I was twenty-three years old at the turn of the century. It was a time of brave expectations. Many believed that a new epoch was at hand-that the dawn of the twentiety century would prove to be a turning point in the affairs of men. They cited recent scientific advances and predicted a future of great social progress. The era, they said, was approaching when poverty and hunger would at last disappear. In the way people make fervent resolutions at the start of a new year, the world seemed to be resolving at the start of a new century to undergo a change for the better. Who then foresaw that the coming decades would bring the unimaginable horrors of two world wars, concentration comps, and atomic bombs?
For me the future was full of promise. Almost overnight, following my concerts with Lamoureux, wide recognition came to me. I was besieged with requests to play at concerts and recitals. Suddenly all doors were open to me. It was heady wine for a young man at the start of his career. But I realized what circumstances had made all this possible for me. I had worked hard, it is true, but I had been greatly fortunate. Besides having been granted a certain talent by Nature, I had been blessed with a unique mother and father, with the friendship of a woman like Queen Maria Cristina, with teachers like the Count de Morphy, Monasterio, Breton and Garcia. Whatever I was, each of them, was a part of me, and without any one of them I would have been that much less. This was true not only then; it is true also now. That is why gratitude and the knowledge of my debt have never left me.
Paris proved to be everything that Francois Gevaert had said it would be for me. It was la belle epoch when Paris was truly the culture center of the world. The city was a mecca of creativity, the home and workshop of a galaxy of men of arts and letters. And in this city, with its teeming streets, its cafe terraces and chestnut vendors, its houses mellowed with the patina of centuries-here, where only a few short years ago my mother and I had faced such distress, I now found an exhilarating atmosphere for my work, new interests, and the companionship of brilliant men and women. My music, of course, brought me in close touch with other members of my profession. My circle of friends soon included such figures of the musical world as the violinists Eugene Ysaye and Jacques Thibaud, the pianists Harold Bauer and Alfred Cortot, the composers d'Indy, Enesco, Ravel, Arnold Schoenberg and Saint-Saens. But my associations were by no means limited to musicians. I became acquainted with the artists Degas and Eugene Carriere, the statemen Georges Clemenceau and Aristide Briand, the writer Romain Rolland, the philosopher Henri Bergson. They were fascinating men, and there was much to learn from them.
I found my talks with Bergson of special interest. We became very fond of one another, and I used to see him frequently. At first I was puzzled why this celebrated philosopher should want to spend time talking to a youth like me. I knew how intensely busy he was with his writings and his university lectures, and I felt that my knowledge was so limited-and he was a man of such vast erudition. But he assured me that he learned much from our conversations. One subject we talked a great deal about was that of intuition-it was, of course, a subject about which he had written a great deal. He was especially curious about the role of intuition in music. It has always been my viewpoint that intuition is the decisive element in both the composing and the performance of music. Of course technique and intelligence have vital functions-one must master the technique of an instrument in order to exact its full potentialities and one must apply one's intelligence in exploring every facet of the music-but, ultimately, the paramount role is that of intuition. For me the determining factor in creativity, in bringing a work to life, is that of musical instinct....
I cannot say that everything I learned during those early days in Paris was pleasurable. The highest attainments of the human race are often matched by proofs of its follies and frailties. And while Paris shone with art and learning, there was also disquieting evidence of ignorance and social injustice. A shocking example was the notorious Dreyfus affair.I came to have an intimate knowledge of the case through my friendship with Colonel Georges Picquart, whom I met shortly after arriving in Paris. Colonel Picquart was an officer of a most unusual sort. Tall and distinguished-looking with a gray mustache, he was a very cultured man, gentle and charming-he was, among other things, a fine amateur pianist-and he had a consuming sense of justice. His motto was "Perfection in art, justice in life." It was this passion for justice that had involved him in the Dreyfus affair and resulted in his becoming one of its true heroes. He was too modest to think of his role in those terms, but it was so. I learned the inside story of the case through him.
