Yet not every Furtwängler concert was all glory. I remember particularly one first performance of a contemporary work. Extremely difficult, the piece needed more time for rehearsal than was available. Furtwängler, after running through the piece, began to work note by note for the rest of the rehearsal. / “Is it F sharp?” inquired a musician. / Furtwängler consulted the score and said, “Yes. / Why?”/ “Doesn’t sound right.” / Every second someone would interrupt Furtwängler with a question. “There are seven eighths in my bar. Is it correct?” “Is it a sixteenth note?” “How do you play pizzicato and arco at the same time?” Et cetera, et cetera. Furtwängler, trying to clarify things, sank only deeper into confusion. / He spent that afternoon and evening studying the score. I was permitted to glance at it, also. Next morning we rehearsed again, but the composition appeared only the more complex. / “Let’s at least play together,” Furtwängler would cry as he repeated the piece again and again. “You realize that there will be only one more rehearsal this afternoon, and that the composer will be present?” / After a short lunch we assembled at the Philharmonic. / “Gentlemen,” announced Furtwängler, “I have just received the most wonderful news from Vienna. The composer is not coming. He sends his best wishes.” / “Bravo! Wunderbar!” cried a host of jubilant voices. / “That’s not all,” Furtwängler continued. “We will of course try to do our best, but at the same time, I want you to know that there is only one score of the composition in the country. The composer has the other one.” / We went through the rest of the program, which consisted of standard repertoire, and without so much as touching the new composition we cheerfully completed the rehearsal. / The next day the musicians arrived for the concert much earlier than usual, to practice their parts. The pieces preceding the première were played as if we had something else on our minds. Then came the world première. Up loomed Furtwängler’s worried face and the orchestra plunged into deep, unknown waters. / From the very start I had the strange sensation of riding on the back of a galloping giraffe. The weird sounds of the orchestra welled up as though from the stomachs of hundreds of ventriloquists. The double basses sounded like violas, and the bassoons like flutes. Seconds became hours as the performance rolled crazily on. Each player strove desperately to keep in touch with the others, not turning any more to Furtwängler for help. He himself was hopelessly lost. / The termination of the performance began very gradually, the players dropping out one by one until only Furtwängler and a few isolated instruments were left. At that point, for no explainable reason, the brass section entered. The magnitude of the sound was truly fabulous, and, coming so unexpectedly, it took us all completely off guard. We grabbed our instruments and vigorously joined the brasses with renewed hope. The incredible noise did not last very long, and soon – after a few last convulsions – everything stopped dead. / The silence that followed this abrupt ending was terrible to bear, and the hissing, hand-clapping, and catcalls came almost as a relief. Among those applauding in the audience I noticed two famous musicians. After the concert I heard them say, “The public is too stupid to understand.” So are you, I thought. << less