
family. His father-in-law had founded the Museum of Modern Art
in Moscow and made a gift of it to the city. Siloti lived in St. Peters-
burg. He devoted all his talent and work to the cause of popular
education, and by so doing raised the mental standards of the people.
He and a few friends subsidised the running of an important orchestra,
which gave concerts for the students and the workers. He led a simple
life, free from ostentation. He lived for his art and for the people. The
most eminent Russian musicians met at his house. Then came the
October Revolution, when everything was taken from him and he
was subjected to all the usual inquisitions and interrogations. He be-
came ill; as a living-place for his wife and five children he was given the
kitchen of his own house and a small adjacent room. The rest of his
house was occupied by young men of the new regime where they led a
life of debauchery . In order to survive, Siloti and his family had to do
the most impossible and degrading things. The only valuable they
managed to hide was a necklace. And it was thanks to the value of this
that after two or three years of martyrdom they managed to escape to
Finland.
I was very worried about them, since I did not receive any news.
But one day, when I was in Barcelona, there was a letter from Antwerp
from Siloti saying "We are here." I went off immediately, and when I
met them at Antwerp I could hardly recognise them; they looked like
ghosts. Since that day I have never wanted to go back to Russia. I do
realise that in a revolution certain excesses cannot, unfortunately, be
avoided, but I don't accept that, under the pretext of forming a new
social order, these leaders think they can persecute blindly the very
people who have practised fraternity with the workers and the people.
One can read in Dostoievsky s The Brothers Karamazov the often
quoted question, "Would you sacrifice the child who is in front of you to
follow a revolutionary doctrine?"

211
No, never! The end does not justify the means. I have protested
and always shall protest against inhuman means.
And a few years later we had the Nazis who began persecuting people
Ah . . . when I saw that Einstein, Thomas Mann, Bruno Walter
and so many illustrious personalities of science and the arts had to
expatriate themselves, some persecuted because of their race, 1 others
because of their ideas, I thought it was my duty to protest, and I
declared I would not go back to Germany until intellectual and artistic
liberties were restored. When, later on, Mussolini imitated the Nazis,
I adopted the same attitude towards Italy.
The only weapons I possess are the 'cello and the conductor's
baton. They are not very deadly, but I have no others, and do not wish
to have any. In the circumstances I used what I had to protest against
what I considered was disgraceful and ignominious.
However, the German public had a great veneration for you.
For me, it was very painful to leave them, but I thought that by
taking this attitude I was more faithful to Bach and Beethoven, and all
they stood for, than to the people who through weakness or fanaticism
soiled the honour of a great country.
This attitude, and the one you took later, have raised a lot of comment on
the subject of the relation between art and politics.
I am not a politician. I never have been and do not pretend to be
one. I am simply an artist. But the question is whether art is to be a
pastime, a toy for men to play with, or if it should have a deep and
human meaning. Politics do not belong to an artist but, to my mind,
he is under an obligation co take sides, whatever sacrifice it means, if
human dignity becomes involved. Besides, the word politics, if not
used in good faith, can cover up much confusion. It may mean the
ordinary legislation of each nation, in which I have no right to interfere
unless it concerns my own country. But the politics we spoke of con-
cern the governments which betrayed the general rights of human
nature. In this case moral principles are involved which prevail above
all frontiers; all men of good will should fight against the violation of
these principles.
Since the affaire Dreyfus the goodwill of men seems to have declined,
and for some time now we have been in a period called the "time of contempt".
You are a glorious "survival".
But is it possible that moral principles (which are not the same
1 "Casals is the only Aryan artist who has made a definite stand against the new
barbarians." (Emil Ludwig.)
BEFORE AND DURING EXILE 213
thing as political formulas) should become unfashionable? If a perse-
cution was unjust fifty years ago, would it not be so today? The great
victory of our civilisation is that it gives us a guarantee against being
persecuted for our ideas or feelings; also that the power which rules us
instead of being absolute and irresponsible, will be elected and controlled
by the people without exception. If this conquest is lost (and we have
sad instances of it) we see the appearance of barbarous despots, and the
fear and trembling of the subordinates. When it gets to that state my
conscience forces me to protest.
The artist in his ivory tower?
It would be too easy, under the pretext of artistic neutrality, to
retire into it, instead of fighting injustice. I have shown to you my
conception of all art, which should elevate and not degrade us. Con-
sidering that an artist is a man, he cannot as a man withdraw from his
solidarity with his fellow-creatures.
When I see innocent blood spilled and the tears of the victims of
injustice, it becomes more important to me than my music and all my

'cello recitals!
In the course of the first and terrible phase of the Spanish tragedy,
I got so indignant one day that I did not hesitate to risk my life to save
a man who was persecuted. I was at Sant Salvador practising the 'cello.
Two armed men entered my room and said, "We have been told that
Mr. X is here." (He was a business man from Barcelona who spent the
summer in a house next to mine.) "He is not here," I said. They went
off. A moment later they returned with poor Mr. X, whom they had
arrested, and who already feared the worst; his wife was at his side
crying. "We know you have a telephone and we want to telephone to
Vendrell to get them to send a cart." (Those famous carts they used for
carrying condemned people to be shot.)
I faced them and said: "I shall do the telephoning, not you. Why
did you arrest this man? You can do what you like but you will not
take Mr. X away, do you hear?" They had revolvers and guns. I had
nothing: but the tone of my voice made them understand that I meant
what I said. They had a moment of hesitation which was decisive. They
muttered, "We had orders from the Mayor of Vendrell." I took the
telephone and talked to the man who was supposed to be the mayor.
My words were of such a kind that he got frightened and said: "These
men have made a mistake. I told them to go somewhere else." The tone
of his voice belied his words. I communicated his answer to the men
and told them they could go and that Mr. X would stay. As they went
through the door they gave me a look of hatred and threatened me as
well.
It shows that you had taken a stand.
Yes. For me and most of the Spanish intellectuals it was a question
of principle: the main responsibility for the civil war fell on those who
tried to abolish by force a legitimate Government (which had been
elected by popular votes a few months before). And when their
pronunciamento failed, they tried to secure the help of Fascist Italy and
Nazi Germany. In all civilised countries one should accept the decision
of the people, and those who are not satisfied should wait for the
next elections.
The Barcelona University bestowed on you the title of Doctor honoris
causa in rather strange circumstances.
Very strange, when you think that the authorities of the Academy
signed the diploma the day before Franco's Army came into Barcelona!
That was the last meeting of the Catalonia University. Italian aircraft
were flying over the town all the time, evacuation had already started,
and yet, at a time as painful and critical as it was, my country thought
of paying me such a moving tribute. I shall never forget it.

When the civil war ended, did you decide to live in Prades immediately?
No. I had been away a little while, playing at concerts, and when
the war ended I was in Paris, ill with all the symptoms of nervous
depression. I was staying with an old pupil and was kept all day in
complete darkness, as I could not bear any light. I felt broken and worn
out. The news I got from home was terrible: oppression had begun in
Catalonia; thousands of refugees were shut up in concentration camps
in the South of France; my house in Sant Salvador was occupied and
ransacked by the Franco troops; my brother Lluis was maltreated in
Vendrell because he was my brother. . . . His situation obsessed me.
He had such a fine character. During an epidemic of cholera at Ven-
drell he had done some wonderful acts of devotion without telling
anybody. A friend from Barcelona came to see me in Paris. He was the
first person who told me about Prades, where he had been a resident.
He said it was a pretty little town at the foot of the Canigou, where
almost everyone talks Catalan. This got me out of my torpor. I left
Paris and went to Perpignan, where I met my friend Pichot. We
visited many places on the coast as I am very fond of the sea. This was
in the autumn of 1939: everything was already closed and I did
not fancy any of the places I saw. Then I decided to go and live in
Prades,

Did you enjoy your stay?
As soon as I got there the Catalan landscape acted on me like a
sedative.
You had some hard work in front of you?
As soon as I felt better I gave myself up to the task of relieving my
unfortunate compatriots who were living in the camps. Some Catalan
friends, exiled in Prades also, helped me to organise everything with
the greatest enthusiasm. I took a room in an hotel where we set up a
regular office to centralise all the gifts, the purchases, the demands and
distribution. We had lorries loaded with food and garments going to
the camps. I wrote to friends for funds and we were glad of any gifts.
You visited the camps pretty often?
Yes, specially those at Argeles, Rivesalte, Vernet, Septfonds and
some others. These camps were frightful, not because of deliberate
cruelty but simply because of the improvisation and confusion which
prevailed when they were established. The unfortunate people who
were shut up there lacked the most elementary commodities. I realised
that my visits brought some consolation to those who had lost contact
with the world outside and who were lamentably demoralised, hope-
less and abandoned. I tried to send small gifts to all those who asked
me, and wrote little notes of encouragement. In those days I wrote
thousands of letters and postcards.