At the time of my arrival, the affair was already a cause celebre. It was on everybody's lips. You would be at a musicale, and before you knew it the music would be forgotten and everyone would start talking about Captain Dreyfus. Three or four years earlier, this Jewish officer had been falsely accused of betraying military secrets to the Germans. He was convicted with forged evidence by a court-martial and sentenced to life imprisonment on the infamous Devils Island. He would probably have died there if it had not been for Colonel Picquart. The colonel, who was an official in the French Ministry of War, had come upon some confidential documents that convinced him Dreyfus was innocent. He informed members of the French General Staff. They ordered him to drop the matter. Other officers might have obeyed; not Colonel Picquart. He continued his investigation. The next thing he knew, he was ordered transferred to a remote army post in Africa. But before leaving France he gave the material he had uncovered to a prominent lawyer. The matter was taken up in parliament. At first, few were willing to come to Dreyfus' defense, and Colonel Picquart himself was imprisoned on the charge of divulging secret military information. But as more facts came to light, the case became a national scandal. Emile Zola published his famous open letter, J'accuse!, charging the government with suppressing the truth. The protest reached such proportions that the authorities were forced to bring Dreyfus back to France for a second trial. New evidence, including the findings of Colonel Picquart-he had by now been liberated-clearly vindicated Dreyfus. But the army tried to save face. They again found Dreyfus guilty-with extenuating circumstances, they said, and reduced his sentence to ten years imprisonment! Soon after, the government pardoned Dreyfus. Still, his innocence was not officially admitted; and Colonel Picquart and others went on fighting to clear his name. Finally, several years later, Dreyfus was wholly exonerated and reinstated in the army. And even then, Dreyfus' enemies were not satisfied with the suffering he had endured. He was shot and wounded by an anti-Semitic fanatic who tried to assassinate him!
All of this appalled and sickened me. I know that there are those who believe artists should live in an ivory tower, removed from the struggles and suffering of their fellow men. That is a concept to which I have never been able to subscribe. An affront to human dignity is an affront to me; and to protest injustice is a matter of conscience. Are human rights of less importance to an artist than to other men? Does being an artist exempt one from his obligations as a man? I f anything, the artist has a particular responsibility, because he has been granted special sensitivities and perceptions, and because his voice may be heard when other voices are not. Who, indeed, should be more concerned than the artist with the defense of liberty and free inquiry, which are essential to his very creativity?
For me, perhaps the most frightful aspect of the Dreyfus affair was the fact that many people were against him because he was Jewish. And I found it almost unbelievable that in Paris-with all its culture and its noble traditions of the rights of man-that here, in this city which was called la ville lumiere, anti-Semitism could spread like a foul plague. What words, indeed, are there to descirbe this disease, which would later infect a whole nation and rationalize the massacre of millions of men, women and children on the grounds that "Jewish blood" flowed in their veins? One's mind staggers at the monstrosity!
The very idea of hating Jews is incomprehensible to me. My own life has been so enriched by tender associations with Jewish fellow artists and friends. What people on earth have contributed more to human culture than the Jewish people? Of course they make wonderful musicians. The reason is that they have so much heart-yes, and head, too! When I am conducting and tell the orchestra members, "Play Jewish," they know what I mean. My friend Sasha Schneider sometimes says to me, "You know, Don Pablo, you are really Jewish." He will not listen to my claim that my parents were Catholic and I am a Catalan. He shakes his head good-naturedly and says, "No, you are wrong. You may have been born of Catholic parents in Catalonia, but actually you are Jewish. For one thing, you could not play as you do if you were not." I appreciate that compliment, but I tell Sasha that there are exception to every rule.
It was in the year 1901 that I made my first trip to the United States. I traveled with Emma Nevada and a talented young French pianist, Leon Moreau. We came for a tour of eighty concerts. Our advance manager on the tour was Raymond Duncan, the brother of that remarkable woman, Isadora Duncan.
I could not then anticipate how the thread of my life would be woven into the tapestry of this great land, and how more than half a century later I would find my home in this hemisphere. But the country had a profound effect upon me. I had heard much about America-particularly from Emma Nevada, whose homeland, after all, it was-but there are certain things that cannot be comprehended without being experienced. America was such a phenomenon for me. What striking differences there were between America and European countries with which I was familiar! We visited dozens of towns and cities, and journeyed across the continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific; and even so, as the land unfolded before me, with its vast prairies, huge mountain ranges and awesome deserts, I knew I was catching only a glimpse of its immensity. Never before had I been so overwhelmed by Nature's grandeur and diversity; and never before had I been more conscious of the invincible spirit of man, who had penetrated these spaces and made them his home. You felt that man could accomplish anything and that everything for his happiness was possible here.