The Second World War had started. Did you expect any danger?
Yes, I did. And my friends abroad even more. I received so many
letters from American friends advising me to leave Europe and come
to them.
To be exiled in America, sheltered from all danger, and also able to make
a fortune with playing . . .
No, I could not do that. My duty was to stay with my compatriots
who, like myself, had been hunted from their country, and try to
comfort them with my presence. Also, since I had taken a stand
against totalitarians, I had a moral obligation to stay when the war
started which was supposed to rid Europe of totalitarianism — at least
that is what I then believed would happen.
When the French defeat came in June 1940, you must have found yourself
in a difficult position.
Very. At that time I thought all was lost in Europe. Also the rumour
was spreading that the Spanish Army, taking advantage of the French
retreat as the Italians had done, would cross the Pyrenees. Some refugee
friends and I hired two cars to go to Bordeaux, in the hope of sailing

2l6 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
to England from there. Before leaving I had burnt all the comprom-
ising papers I had, to save my correspondents from pursuit. (How I
regretted the destruction of thousands of letters I had received from
the camps. They formed a human document of such extraordinary
interest.) When we reached Bordeaux we heard that the ship we hoped
to sail in had been sunk by the German Air Force the day before. We
tried other ships but it was all impossible, and we had to return to
Prades, which we reached after a very difficult journey as all the roads
were filled with refugees. There was such a panic at the time that when
we got back to our hotel at Prades, in the middle of the night, no one
would open the door, and it was only because the tobacconist opposite
heard us and let us in that we did not spend the night outside. After
that I went to live in the Villa Colette for a few years.
I went on with the work of helping my compatriots in the camps.
Some of them had been transformed into what they called Compagnies
de Travailleurs, which was a modern version of organised slavery. But
with the news of the wonderful resistance anglaise we got more con-
fident in the final issue of the conflict. Like millions of people, we
anxiously listened every night to the radio from London. Things were
difficult and food was seriously restricted.
Did you continue to give concerts during these years?
Before and after June 1940 I went to Switzerland in order to get

the necessary funds to live on. When the French armistice was signed
I thought I ought to help the French, who were going through a very
difficult time, and gave concerts for charity in the free zone, Lyons,
Marseilles, Perpignan; but after the Allied landing in North Africa the
whole of France was occupied. I would not leave Prades, and with the
German troops everywhere I thought silence was the only possible
attitude.
Did the Germans worry you?
Once some agents of the Gestapo came to the Villa Colette
and went through every bit of paper I had, and when they retired
said: "Be careful. If our suspicions are confirmed we will arrest
you.
The atmosphere became more and more intolerable; one day from
my room window I saw three German officers coming through the
gate and I thought we were for it. They came in, behaved extremely
well, and said, after a military salute, "We are great admirers of yours
and we have come to greet you and find out how you are." They sat
down and started a conversation which lasted over two hours. "So you
are the Casals our fathers and grandfathers told us about?" "1 am."
After a series of praises they came to the usual question: "And why
don't you go and play in Germany?" "For the same reason I do not go
and play in Spain." "We think you are mistaken. Hitler is a great man,
who protects artists and the arts." "That is your opinion; I have mine."
"Wouldn't you like to come and play in Berlin again? Hitler himself
will come and hear you, and if you like we'll put a railway carriage at
your disposal." "No, thank you." I guessed they wanted me to play
to them, but I was determined I would not do it. So when they asked
me to take my 'cello, I told them 1 had had rheumatic pains in the
shoulder for some days, and could not play. They insisted and said,
"Just a few notes." I refused. They saw my instrument and plucked the
strings. I felt disturbed at the thought that perhaps these hands had
spilled blood or were tainted. "Is this the 'cello you played on in
Germany?" "Very often." The Commandant sat at the piano and
started a Bach aria to get me going ... it was useless.
"We cannot go away without a souvenir from you." I understood
their chief would ask them for proof of their visit; I signed a photo-
graph on which I wrote: "In remembrance of your visit to Prades."
As they went, and I looked out of the window, they asked me if they
could take a photograph (another proof). I did not see them again.
But I had not played for them.
After the Allied landing in Normandy, the situation must have been even
more tense.
Yes. A young man who was engaged to the daughter of a friend of

mine, and who had joined the "French Militia" so that he would not
be sent to Germany, told me he had seen my name on a list of people
who were to be arrested, and heard the local chief say "When the
time comes, Casals will see what is in store for him." This young man
had the courage to stand up to him and said it was infamous and that
he would lodge a protest in front of anyone concerned.
For some reason we were left at liberty after the landing took place.
During those days every hour seemed like a hundred years. There was
a moment of great danger: the Maquis operating in the Pyrenees came
to Prades and attacked the house where the Gestapo were operating.
One German got killed and many were wounded. What would be the
reprisals? We could have been shot. Fortunately the Mayor of Prades
went to the military commander and told him all the responsibility for
the attack should be his. Nothing happened, and shortly afterwards
the moment we had been waiting for arrived. The German troops
2l8 CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS
evacuated the town. Hope became a reality. Our exile (at least so we
thought) was nearing its end.
Two weeks later the young man of the Militia, of whom I have
spoken, was on trial at Perpignan with three others. I was summoned
as a witness after I had written to the President of the Tribunal to

explain what he had done for me. The atmosphere of the court was
thick with excitement and hatred for this Militia. I was feeling sick
with fear for the life of the young man. I stuck to what I had said in my
letter. Out of the four accused, three were given the death penalty and
executed; the fourth, my young friend, was given thirty years' solitary
confinement, but he only stayed in prison two or three years and was
released.
You probably saved his life.
He, first, had probably saved mine. In any case, in those horrible
days it was a small comfort to have been able to save one human life.
XI
Hope Frustrated
After the liberation you must have felt you were morally free to start
playing again. I know you then received quantities of invitations. Every-
where they thought of you as a great artist who had resisted the seductions as
well as the threats of Hitler.
After my voluntary banishment during those years, I started play-
ing abroad again in the hope that I should soon be able to go back to my
country as a free citizen. I went to England twice, to Switzerland, and
also gave concerts in Paris and other French towns. Unfortunately the
duration of this tour was much shorter than I had anticipated.
When you were in Switzerland you received a visit from Don Juan de
Bourbon, the pretender to the Spanish throne?
Yes, I was at Staad, and Don Juan's secretary rang me up to
say that Don Juan wished to see me. When we began to talk, this
grandson of Queen Maria Cristina told me how often his father
and grandmother had spoken to him about me. He was very
affectionate.
Did he talk to you about Spanish politics?
He asked me what I thought of the Spanish situation and I gave him
my sincere opinion. I said that I would not be a party to either a repub-
lic or a monarchy, but I would accept the regime freely chosen by my
country. My adherence to this regime would depend on what it did, not
on its label.
"I like people who talk to me in this way," he replied. And he
added that, out of all the people he had spoken to on the subject
recently, those he liked best for their sincerity were two Catalans: a
refugee priest in Switzerland and myself.
I also told him that he would have to justify himself to the Spanish
people for having offered to support the military revolt when the
civil war began. "At that time," he said, "I did not think I could act
otherwise."
Did you talk about Catalonia?
Of course. Don Juan said how proud he was to bear, amongst so
219
many titles, that of Count of Barcelona. "My ideal," he said, "is to
settle the affairs of Catalonia as the good Catalans wish it."
What was your impression of the Pretender?
He seemed full of sincerity and goodwill. He agreed that a national
plebiscite should decide the form of the future regime of Spain, and he
added that he did not feel inclined to accept any direct offer made by
the dictator (Franco). But later on, Don Juan changed his mind: now
he does not contemplate a national plebiscite to find out what the
Spanish people want; also he has agreed that his eldest son should be
brought up m Spain under the auspices of the dictatorial government.
So it looks as if Don Juan just obeyed the law of the dictator, and he is
not the only one: the governments of most democratic nations are
now doing the same.

Furtwangler also came to see you in Switzerland.
Yes. It was just before the collapse of the Nazi regime, when
Furtwangler lived in Switzerland as a refugee. I did not pretend, and
never will, to judge anybody, but neither did I wish to be used as a
moral security. Each one to his conscience: such is my principle.
Holding out to me a bundle of papers, Furtwangler told me he had
protected some Jews, and so on. "It is quite unnecessary for you to
give me any explanation," I said, "as I cannot interfere with anything
one way or the other." "But I am a musician," he said, "and I want to
make music." "Be patient," I said, "and consider yourself lucky that
Switzerland has welcomed you."
You know how I admire Furtwangler as a musician and in what
terms I talk to you about him. But, personally, I think that the higher
the value of an artist, the more responsibility he has for all his
actions.
At the time we speak of, I found myself in Paris for a banquet given
in my honour at the Ministry of National Education. There I got into
an awkward position: when I entered the drawing-room I noticed
certain musicians who I knew had not behaved with any dignity or
patriotism during the German occupation. I wondered what was the
purpose of this banquet. When we reached the dessert I noticed the
Secretary was making a sign to the Minister who was sitting next to
me. "Do you mean to make a speech now?" I asked. "Of course."
"Well, I must ask you not to do it because, if you do, I shall have to
answer you, and I would feel obliged to say certain things which
would be very disagreeable."
How things have changed in a few years.
HOPE FRUSTRATED 221
They have. But I have not changed and I shall go on thinking that
moral principles should prevail today as yesterday, for artists as well as
for any mortal being. 1
When you played in Paris again on November 13th, 1945, it was seven
years since you had played there, and when you came away from the Salle
Pleyel the Director said to you that he had never had such a demonstration
in his Hall before! But if my memory is right, the first concert you played at
after the war was in London, in June of the same year?
Yes. I went to London filled with hope and also full of admiration
for the heroism and toughness the English had shown during the war,
specially in the most difficult moments, when they were alone against
Hitler's aggression. When I arrived in England I addressed a tribute to
English musicians and the British people, which was published in some
musical periodical.
(This message was published by the London Philharmonic Post in
July 1945.)
"I am very happy to be given the chance to tell not only my
colleagues but the English public how I followed with the greatest
anxiety all that happened here during these six terrible years. In my
Pyrenean retreat I was preoccupied from one hour to another by
all the ups and downs you went through in this great country of
yours, and I did not attach more importance to the numerous and
stirring appeals from political and military chiefs to continue the
fight, than to the admirable activities of your first symphonic
orchestra and your soloists during these trying days. I know how
you travelled from town to town during air raids, keeping alive
the performances of great music, and I also realise how through
these years of anguish millions of new listeners came to hear the
works of the great masters.
"I feel sure that history will keep a record of what England did
to keep burning the flame of civilisation during the horrors of war,
and I am glad I lived to see that such things are still possible. I was
already old when this war began, and I am older still now, but
I would like to say that these years were very intense ones for
me.
1 In 1945, when Casals was presented with the Cross of Grand Officier de la Ligion
d'Honneur, M. Georges Bidault, who was then Minister for Foreign Affairs in the
provisional Government of the French Republic, said: "You are one of the consciences
of our time."
And the memorable concert at the Albert Hall? 1
I shall never forget the reception I had from the London public. 2
Yes, this welcome back was very moving, but even more was the demon-
stration outside when you came out and thousands of people were shouting
deliriously.
The enthusiasm of all these people, who had just written one of the
most glorious pages in history, moved me so much that I could only
say "God Bless You" to them.
I believe you also had a chance to talk to the Catalans through the micro-
phone of the B.B.C.
I had been away from my native land for seven years; now it is
more than double that time.
When I arrived at the B.B.C. studio and began to think that after
this long tragedy my compatriots would hear my voice, I found it very
difficult to hold back my tears — I had to pull myself together to be

able to read the pages I had written. Here is a fragment of this message
in Catalan. "As I speak to you from the heart of London, my thoughts
fly to you all who are listening and those who are on our beloved
Catalan soil. When the magic of the waves will carry to you the sound
of our old melody El Cant dels Ocells, I should like it to convey to you
also an echo of the nostalgia felt by all those who are far away from
our Land. May this feeling we share, and of which we are proud, make
us work together — including those who perhaps hesitated at one time
— united as brothers in the same faith, with the hope of a future period
of peace, when Catalonia will again be Catalonia."
During these two concert tours you played in Edinburgh, Nottingham,
Sheffield, Brighton, Cambridge, Liverpool, Chester, Reading and Chelsea.
1 "At the age of seventy we find the great Casals perfectly capable of starting
the life of a virtuoso with the energy and the ideals of a young man. When he
appeared on the platform (the familiar figure and modest attitude, quite bald,
not very much taller than the 'cello he was holding), finding his way through
the stands of the B.B.C. orchestra, the crowd which filled the Albert Hall stood
up to give a vociferous welcome to the man whose name will survive not only
because of his artistic prestige but also on account of his symbolising the highest
human virtues and resistance against tyranny. . . . He played the Schumann and
the Elgar Concertos and, from the first notes, it was clear that he had not lost
any of his 'magic'. Casals has succeeded in symbolising the spirit of resistance
amongst musicians. The greatness of the artist can only be compared with the
greatness of the man. Americans and English wanted to have the honour of
bringing him to London by air. In the end the B.EA. did not allow him to pay
for his flight, and the Customs did not inspect his luggage." (From a London daily
paper.)
2 I shall never forget the way Casals played the Sarabande in C Minor of Bach as an
encore at that concert, which I attended. (Note of translator, A.M.)
HOPE FRUSTRATED 223
Everywhere the same demonstrations were made by official and private
people. It is sufficient to read the English papers of the time to realise what a
reception you had in England, and yet when you returned you took a step
without precedent in the history of music. The renunciation you undertook
must have been the most painful decision of your life! Could you explain to
me the reasons which were at the origin of your decision?
As I told you before, I went to England full of hope. I really thought
that I was nearing the end of my exile, since the victory of the Allied
Nations was logically bound to put an end to the Franco regime. But
my deception soon began. I read the papers and I talked to some
important personalities and I realised that neither in the Government
(the Labour Party was then in office) or in the Conservative Party
was there any indication that they would decide to get Franco removed.
On the contrary, the news and articles published in the Press were
rather favourable to the Dictator.

What was going to become of the solemn promises of Churchill
to uproot fascism wherever it was? I talked with Ministers, with highly
placed Civil Servants, with newspaper editors. I went to the House of
Commons many times and insisted on England with the other victor-
ious Nations adhering to the ideas and principles for the defence of
which millions of men had given their lives.
Doubts grew in my mind. I could feel my hopes being frustrated.
In the middle of all the acclamations and receptions I was constantly
thinking of my compatriots, with whom I am jointly responsible. The
Spanish people were waiting to be given a chance to say freely what
they thought. The best amongst the intellectuals of my country, who
had been in exile for years, hoped, as I did, that the victory of the
Allied Nations over totalitarian regimes meant for them and for thou-
sands and thousands of "refugees" a prompt return to their country.
For them there would only be deception at the hands of the victorious
powers. In the circumstances, did I have a right to be privileged
amongst so many unfortunate people? How could I honestly receive
applause and fees from the democratic nations who were ready to
abandon us? No, my duty was to protest against this ignominy. The
deceit of friends is even more cruel than the attacks of the enemy. All
I could do was to retire into silence and seclusion, keeping up my
attitude of protest until a just reparation would be granted to
my people, who have as much right as others to lead a civilised
existence.
After a concert at Reading, I felt I could not go on. I refused to

attend a reception given in my honour by the old Association of
Musicians in London. It was my first act of renunciation — others
followed. Oxford and Cambridge were going to invest me with the
honorary titles of the Universities, but I wrote to my friend, Dr.
Joseph Trueta of Oxford and my other friend, Roberto Gerhard of
Cambridge, and said I would postpone my decision about receiving
these honours as long as the attitude of England towards Spain had not
changed. I remember giving a last concert in Liverpool.
I cancelled all my engagements in England for the following
spring and prepared my return to Prades.
Sir Stafford Cripps sent me a request to come and see him. I
answered "No, you would speak about politics and I about morals —
we would not understand each other."
I believe you went to Buckingham Palace.
Yes, it was the day before I left London. I had told my dear friend,
Myra Hess, that I wished to convey my ideas to the highest quarter.
She arranged an interview, and for an hour I talked to the late King
George VI's Secretary.

I set forth the Spanish case as clearly as I could, and what I thought
was the moral duty of England and of the other Allied Nations — to
re-establish a regime of freedom and tolerance in Spain. I reminded him
that the responsibility was with the Democratic Nations for following
the fatal policy of so-called "non-Intervention" adopted during the
Spanish Civil War. The Spanish people, I added, would not under-
stand that since the aggressors had been vanquished, they would not
be given the chance to become again <-he masters of their own destiny.
The Secretary bowed his head and said he would transmit my report
to the King and that my visit had not been in vain.
Next day I left England. When I got back to Prades I found a
letter from Myra Hess in which she said that the Secretary had in-
formed the King of my visit and that, immediately, the Queen had
sent a messenger to the Piccadilly Hotel asking me to come again to
the Palace. Unfortunately, I had gone already!
Having returned to Prades, I thought my protest against the
injustice done to my country would have repercussions. The following
year, in 1946, 1 played at some Charity Concerts I had promised to do,
the last one in Montpellier, but I declared I would not accept any
invitation or engagement from anywhere, as long as a free regime,
based on the freedom and the will of the people, was not re-established
in Spain.
HOPE FRUSTRATED 225
So I closed my own doors. It was the most painful sacrifice an
artist could impose on himself.
After Casals had made his decision known, hundreds of letters came
from everywhere. Some of the most moving ones would be interesting to
reproduce here, if it were not for the added work it entails. Many of those
who wrote, while approving of his moral attitude, begged him to recon-
sider his decision, and to take up his artistic activities again.
"I cannot do it," said Casals. "I cannot go back to the countries
where I should have to reproach their Governments for the in-
justice they committed. However worthy might be the intentions
of the authorities and the audiences, I could not forget the sad
realities of my native land. At least I can now sleep with a clear
conscience since I know I have done my duty. If I had not done so,
the nights would be constant torture to me."
At that time Casals received some fabulous proposals. Already in
1939, when he wanted to stay in Europe in spite of the threatening war,
he had received a blank cheque, on which he was supposed to fill in the
figure for a tour of the United States, if he would like to go. He thanked
them for their intention and the trust they showed, but he returned the
cheque. Amongst the proposals he received there was one of two hundred
thousand dollars for concerts in America. They all proved fruitless.