The New World ceased to be a mere phrase to me. Newness abounded on all sides. One sensed a nation still in the process of coming into being, like a great symphony in rehearsal.
Of course, the America of 1901 was not the America of today. There were large cities, yes, but there were also frontier towns. There were regions where the wilderness was still unconquered and places that made me feel as if I myself were a pioneer! And even the cities bore little resemblance to those of today. Then, you could still see the sky-smog and skyscrapers had not yet been invented. Only occasionally did you come upon a strange contraption that was called an automobile. And I must confess that when I now visit New York or Chicago, I sometimes feel nostalgic for those days when there were no taxis creeping along in traffic and a comfortable horse-drawn carriage would take you without delay wherever you wanted to go....
At that time certain European intellectuals had a scornful attitude toward the United States. Americans, they said, were lacking in culture and artistic achievement. But one of the things that greatly impressed me during that first visit and on subsequent trips was the extensive concern with culture, and especially music, among Americans. I was struck by the emphasis on musical education in the schools, with their bands, orchestras and choral groups, and I was frequently amazed at the interest in music and the musical facilities-often crude, of course-in out-of-the-way places and little remote towns.
But most of all, I think, I was impressed by the feeling of equality among the people. I was accustomed to the class distinctions of Europe, and, with my republican upbringing and beliefs, I had always felt them absurd and offensive. I had never recognized any distinction between men, or thought some deserved special privileges because of the accident of birth or the accumulation of wealth. And now I felt I was in a society where merit-whatever inequities had yet to be solved-was judged by character and capability.
For me, at the age of twenty-four, America was an emancipation....
My colleague on that tour, Leon Moreau, was a bit of a daredevil, always ready for some new adventure. And I myself was full of curiosity. We had no desire to confine ourselves to hotel rooms and concert halls. We wanted to see everything we could of this strange, exciting land. No sooner had we arrived in a new town and unpacked our things than we'd be off exploring. We were frequently involved in bizarre experiences.
I remember that when we came to the little mining town of Wilkes-Barre in Pennsylvania, we decided we had to see a mine. It was late in the afternoon but that did not deter us. We made the necessary inquiries and hurried off. At the mine,we were taken down into the pit. It was a mysterious and fascinating place-so fascinating, in fact, that we forgot about everything else as we explored the tunnels and talked to the miners. All at once Moreau said, "What about the concert? What time is it? It was almost time for the concert to start! There was not a moment to spare to return to the hotel and change our clothes. We rushed straight to the concert hall without even washing our hands and faces. When we arrived, we looked more like miners than musicians! But we cleaned up as best we could and went ahead with the performance.
The Wild West was still a reality in those days-when I now watch cowboy programs on television, I'm reminded of some of the Western towns where we gave concerts on that tour. Great excitement would attend our arrival. There would be large streamers over the streets announcing the concert, and printed posters on the walls of buildings-sometimes next to a poster offering a reward for some wanted outlaw.The halls in which we played were often roughly built but they were always packed, and the concerts took place in a gay, boisterous atmosphere, with ushers parading through the aisles during the intermissions selling peanuts and candy. One day when Moreau and I were out for a stroll in one of those Western towns, we wandered into a saloon. We were soon involved in a poker game with several cowboys-they were sturdy-looking fellows with guns in their belts. My experience as a gambler was limited, but I was lucky enough-or perhaps I should say unlucky enough-to start winning consistently. As the silver coins piled up in front of me, I noticed that the expressions on the faces of the other cardplayers were growing grim. A tense mood settled over the game. I looked at the revolvers of my opponents, and the thought occurred to me that our concert tour might come to an abrupt and unforeseen conclusion! Everyone was drinking whiskey. One of the cowboys offered me a glass. I declined as politely as possible, saying I didn't drink while gambling-I didn't add that I rarely drank while not gambling. The cowboy retorted, "Here we drink and gamble." Finally the cards changed, and I was fortunate enough to start loosing. The climate suddenly improved. Everyone began to smile. When the time came for Moreau and me to leave the saloon, we all embraced like old friends.
On another occasion a fellow passenger on a train asked me if I had ever gone out into an American desert. When I said I hadn't, he told me, "You really must. It will be an experience you'll never forget." And he was right. The opportunity came when we stopped for an engagement at a small desert town in Texas. Even Moreau had some misgivings about our salking off into the vast wasteland surrounding the town, but I was adamant. The desert was truly amazing-once in it, you felt you were on another planet. After a while Moreau said, "Don't you thinkk we've walked far enough? Let's go back." But just then I saw, far off in the distance, what appeared to be some sort of house. "You wait here," I told Mooreau. "I want to go and see what that building is. Then I'll come back." He wouldn't let me go alone; so we walked on together for another half hour or so until we reached the building. It was a weatherbeaten shack, and it seemed at first to be deserted. However, inside we found a man and a woman. We were hot and tired, and they gave us something to drink. The man was dressed like a cowboy, but I noticed something strange about his accent.
"You are not of this country," I said to him.
He replied, "No, I come from across the water."
"And from where?"
"Oh, it's a country you never heard of."
"And what is the name of theat country?" I inquired.
"Its name," he said, "is Catalonia."
So there we were, two fellow Catallans in the middle of the American desert!
It is a fact that you will find Catalans everywhere.
Indeed, long before that curious rendezvous in the Texas desert, other travelers from Catalonia had left their mark on America. In the city of Barcelona, overlooking the harbor, there is a pillar on the top of which stands a monument of Christopher Columbus with his hand stretched toward the west. It was to Barcelona that Columbus returned to first report his discovery of the New World to Fernando and Isabel; and the only communications of Columbus that remain are written not in Italian but in Catalan-they bear the signature "Colom," which means "pigeon" in the Catalan tongue. When I came to California for the first time, I was also aware that the first European to explore much of this region was the Franciscan Missionary, Fra Junipero Serra, who founded the San Francisco mission in the year of the American Revolution. Fra Serra was born on the Catalan island of Majorca....
In San Francisco I had an experience which not only brought my first Anerican tour to a sudden end but almost ended my career as a cellist. I was enchanted by the city and by the surrounding countryside. And when several young, newly made friends invited me to join them on an expedition across the Bay to climb Mount Tamalpais, I was delighted. I have always loved mountain climbing. We crossed on a ferryboat which was, I think, the most ornate vessel I'd ever seen-a veritable floating castle.
It was when we were making our descent of Mount Tamalpais that the accident occurred. Suddenly one of my companions shouted, "Watch out, Pablo!" I looked up and saw a boulder hurtling down the mountainside directly toward me. I jerked my head aside and was lucky not to be killed. As it was, the boulder hit and smashed my left hand-my fingering hand. My friends were aghast. But when I looked at my mangled bloody fingers, I had a strangely different reaction. My first thought was "Thank God, I'll never have to play the cello again!" No doubt, a psychoanalyst would give some profound explanation. But the fact is that dedication to one's art does involve a sort of enslavement, and then too, of course, I have always felt such dreadful anxiety before performance.
I remained in San Francisco while Emma Nevada and Moreau continued the tour. The doctors predicted I'd never regain the full use of my hand. But doctors sometimes make mistakes. With constant treatments and exercise, my hand healed completely, after four months, and I started practicing again. I fell in love with San Francisco-who does not?-and I formed associations that would last throughout the years. I stayed at the home of Michael Stein, the president of the city's cable car company. He was a highly cultured man, a patron of the arts, wonderfully hospitable. His house was full of paintings, books and magazines in various languages-everyone seemed to be always reading and making voluminous notes-and the conversation constantly turned to art. He had a younger sister who was studying medicine, a sturdy young woman in her twenties with a strong handsome face. She had a brilliant mind and a vivid way of expressing herself. Her name was Gertrude. Of course Gertrude Stein was not then world-renowned.
Once when I was sitting with my injured hand in a plaster cast, Gertrude said, "You look like El Greco's Gentlyman With a Hand on His Chest."