In spite of the sacrifice it meant, each proposal was answered in the
negative — they have continued during the last seven years, and have not
yet ended.
And what does Casals do? People wonder! He leads a very laborious
life far from the great cities. The tasks of an instrumentalist and of a com-
poser would already be sufficient to occupy a man like him. Also, there are
the pupils. Young ' cellists from America, Japan, France and Mexico, from
England or China, Germany or Greece, have all come to find their
master in his Pyrenean retreat.
And there are visitors! People of all kinds and conditions knock at the
door of the little house now called El Cant dels Ocells, and when they
go through the garden gate, accompanied by the barking of'Follett", the
faithful dog of the master, they know that the great man is simplicity itself
Of course, there are numerous musicians amongst the callers, from the
most well known to the young pupil from a Swiss Conservatoire, who
has come by hitch-hiking, and hesitates a long time before knocking at the
door.
Also, there are the letters to be answered; they come by the hundreds.
from compatriots or not, and Casals spends three or four hours a day dealing
with them, very happy when he realises that someone has been helped in
their misfortune.
And so the months and the years go by for the artist who has become a
recluse. Then came 1950, a celebration year for the second centenary of
Bach's birth; and since Casals had decided to shut himself up in Prades,
the musicians and music lovers from all over the world joined him there
to celebrate together the immortal glory of the great Cantor, an event
without precedent in the history of music.
XII
The Prades Festivals
Could you tell us how these Festivals originated?
Yes, at the start are some of my good American friends and, first
of all, Alexander Schneider. Already, before 1950 when the first
Festival took place, I had received a cable in which many of the in-
tellectuals living in America, headed by Albert Einstein, said they
considered it essential for me to come to America. Then many personal
requests came: Mrs. Sprague Coolidge, Stokowski and Ormandy, who
wrote individually as well as for the musicians of their orchestras. 1
I refused. Alexander Schneider wrote to say he was coming to

Prades to offer me all I could wish in order to give a series of concerts
in his country. He arrived, and we spent a few days together making
music and talking at great length. He had come with the definite idea
of convincing me, and he named some astronomical fees. "It is not a
question of money," I said, "it is purely a moral question."
When he realised that I definitely refused the offer, Schneider
ventured to say: "You cannot condemn your art to silence. Since you
don't wish to leave Prades, would you allow us to come here, a group
of musicians, and give concerts with you? It so happens that next
year is the bicentenary of Bach's birth, and it would be a fitting
occasion to do it." I thought it over for a bit and felt that what he was
offering me was in line with my attitude. So I accepted the offer
and thanked Schneider for the very touching consideration he and
his friends showed me.
The description of Prades in the Larousse Dictionary is as follows:
"Prades [Latin Prata\ Chef-lieu d'arrondissement des Pyrenees
1 In 1948 Casals received from America a complete edition ofBacWs works published
from the photo-lithographed reproduction of the Bach-Gesellschaft edition. On the inside
of the first volume one can read the following dedication: "To Pablo Casals. From a few
of his friends , colleagues and fervent followers who wish to present this modest token of
their affection, veneration, admiration and gratitude. Signed by Ernst Bloch, Arturo
Toscanini, Paul Hindemith, Bruno Walter, Jascha Heifetz, Arthur Rubinstein, Wanda
Landowska, Arthur Schnabel, Rudolf Serkin, Serge Kousevitzky, Dimitri Mitropoulos t
Gregor Piatigorsky, Alexander Schneider, etc. 1 *

227
Orientales, 41 kilometres from Perpignan, on the Tit, in the fertile plain
of the Conjlent at the foot of the Canigou (one of the high peaks of the
Pyrenees range); 4,170 inhabitants"
It is in this small town that the Festival has taken place in the last four
years, and where the following artists have appeared: Serkin, Stern,
Szigeti, Myra Hess, Clara Haskil, William Primrose, Marcel Dupre,
Alex Schneider, Milton Katims, Horzowski, Istomin, Marini, Grumiaux,
Maria Slader, Tortelier, Tabuteau, Wummer, Mannes, William Kapell,
Jennie Tourel, Yvonne Lefebure, Joseph Fuchs, Cahuzac, Doda Conrad,
Paul Baumgartner, Milton Thomas, Bernard Goldberg, etc.
The audiences have been made up of amateurs and professionals from
all European countries and from both Americas, and also of Chinese,
Japanese, Hindus, Turks, Israelis, Australians, Syrians, Javanese, South
Africans. There is an atmosphere of fervour at these concerts, the fervour
Casals had in his youth and which made him transform a cafe into a concert
hall, and a concert hall into a temple.
The first Festival in 1950, dedicated to Bach, was rehearsed for about
six weeks, and in the course of thirteen concerts the six Brandenburg
Concerti were played and conducted by Casals, the Six Suites for Solo
'Cello were played by him, and also the Clavier and Violin Concerti.
He was seventy-three then and he never neglected a minute of rehearsal
on account of his age.
The concerts took place in the parish church of the little town and
began on June 2nd, in the evening. There was a tremendous audience
but no applause for three weeks, until after the last Cantata, when the
Bishops of Saint Flour and ofPerpignan gave the signal to applaud and it
lasted over twenty minutes!
The 1951 Festival took place in the great courtyard of the Palace of
the Majorca and Perpignan Kings, in Perpignan. But in 1952 and 1953
they took place in the marvellous abbey of St. Michel de Cuxa, two
kilometres outside Prades, and those who had the privilege of being there
will never forget it. The splendour of the building, dating from the Xth
century, made an unforgettable setting for such music.
XIII
Grandeur and Solitude
Although Casals* exile continues invitations keep on arriving and, as has
been said before, the refusals give him a painful feeling of renunciation. Fairly
recently he had to dedine the invitation to conduct a concert in Liege on the
occasion of the transfer of Ysayes heart to the Liege Conservatoire; also to
conduct the St. Matthew Passion in Zurich; then a concert in Paris to cele-
brate the centenary of Francois Arago; he was asked to take part in the B.B.C.*s
London commemoration of Dvorak's centenary, to conduct a festival "like
the Prades one" at Hollywood, to conduct the London Symphony Orchestra
for its golden jubilee, to give a concert at the Chateau de Versailles at the
invitation of the President Albert Sarrault.
When he was asked to go to Liege for the Ysaye ceremony his first
reaction was to accept, but after, he had to decline. "No, I cannot! There
should not be an exception in my attitude, otherwise the situation
would become impossible. Oh dear, how painful it is to have to say
'No' sometimes !"
If Casals had not chosen the " Voice of Silence" the concerts he could give
now would constitute an apotheosis. If he appeared on a platform now this
little old man who, fifty years ago, was already considered one of the greatest
artists in the world, would raise the frenzied enthusiasm of his audiences, and
it may be that no other artist would have known, now or in the past, such a
glorious twilight.
However, inside the four walls of this little room [which we described in the
Preface) there is another glory, a silent one which every day awaits our great
musician— r-that of a man who, without thinking of the "transcendent immor-

tality of the artist" of which Renan speaks, spends his time in helping, com-
forting and encouraging the unfortunates who come to him.
We have already referred to the time it takes him to deal with his corres-
pondence (in 1951 when he came back from Switzerland, where he had been
for a month and a half, the Prades postman handed to him a packet containing
66$ letters!). Of course, a number of these letters come from well-known
229
people, but hundreds are from unfortunates who ask for help, advice or a
favour. If one could see, as I have, the patience and the perseverance of Casals
when it is a question of helping even an unknown person, and his joy when
he can give a favourable reply!
During the 1953 Festival an eminent musician advised him to postpone
reading his letters [they were piling up on the table). "You are very tired."
"It is true," said Casals, "but there may be someone in distress who
cries for help and has pinned his faint hopes on me. That is more
important than all the Festivals, I think." One day he confided in me alone
and said, "I receive such proofs of affection, and in this room how often
I shed tears with a letter in my hand."