I laughed and told her, "Well, even if I can't play, my fingers are at least resting on the true instrument of all art and music."
In later years I used to see Gertrude Stein and another brother of hers, Leo, when they moved to Paris, where she became a legendary figure in the world of art and letters and he became an eminent art critic. Whenever I visited Gertrude's little studio flat near the Luxembourg Gardens, I would find her reading and Leo drawing. The walls of the flat were crowded with paintings. "These pictures," she would tell me, "are by young painters that nobody wants to pay any attention to." They were works by Matisse, Picasso and others. I had met Picasso in the late 1890's when he was still an art student in Barcelona, and even then I had a great admiration for his work, but somehow our paths never corssed in Paris....
One precious friendship I formed during my first visit to San Francisco was with a young woman named Theresa Hermann, whose father was a rabbi. She played the piano and her sister was a violinist. She was one of the party on that memorable outing to Mount Tamalpais. Our friendship was to last almost seven decades. Whenever I went to California, I would see her, and after the Casals Festival was inaugurated in Puerto Rico in the 1950's, she came to attend the performances. I was greatly saddened by her recent death. She was one of the last of my friends from those early days. Yes, many memories remain but, alas, few friends....
In 1904 I toured the United States for the second time. I made my first appearance with the Metropolitan Orchestra in New York City, playing the Saint-Saens concerto. That same season I played as a cello soloist in the first New York performance of Richard Strauss's symphonic poem, Don Quixote, with the great composer himself conducting. The performance was very well received, but there were some promotional people who thought I should cut a more dramatic figure on teh concert stage. Histrionics were fashionable then, and musical talent was sometimes judged by the length of one's hair. My own hair has never been excessive-in fact, I had already started to grow bald-and my manager told me I could command considerably higher fees for my performances in America if only I'd wear a wig while playing....
I had an unfortunate experience with my manager on that tour. Throughout my career I have tried to have as little to do with money as possible. Of course money is an unfortunate necessity of existence, and I'm aware it is sometimes put to altruistic uses. But I find something distasteful about money and dislike handling it. During my concert tours my managers always settled all financial matters. They would collelct my fees and deposit them to my account. My manager did this during my second trip to the United States. But on that occasion I discovered that he was getting a considerably larger sum from each of the concerts than he'd told me I was being paid. I was very angry-not because of the money but because of the man's dishonesty.
When I returned to New York City at the end of the tour, I telephoned my manager and asked him to come to my hotel. He suggested we meet at his office, but I said no, that he should come to me. I went into the lobby and put a small table and a couple of chairs near the revolving doors that served as the entrance to the hotel. I waited for him there. When he came, I asked him to sit down with me at the table.
He said, "How was the tour?"
I said, "Everything was fine-except for one thing."
"And what was that?" he asked.
"I had a thief for a manager," I said.
He went white, absolutely white, and his eyes got very big. "What are you talking about!" he said.
"No," I told him, "there is no sense in your lying. I know exactly how much you took from each of my concerts."
He stood up, stammering.
Then-as I had planned-I seized him and thrust him into the revolving doors. I spun the doors around and around as fast as I could. He went whirling about inside. I pushed the doors so hard that they broke. He staggered out and ran down the street.
Of course I had to pay for the doors. I had expected that. I never got any of the money he had taken, but I really didn't mind that either. I think I taught him a lesson.
More than half a century later, when I went to Washington to play for President Kennedy, some newspapers reported that this was my first appearance at the White House. Actually, I had previously played there for President Roosevelt-not Franklin Delano Roosevelt but Theodore Roosevelt. That was during my visit to America in 1904.
The performance took place at a reception given by the President. He had an infectious joviality. He put his arm around my shoulders after the concert and led me around among the guests, introducing me to everyone and talking all the time. I felt that in a sense he personified the American nation, with all his energy, strength and confidence. It was not hard to picture him galloping on a horse or hunting big game, as he was so fond of doing.
On the occasion of my subsequent visit to the White House in 1961, I was introduced to a handsome white-haired lady who told me that she had been present as a young woman when I first played there. Her name was Mrs. Nicholas Longworth, and she was, of course, Theodore Roosevelt's daughter.