Another day Casals would say: "Important people and delegates often
come to ask me to join some governing body or political group. I have
always refused and I don't intend to depart from the line I have taken.
Alone, I possess a moral independence which I would not have if I acted
differently. I am not a politician; as I have said, and I shall always repeat,
I am an artist who wishes to keep faith with human principles."
Here we are in the little room. Someone knocks at the door downstairs.
It is an American girl. "I came to Europe to see you," she said to Casals.
"After, I shall go to Africa to see Dr. Schweitzer. Then I shall return to the
United States."
Two Benedictine brothers from Montserrat spent a few days in Prades
and discussed musical matters with Casals for a long time. Later he received a
letter from them saying that when they got back "all Montserrat gathered
together and everyone, from the Father Superior to the young choir boys,
enquired after you". "In Montserrat," said Casals, "they never ceased to
sing my compositions even in the darkest days."
In 1952 Casals received from Belgium an album filled with signatures
from people waiting to testify their admiration on the occasion of his seventy-
fifth birthday (which took place on December 29th, 1951)- On the first page
there was a very affectionate message from Queen Elisabeth. Her daughter, the
ex-Queen Marie-fose of Italy, came to Prades soon after the end of the 1951
Festival, when Casals and Serkin played a Beethoven Sonata for her. Soon
after this she wrote to Casals saying "Have courage, dear friend. I also know
what exile means."
GRANDEUR AND SOLITUDE 231
In 1952, also, Casals received an album with hundreds of signatures
from Japanese music-lovers. There was only one photograph of a concert
given in Tokio (the men on one side and the women on the other) , with the
discs of the Prades Bach Festival. The pages of the album were classified by
towns in Japan. At the top of one page was the name "Hiroshima".
Underneath there were untidy signatures, obviously from little children. At
the bottom there was an inscription in Japanese and English which said,
" We were born after the time of the Hiroshima atom bomb and already we are
admirers of your great art."
We have already mentioned that in September 1951 Casals went to
Zurich to conduct a concert on the occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday. Some
hundred and twenty ' cellists from all countries took part in the concert. One
had never seen such a number of 'cellists in an orchestra before! Tickets were
sold out two days after the announcement, and some people paid as much as ten
times their value to the retailers who had bought them as a speculation.
We had also mentioned that Schweitzer, who was staying at Gunsbach,
at the time, came to the Zurich concert. One of the items on the programme,
played by all the 'cellists, was Les Rois Mages, a fragment of Casals'
unpublished composition Oratorio del Pessebre. Dr. Schweitzer told Casals
that what he had just heard belonged to the great music of all time.
There is a photograph hanging on the wall, in which we see the hermit of
Lambarene and the hermit of Prades looking very pensive. "This photo-
graph was taken at Zurich at the time of this concert?" "Yes: after the con-
cert we went to a reception where Schweitzer took me apart, and said
he wanted to speak to me, and it was during this conversation that my
great friend said 'It is better to create than to protest'/ 'And why not
do both,' I answered. 'The Prades Festivals have the double character
of creation and protest, and further, protest can be the most arduous
creation and the most exacting.' 'In any case,' said Schweitzer, 'I accept
everything you do since I know the moral motives which inspire you.'
I explained to him the real reasons of my protest, and then we both
remained silent, deep in thought, and without our noticing it someone
must have taken this photograph of us which I treasure particularly."
In the summer of 1952 Casals went to Zermatt to give lectures on the
interpretation of Bach. The profits of these lectures and those of the preceding
concert in Zurich were used for the construction of a Spanish Pavilion at the
Pestalozzi Institute of Switzerland. Casals was looking forward to the
pleasure of talking with the Alpine guides. "What men they are and what
devotion they practise." They gave him a tremendous welcome and con-
ferred on him the title of First honorary guide of Zermatt. Here is the text
of the official diploma which they presented to him: "Homage to Pablo
Casals'. (Casals thanked them by giving them a private recital.) "In the
year 1952 the Corporation of the Zermatt guides, through its President, has
conferred on Pablo Casals the title o/Honorary Guide of Zermatt. Through
this distinction it wishes to prove its gratitude to a Master of universal reputation,
who has given to this little place a special lustre by holding this musical course.
Pablo Casals has thus shown to all artists the inspiration to be found in our
mountains. He has been the guide par excellence, who leads to the highest
summits. We are proud to add him to our membership" The artists who
attended this music course were from Switzerland, America, Germany,
England, Italy, Greece, Japan, Mexico, Argentine, etc. Here is a letter
written by an Italian J cellist, which he sent to Casals, and which shows that
the atmosphere of the course was better than any description of it: "Days go
by, the spark which you have lit seems gradually to take hold of all our ideas,
feelings and work. Everything seems a pleasure, everything is alive. What we
thought had nearly achieved a definite shape has acquired new meaning; the
humblest problems of the ' * cello from general principles to the smallest details
of this performance. With an instrument like the ' cello, or with a prayer, or by
any other means, beauty can be evoked. This conviction, this faith, must be
continually with us, even if, as it sometimes happens, a feeling of solitude and
shortcoming takes hold of us, and if, when we play, we almost get to hate the
sound of our instrument. You have given us the strength to fight against this
solitude — you have given us the joy of a Victory, a joy which we had lost and
has been born again."
In December 1953 Mr. Roger Nordman, General Secretary of the
Chaine du Bonheur Internationale, wrote to Casals to ask his partici-
pation in his work for charity. "In the name of the Broadcasting organisations
of Switzerland, France, Italy, Germany, Austria, Belgium, Holland, Trieste
and Saarbrucken, we ask you to do us the great honour of playing for four or
five minutes and making an appeal for children, in Catalan, to the millions
of Europeans who will be listening to you."
The broadcasting of this Chaine du Bonheur Internationale, which is
given in Lausanne every year before Christmas, is the only one re-trans-
mitted simultaneously by a group of European stations. Casals accepted the
GRANDEUR AND SOLITUDE 233
invitation after he had made sure that Spanish children would get their share of
The technical service of the French Radio came to Prades on Sunday,

December 20th, to record Casals' appeal and his performance of Bach's
Pastorale for Organ and the Carol from the Catalan Folk-tune El Cant
dels Ocells.
From his little room, on the evening of December 22nd, Casals listened
to the broadcast. As the last notes of the Catalan carol faded out he heard the
announcers one after the other: "This is Lausanne. The bells of our City will
now be rung to thank you, Pablo Casals. . . . This is Rome, the bells of our
City will now be rung to thank you, Pablo Casals. . . . This is Paris. . . . This
is Vienna. . . .This is Brussels. . . . This is Hamburg. . . ."
The American writer, Max Eastman, has said of Pablo Casals: "No
other man has been able to combine in this way musical genius with moral
stature. This stature received a touching tribute that evening."
Sometimes Casals will say to an intimate friend, "I will show you my
treasures." He then opens a large and beautiful box, inlaid with ivory, which
once belonged to Franciso Pizarro, the conqueror of Peru. First he brings out
a small piece of parchment with a few notes traced on the stave. "From
Beethoven, with his own hand," he says. "The very first sketch of the
beginning of the IX Symphony, a gift from my friend U. Bodmer of
Zurich. One does not find these notes in the Symphony, we all know.
Nevertheless it sets out the primary idea of an immortal work." Then
he brings out an autographed letter of Beethoven, the manuscript of a Mozart
quartet, one of a Brahms quartet, and so on. "All these," he said, "and all
the musical treasures, pictures and documents I have at Sant Salvador,
as well as my house, I shall present to my country."
Casals enjoys remarkable health, and is astonishingly vigorous for his
age, but we have not forgotten what he said one day when he didntfeel well.
"I am now prepared for everything! Nothing that happens will sur-
prise me. The pursuit of music and love for my neighbours have been
inseparable with me, and if the first has given me the purest and most
exalted joys, the second has brought me peace of mind, even in the
saddest moments of my life. I am every day more convinced that the
mainspring of any important human enterprise must be moral
strength and generosity."
INDEX
Academia de Hellas Artes, 80
Ainaud, 36
Alavedra, Joan, 116

Albeniz, 28, 30, 162-4, 166
d' Albert, 152
Aldrich, 100
Alexanian, Diran, 48, 204; qu.: 11, 194,
195, 197, 203, 210
Alhama, Marchioness of, 33
Alphonso, XII, King, 28, 30, 32
Alphonso XIII, King, 34, 77, 78, 79-80
Amelia, Queen, 39
Amsterdam, 106
Conservatoire, 57
Ansermet, Ernest, 66, 96; qu.: 12
Ansorge, Conrad, 113—14
Antwerp, 211
Arago, Francois, 229
d'Aranyi, Jelly, 94
Arbos, Fernandez, 28, 31, 80, 81 (n.)
Argeles, 215
Argentina, 38, 61
Assosiacio obrera de concerts (Workmen's
Concert Association), 88, 89-91, 134

Auriol, Vincent; qu.: 11
Austria, 60, 63, 159, 232
Azcarate, 32
Bach, J. S., 17, 19, 27, 45, 46, 49, 59,
62, 77, 90, 92, 94, 95, 98, 99, 100,
101, 104, 106, 109-29, 130, 131, 132,
133, 134, 136, 137, 138, 140, 143,
144, 145, 148, 153, 168, 172, 173,
178, 179-80, 182, 184, 186, 188,
189, 191, 192, 193, 195, 200, 205,
208, 209, 210, 212, 217, 226, 227,
228, 231, 233
Badia, Conchita, 165
Bakunin, 141, 142
Balcells, Joan, 74
Balfour, Earl, 49
Barbirolli, Sir John, 66; qu.: 12
Barcelona, 15, 20, 21, 22, 25, 27, 28, 29,
30, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 58, 64,
66, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 77, 78, 80, 81,
84, 85 (n.), 88, 89 (n.), 91, 103, 123,
155, 162, 163, 171, 172 (n.), 211,
213, 214
Associacio de Musica da Camera, 12>-A
Atetenu Politecnic, 88, 89
Bcole Municipale de Musique, 22, 24, 29,

30,38
Exposition Internationale, 21
Great Exhibition (1888), 25
Olympic Theatre, 90
Tbedtre des Nouveautes, 21
Theatre Lyrique, 26
Bart6k, Bela, 60, 150, 178
Bartsh, 170
Basle, 77, 116
Bauer, Harold, 43, 44
Baumgartner, Paul, 228
Bayreuth, 70, 98, 155
Bazelaire, Paul, 172 (n.)
B.B.C. Symphony Orchestra, 69, 102
(n.), 103
Beethoven, 19, 44, 46, 49, 50, 53, 62, 63,

64, 66, 74, 80, 83, 85, 92, 94, 97, 99.
100, 103, 107, 113, 118, 119, 121,
122, 124, 131, 132, 135, 137, 138-44,
145, 146, 148, 149, 159, 166, 178,
182, 186, 187, 193, 195, 210, 212,
230 233
Belgium', 45, 58, 159, 230, 232
Benet, 25
Berg, Alban, 170, 171
Bergonzi 'cello, 206
Bergson, Henri, 46, 47, 187
Berlin, 55, 58, 59, 65, 97, 98, 113, 151,
157, 217
Philharmonic Orchestra, 62
Berlioz, Hector, 131, 150
Bernard, Robert; qu.: 165—6
Bidault, Georges, 221 (n.)

Bilbao, 39, 77.
Billthoven, 107
Bloch, Ernst, 179, 227 (n.)
Blum, Leon, 44
Boccaccio, 57
Boccherini, 93, 137
Bodmer, U., 233
Bonn, 105
Bordas, 31
Bordeaux, 215, 216
Bordes, Charles, 163
Borodin, Alexander, 152
Borotra, Jean, 76
Borwick, Leonard, 50 (n.), 94—5

Bos, Conrad, 65
Boschot, Adolphe, 132-3, 134; qu.: 136
Boston, 54
Boulanger, Nadia, 168
Boult, Sir Adrian, 66, 103
Bourcherit, 44
Brahms, 26, 38, 50, 63, 64, 67, 70, 84,
94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 106, 138, 149,
151, 152, 157, 158-61, 166, 192, 233
Brandoucoff, 92
Brassin, 105
Brazil, 61
Brelet, Giselle; qu.: 185-6
Brenoteau, 42
Breton, Tomas, 31, 33, 39, 66
Briand, Aristide, 44
Brighton, 222
Broglie, Prince de, 47
235
236
INDEX
Bruckner, 157-8
Bruneau, Alfred, 93, 159
Brussels, 35, 36, 40, 59, 233
Conservatoire, 35, 36, 162
Buckingham Palace, 224

Budapest, 99
Buenos Aires, 20
Biilow, Hans von, 156; qu.: 144
Busch, Adolph, 101
Busch, Fritz, 84, 101
Busoni, 47, 152, 176, 204-5
Buxtehude, 130
Cahuzac, 228
Cambo, 164
Cambridge, 222, 224
Canigou, 9, 214, 228
Cant dels Ocells, El, 222, 225, 233
Capdevilla-Vidal, Francesca de, 70
Carlistes, 19
Carlos, King, 39
Carriere, Eugene, 45-6 (n.)
Cart, William; qu.: 110, 111, 114, 115,

117, 118, 119, 124
Casals, Father of, 15, 16, 17-19, 20, 21-2,
27, 28, 30, 35, 37, 77, 116
Mother of, 15, 21, 22, 24, 25, 28, 30,
32, 35, 36, 37, 40, 76, 77
Artur, 16
Enrique, 16 (n.), 30, 71, 78
Lluis, 16 (n.), 76, 214
Casella, 45
Castelar, Emilio, 32
Cos tells (Castles) and castellers, 18-19.
74-5, 171 (n.)
Castillo, Canovas del, 32'
Catalonia, 16, 25, 39, 69, 70, 74, 78, 80,
88 (n.), 89, 90, 91, 214, 219-20, 222
Cervantes, 120
Chaliapine, Boris, 56
Chaplin, Charlie, 65-6
Chausson, Ernest, 176
Cherubini, 109
Chester, 222
Chevillard, Camille, 93
Chinese music, 177
Chopin, 19, 100, 145, 150, 151, 153, 154,
164, 172, 186, 204
Chrysander, 131
Churchill, Winston, 223
Cincinnati, 59
Classical Concert Society, London, 50,
94, 97, 101
Clave, Josep Anselm, 88
Clemenceau, 44—5
Cleveland (Ohio), 53, 199 (n.)
Cochet, 76
Coeuroy, Andre; qu.: 144, 145, 146, 147
Collet, Henri, 164
Colombia, 18
Colonne, fidouard, and Colonne Or-
chestra, 43, 66, 93, 159
Compagnie de Travailleurs, 216
"concrete" music, 177

Conrad, Doda, 228
Coolidge, Mrs. Sprague, 227
Copenhagen, 157
Thorwaldsen Museum, 157
Corelli, 57
Cortot, Alfred, 44, 47, 48, 84, 93, 96-7,
154, 157; qu.: 10
Cortot, Thibaud, Casals Trio, 44, 48 (n.),
64, 77, 85 (n.), 93, 96, 186
Coue, 200
Cremona, 206
Crickboom, 39, 164
Cripps, Sir Stafford, 224
Cuba, 39, 61
Cui, Cesar, 56, 166
Custine, Marquis de, 56
Dally Telegraph, 103
Damrosch, Walter, 44, 66
Dante, 57
Davies, Fanny, 94
Debussy, 67, 101, 138, 140, 159, 167,
168, 176
Decugis, 76
Delange, 57-8
Diaghilev, Sergei, 56, 61
Diaz, Fernando, 33
Diaz, Porfirip, 61
Dollfuss, 64
Donizetti, 169
Dorian, Menard, 44
Dostoievsky, Fyodor, 56; qu.: 211
Dreyfus affair, 45, 212
Dumesnil, Rene, 93; qu.: 147, 158, 159
Dupre, Marcel, 228
Diisseldorf, 104
Dvorak, 66, 138, 229
Eastman, Max; qu.: 233
Edinburgh, 11, 99, 101, 102, 104, 222
Reid Symphony Orchestra, 99, 102
(n.)
Edward VII, King, 48
Einstein, Albert, 102, 106, 212, 227;

qu.: 11
Eisenberg, Maurice, 48
Elgar, Sir Edward, 100, 103, 222 (n.)
El Greco, 33
Elizabeth, Queen, 224
Elizabeth, Queen (of Belgians), 59, 85,
230
Encyclopaedia Britannica, 98
Enesco, Georges, 45, 46, 47, 52, 99, 168,
189, 190, 206; qu.: 153
Engels, 29
Espinho, 39
Falla, Manuel de, 163, 164, 165-6
Faure, Gabriel, 45, 93, 107, 159, 167,
168, 176, 208
INDEX
237
Fern (the brothers), 105
festes majors (village fetes), 22, 25
Fetis, 33
Feuermann, Emanuel, 170, 205
Figueras, 102
Finland, 58, 211
Fischer, Edwin; qu. : 122, 137
fiamenco y 163
Flesch, Carl, 159
Fluvia, 26
"Follet", 225
Forkel, 123
Fournier, Pierre, 48
Franck, Cesar, 96, 97, 176, 205
Franco, General, 214, 220, 223
Frescobaldi, 57
FruiciotiSy 90
Fuchs, Joseph, 139, 228
Fiirtwangler, Wilhelm, 64, 66, 118, 142,
220; qu.: 10, 86-7, 116, 143, 146,
173, 180-1, 183-4, 195
Gagliano 'cello, 39, 206
Garcia, Josep, 21, 24, 38
Garreta, Juli, 99, 162, 163, 166
Gavoty, Bernard, 190
Gendron, fidouard, 65
Geneva, 142
George V, King (Duke of York), 48
George VI, King, 224
Gerhard, Roberto, 171, 224
Germany, 60, 62, 91, 113, 154, 157, 159,
212, 214, 217, 232
Gestapo, 216
Gevaert, F. A., 33, 35, 36, 126
Gieseking, Walter, 194
Glazunov, 56, 167
Glinka, 166, 167
Goethe, 105, 154
Goffriller, Mateo, 206, 207
Goldberg, Bernard, 228
Golea, Antoine; qu.: 173
Gounod, 145
Goya, 33, 165
grails and grallers, 18
Granados, 39, 52-3, 69, 135, 154, 162,
163-5, 166, 185

Gravina, Countess of, 156
Grieg, 106-7, 145
Grieg, Nina, 106
Grierson, Mary, 98 (n.); qu.: 100
Grumiaux, 228
Guerrero, Maria, 33
Hague, The, 57
Hamburg, 111, 233
Handel, 100, 115, 116, 130-2, 133, 140,
192
Harazti, £mile; qu.: 149, 150, 151
Haskil, Clara, 228
Hausmann, Robert, 98, 160
Havana, 69
Haydn, 44, 63-4, 70, 74, 93, 99, 101,
119, 122, 130, 132, 133, 134, 136,
137, 146, 159, 179, 198
Heifetz, Jascha, 206, 227 (n.)

Heine, Heinrich; qu.: 154
Herriot, fidouard, 64, 141
Hess, Dame Myra, 224, 228
Hindemith, Paul, 178, 179, 227 (n.);
qu.: 176
Hindu music, 177
Hiroshima, 231
Hitler, 217, 219, 221
Holland, 44, 57, 58, 232
Hollywood, 65, 229
Honegger, Arthur, 179; qu.: 141, 177,
180
Horszowski, 66, 228
Huberman, 178
Hugo, Jean, 44
Hungary, 60, 150
Huntington, Archer, 81 (n.), 163
Hure, Jean, 45
d'Indy, Vincent, 45, 93, 142, 160, 161,
163, 172
Isabel, Infanta, 30
Istomin, Eugene, 98, 139, 205, 228

Italy, 57, 66, 159, 212, 214, 232
Japan, 65
Joachim, 49, 50, 58, 59, 62, 64, 94, 97,
98, 102 (n.), 104, 106, 145, 146, 151,
159, 160, 186, 187, 205
Joachim Society, 50
Juan de Bourbon, Due, 219, 22;
Kapell, William, 228
Katims, Milton, 228
Kaul, Paul, 208
Kingman, Russell, 76
Kleiber, 84
Klengel, Julius, 104
Kodaly, 60, 150
Kousevitsky, Serge, 66, 227 (n.)
Kreisler, Fritz, 44, 47, 53, 93, 200, 205,
206; qu.: 10
Laberte, 207
Lalo, Pierre, 39, 40, 59, 15&-9

Lambarene, 231
Lamoureux* Charles, 10, 40, 41, 42, 66,
69, 88, 155, 156
Landowska, Wanda, 227 (n.)
Lausanne, 92, 232, 233
Lefebure, Yvonne, 228
Leibowitz, Rend; qu.: 172
Leimer, 194
Leipzig, 17, 105
Gewandhaus Orchestra, 104
St. Thomas's Church, 128, 179
Lenormand, Rend, 44
Levenson, 208
238
INDEX
Liceu (The Barcelona Opera), 38, 77, 78,
89
Liege, 229
Lisbon, 39
Liszt, 32, 74, 104, 105-6, 139, 145, 148,
149-53, 164, 195, 204, 206, 211
Littlehales, Lillian; qu.: 75
Liverpool, 222, 224
Lochner, Louis P.; qu. : 47
London, 28, 48, 50, 94, 98, 99, 102, 103,
192, 216, 221, 222, 224, 229
Albert Hall, 222
Crystal Palace, 48, 132
Queen's Hall, 49, 102 (n.), 188 (n.)
Royal Philharmonic, 102 (n.)
Symphony Orchestra, 69, 229
London Philharmonic Post, 221
Ludwig, Emil, 29, 30, 157, 189, 203;

qu.:28, 69, 84, 212
Lyons, 216
Macia, Francesc, 80
Mackay, 52
Madrid, 20, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 39, 40,
41, 43, 49, 69, 80, 162, 165
Orquesta Sinfonica, 33, 80, 81 (n.)
Mahler, 64, 157, 158
Manchester, 49, 155
Mangeot, Auguste, 48, 207; qu.: 11
Mann, Thomas, 212
Marines, David, 54
Mannes, Leopold, 54, 228
Manns, Auguste, 48
Maquis, 217
Maragall, 22
Marcha Real, 78
Marechal, Maurice, 172 (n.)
Maria Cristina, Dona (Queen Regent),
28, 30, 34, 35, 39, 49, 77-8, 79, 80,

206, 219
Marie-Jose, Queen (of Italy), 230
Marini, 228
Marseilles, 216
Marx, Karl, 29
Massenet, 162
Matines, 19
Mauclair, Camille, 46 (n.); qu.: 45
Maura, 32
Mednikoff, Nicholas, 65
Mendelssohn, Felix, 50, 107, 128, 145,
148-9, 191
Mengelberg, Rudolf, 66
Mengelbert, 93
Menuhin, Yehudi, 53, 189, 205, 206;
qu.: 12
Mexico, 61, 62, 69
Meyer, Dr., 113
Michaelangelo, 120
Miklas, President, 64
Milan, 69
Milhaud,Darius,156,176, 178-9; qu. : 158

Miller-Blattau; qu.: 161
Mirecourt, 207
Misa de la gall (Mass of the Cock), 16
Mitropoulos, Dimitri, 227 (n.)
Molnar, 60
Monasterio, Jesus de, 31, 36, 200, 202
Monn, G. M., 170
Montjuic, 80, 81 (n.)
Montpellier, 224
Montreux, 53
Montserrat, 43, 230
Moor, Emanuel, 45, 63, 92-7, 98, 107,
108, 130, 185

Moreau, 44, 50
Morphy, Count de, 20, 28, 30, 31, 32,
33, 34, 35, 36, 39, 40, 43, 162, 163
Morphy, Countess de, 32
Moscow, 54, 55, 56, 92
Museum of Modern Art, 211
Mottl, 66
Moussorgsky, 122
Mozart, Leopold, 64
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 50, 63, 64,
92, 99, 113, 115, 119, 122, 131, 132,
133, 134, 135-7, 138, 140, 141, 143,
144, 146, 154, 156, 157, 159, 178,
182, 187, 191, 193, 195, 196, 233
Mugnone, 38—9
Murillo, 148
Mussolini, 212
Nantes, 208
Navarra, Andre, 172 (n.)
Nevada, Emma, 43, 50
Newman, Philip, 86
New York, 54, 154, 165, 167
Hispanic Museum, 163
Metropolitan Museum, 54
Metropolitan Opera, 53, 165
Symphony Orchestra, 44, 52, 69
Nietzsche, 157; qu.: 29
Nikisch, Arthur, 62, 66, 88, 93
Nin, Jaume, 75-6
Nordmann, Roger, 232
Norway, 107
Nottingham, 222
Observer, The, 103, 192
d'Ollone, Max; qu.: 168, 174-5
Orfeo Gracienc, 26, 74, 80, 146
Ormandy, Eugene, 227; qu.: 12
Oxford, 224
Paderewski, 53, 204, 205
Paganini, 149, 195
Palacio de Oriente, 79
Palestrina, 132
Paris, 33, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45,
46, 48, 57, 58, 59, 62, 65, 66, 67, 69,
76, 79, 92, 93, 107, 117, 149, 155,
159, 162, 163, 189, 208, 214, 219,
220, 221, 229, 233
Ecole Normale de Musique, 48
INDEX
239
Pastorets, Els (The Adoration of the
Shepherds), 18
Pau de la Cent a, 15
Pavlova, Anna, 61, 62
Pedrell, 162-3
Peguy, Charles; qu.: 23
Pena, Joaquim, 70
Pep Fuster, El (Joseph the Carpenter), 20
Perpignan, 22, 191, 214, 216, 218, 228
Pestalozzi Institute, 232
Philadelphia, 54
Philip V, King, 77
Philippine Islands, 39
Piatigorsky, 205, 227 (n.)
Picasso, Pablo, 174
Pichot, 214
Picquart, Colonel, 44, 45
Pierrefonds, 43
Pincherle, Marc, 204; qu.: 205
Pi y Margall, 19, 32
Pizarro, Franciso, 233
Pleyel, 95
Plymouth, 97
Poland, 154
Polit, 58
Ponte, Lorenzo da, 135
Popper, David, 60
Portugal, 39, 41
Poulenc, F., 174
Prades, 9, 11, 23, 34, 68, 80, 85, 86, 99,
167, 188, 214-15, 216-17, 224, 226,
227-8, 229, 230, 233
Festivals, 66, 68, 84, 109, 127, 198,
205, 227-8, 230, 231
Prado Museum, 32, 33
Preller, 105
Primrose, William, 228
Progressists , 19
Prokoviev, 56; qu.: 178, 191-2

Puerto Rico, 76
Pugno, 47, 93
Purcell, Henry, 131, 169 (n.)
Putnam, Brenda, 81 (n.)
Rachmaninov, 56, 66, 98
Ram, Mrs., 43, 53, 167
Rameau, 138, 191
Raphael, 154
Ravel, 44, 45, 101, 122, 159, 167-8, 186
Reading, 222, 223
Reger, Max, 158
Renan, 229
Renoir, Auguste, 157
Republic of Spain, 80-1
Richmond (Virginia), 54
Richter, Hans, 49, 66, 84, 88, 98, 155
Rimsky-Korsakov, 56, 166
Rio de Janeiro, 86
Rivero, Primo de, 77
Rivesalte, 215
Robledo, Remero, 32
Rodoreda, 24
Rohrau, 63, 64
Rolland, Romain, 13, 130, 141; qu.:
131, 132
Rome, 69, 233
Rontgen, Julius, 57, 72 (n.), 92, 100,
101, 104-8
Roosevelt, Theodore, 52
Rossini, 130
Rubinstein, Anton, 59, 153, 186, 206
Rubinstein, Arthur, 205, 227 (n.)
Rubio, 28
Russia, 47, 54, 55-7, 58, 65, 92, 166-7,
211
Russian Ballet, 56, 61
Saarbrucken, 232
Sabadell, 91
Sagasta, 32
Saint Flour, 228
St. Michel de Cuxa, Abbey, 139, 228
Saint-Saens, 37, 45, 107, 131, 152, 185
St. Petersburg, 55, 56, 58, 211
Salaz, Perez, 81 (n.)
Salmeron, 32
Sandoz, Dr., 45, 46
San Francisco, 51
San Sebastian, 33
Sant Feliu de Guixols, 166
Sant Jaume, Church, 29
Sant Salvador, 15, 16, 21, 22, 43, 45, 64,
75, 76, 109, 160, 213, 214, 233
Sarasate, 26, 33, 34, 196
Sardanas, 99, 116, 166, 171 (n.), 172
Sargent, 50
Sarrault, President Albert, 229
Sauer, Emil, 152
Scario, 105
Scarlatti, 57
Schalk, 63
Scherchen, Herman, 86
Schiller, 70, 105, 142
Schirmer, Publishers, 170

Schmitt, Florent, 168
Schnabel, Artur, 98, 178, 227 (n.)
Schneider, Alexander, 198, 227, 228
Schonberg, 63, 156, 169-71, 172
Schubert, Franz, 44, 49, 63, 70, 74, 99,
134, 135, 136, 138, 139, 142, 143,
144-6, 147, 148, 151, 165, 187
Schulhoff, Otto, 65, 66
Schumann, 44, 62, 70, 78, 96, 97, 121,
128, 139, 145, 146-S, 149, 151, 165,
192, 204
Schumann, Clara, 50, 94, 97, 106, 188
(n.), 222 (n.)
Schuschnigg, 64
Schutz, 130
Schweitzer, Albert, 100, 101, 102, 110,
111, 124, 127, 230, 231; qu.: 11,
112, 114, 115, 117, 120, 123, 126,
128
Scriabin, 56
240
INDEX
Septfonds, 215
Serkin, Rudolf, 195, 205, 227 (n.), 228,
230
Shakespeare, 117, 120, 180
Sheffield, 222
Sibelius, 107
Siloti, 55, 56, 58, 66, 106, 152, 153, 211
Silvela, 32
Slader, Maria, 228
Smith, Dr. Carlton Sprague, 81 (n.)
Smolens, 61
Soldat, Marie, 50 (n.)

Speyer, Edward, 49, 50 (n.), 101
Staad, 219
Steinbach, 66, 88, 93
Stern, Isaac, 206, 228; qu.: 11
Stokowski, Leopold, 66, 87, 227
Stradivarius, 206, 207, 208
Strauss, Richard, 26, 52, 66, 107, 130,
156, 167
Stravinsky, Igor, 56, 174
Subirana, Panchita, 76
Suggia, Guilhermina, 96
Sussex, 52, 165
Switzerland, 43, 60, 93, 96, 159, 216,
219, 220, 229, 232
Szanto, Tivada, 95
Szel, Pierre, 66
Szigetti, Joseph, 206, 228
Tabuteau, 228
Taft, Mrs., 53
Tartini, 57
Taubman, Howard; qu.: 87
Thibaud', Jacques, 44, 47, 48, 59, 84, 93,
96-7, 206; qu.: 10
Thibaud, Cortot, Casals Trio, 44, 48 (n.),
64, 77, 85 (n.), 93, 96, 186
Thomas, Albert, 44
Thomas, Milton, 228
Thompson, 196
Times, The, 101, 102 (n.); qu.: 104
Titian, 33
Tobel, Rudolf von; qu.: 83-4, 171, 185
Tokio, 231
Toliansky, 60
Tortelier, 228
Toscanini, Arturo, 38, 66, 86, 177,
227 (n.)
Tost, Cafe, 25, 26, 27, 28, 38, 39, 74 (n.),
82, 162
Tost, Monsieur, 26, 27
Tourel, Jennie, 228

Tovey, Sir Donald, 11, 49, 66, 84, 92,
94, 97-104, 107, 108, 110, 111
Tres Bemoles, Los ("The Three Flats"), 21
Trevelyan, G. M., 101
Tribschen, 157
Trieste, 232
Trueta, Dr. Joseph, 224
trigones , 60
Uruguay, 61
U.S.A., 32, 44, 47, 48, 50-2, 53, 54,
81 (n.), 91, 100, 225
Vainar, Leo, 93
Valencia, 39
Van Gogh, 96
Vanguardia, La, 163
Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 103

Velasquez, 33, 180
Vendrell, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22,
23, 25, 30, 74, 75, 213, 214
Verbena de la Paloma, 31
Verd, Jean, 65
Verdi, 130
Verlaine, Paul, 45
Vernet, 215
Victoria, Queen, 48, 49
Victoria Eugenia, Queen, 77
Vidal, Felip, 71
Vidal-Quadres, 70
Vienna, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 98, 134, 145,
170, 171, 178, 233
Gesellschaft des Musikfreude, 64
Philharmonic Orchestra, 63, 64, 69, 83
Vila, Dr. Ernest, 102
Villa Molitor, 43, 46, 107, 162
Vilna, 54
Viola Pomposa, 120
Viviani, 44
Vuillermoz, £mile; qu.: 133, 136, 138,
139, 147, 168
Wagner, Cosima, 155
Wagner, Richard, 26, 38, 49, 70, 98, 107,
112, 131, 134, 135, 138, 139, 141,
142, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 155-8,
163, 172, 173
Wale-Wale, 52
Walter, Bruno, 63, 66, 87, 188 (n.), 212,
227(n.);qu.: 12
Warsaw, 53
Washington, 165
Weber, J.; qu.: 116
Weimar, 104, 105, 151, 152, 153
Weingartner, Felix, 66
Widor, C. M.;qu.: 176
Wight, Isle of, 48
Wilhelmina, Queen, 57
Wirth, Professor, 62, 160
Wittenstein, Karl, 145

Wummer, 228
Ysaye, Eugene, 47, 58-9, 64, 66, 84, 85,
93, 97, 155, 160, 176, 186, 187, 204,
205, 207, 229; qu.: 10
Zapatistas, 61
Zermatt, 231, 232
Zuloaga, 45
Zurich, 60, 77, 101, 117, 172 (n.), 229,
231, 233
Date Due
NOV 2 1 '57
i
Nnv i *
4nCf%
nrc o s 19
77
Library Bureau Cat. No. 1137
927.82 C27c
MUSIC
3 5002 00325 1225
Casals, Pablo
Conversations with Casals
ML 418 . C4 A333 1957
Casals, Pablo, 1876-1973.
Conversations with Casals

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Prades: The morning walk with "Follet'

CONVERSATIONS WITH CASALS

Translated from the French by

E. P. DUTTON Sc CO., INC.

Copyright ©, /956, 6>> £. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.

All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S. A.

No part of this book may be reproduced

in any form without permission in writing

from the publisher, except by a reviewer

who wishes to quote brief passages in con-

nection with a review written for inclusion

in magazine or newspaper or broadcasts.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 57*5322

INTRODUCTION BY PABLO CASALS

I have just read the manuscript of the friendly conversations

we had together, and I congratulate you most sincerely on the diligence

and faithfulness with which you have gathered them together.

I am astonished at the proportions your work has assumed ! While

a long book. But you were evidently bent on collecting all my

memories, on comparing my opinions with those of other musicians,

and on exactly determining my moral position in relation to the

Reading your book has awakened many thoughts in my mind

to start a new chapter — discussions on our discussions — and where

reservations of any kind, and it would be useless to overload this letter

of introduction with them.

I quite foresee that some of my views on music are liable to cause

controversy, even impassioned controversy. To every man his con-

victions. Every point of view is worthy of respect, so long as it is

As a student, I used to be fascinated by drops of dew on a wild flower,

exhaustible matter for reflection. Even now, each morning, before

renewing contact with Bach's immortal message, I open my window

and in contemplating the symphony of colours on the peak of Canigou

disillusions have never blunted my natural power to wonder.

I am well aware that the attitude I have adopted in recent years

has been the object of much comment, some of it revealing, to a more

or less justified extent, a lack of knowledge of the facts. It may be that

your book will help to dispel some of these misunderstandings. I

I haven't changed. I still feel free estranged from injustice and

a sight it is — this guilty and deplorable indifference of our times !

you of all my affection,

A LETTER FROM THOMAS MANN

My opinion of Pablo Casals? I have no opinion, only

impetuousness, is allied to a rigid refusal to compromise with wrong,

with anything that is morally squalid or offensive to justice — and this

in a way which ennobles and broadens our understanding of the artist,

corrupt times, of proud incorruptible integrity. Here is no hint of

escapism, no neutral attitudes to human problems. No trace either of

that tendency, so common in the precious little world of artists, to

arrangements, but laying down its own conditions, which have

nothing to do with either money or success.

call themselves free, but make opportunist deals with injustice. He

withholds his genius from a world which, though steeped in wrong,

Spain, the land of his birth. He no longer accepts invitations or leaves

the village near the Franco-Spanish frontier which he has chosen as

has become universally known as a symbol of art devoid of all com-

promise — of the unbreakable union of art and morality.

A victorious union, for the hermit's mountain retreat has become

Festivals have grown quite as much from the magnetism of a

great character as from the musical enthusiasm which, in these