Hans  Swarowsky

 

A  Remembrance  

 

by  

 

Barry  Brisk  

1986  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright  Barry  Brisk  2015  

 

Hans  Swarowsky  with  daughters  Danielle  left  and  Gloria  right.  Inscription  in  the  lower  left  reads:  Seinem  lieben  Barry  Brisk  mit  allen  guten  Wünschen.    (To  his  dear  Barry  Brisk  with  all  good  wishes.)  H.  Swarowsky  1972  

 

For  three  decades  after  the  end  of  WW  II  student  conductors  came  to  Vienna  

to  learn  their  craft  and  their  art.  This  Crossroads  on  the  Danube,  once  the  center  of  a  

vast  multiethnic,  multilingual  empire,  played  an  enormous  role  in  the  history  of  

music  and  boasts  traditions  which  go  back  centuries,  directly  to  the  masters.  But  the  

real  lure  which  seduced  these  young  musicians  to  the  former  royal  imperial  capital  

was  the  opportunity  to  study  with  Hans  Swarowsky.  Some  who  came  to  this  

complex,  colorful  man  understood  neither  him  nor  his  teaching.  Others  learned  a  

great  deal.  And  some  were  lucky  enough  to  get  to  know  him  personally.  

His  guest  conducting  engagements  took  him  all  over  Europe,  England,  

Scotland  and  occasionally  the  United  States.  After  one  absence  he  returned  from  

Budapest  in  high  spirits.  We  were  regaled  with  tales  of  his  triumphs,  the  wonderful  

Hungarian  musicians,  the  excellent  cuisine  and  the  dust  on  the  streets.  Then  a  

twinkle  came  into  his  eye  and  he  lowered  his  voice.  “You  know,  after  my  first  

concert  an  old  lady  I  didn’t  recognize  stood  about  the  green  room  for  awhile.  She  

finally  came  up  and  whispered,  ‘You  were  the  first.’”  He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  

shrugged  his  shoulders.  “How  was  I  to  remember  after  so  many  years?”  This  was  

Hans  Swarowsky’s  legendary  conducting  class  at  the  Vienna  Academy  of  Music.  

“Why  did  Mozart  change  the  pattern  the  third  time  in  the  first  violin?  Who  

can  tell  me  that?”  This  last  question  was  hurled  out  with  great  irony.  Silence.  A  timid  

hand  went  up,  followed  by  a  meek  voice:  “Because  of  the  chord  change?”    “No!  He  

uses  the  same  chord  progression  each  time.  Well?”  More  silence.  Another  voice:  For  

variety?”  No!  Mozart  did  things  for  reasons;  variety  is  not  a  reason!”  Much  

embarrassed  page  turning.  The  sound  of  thinking.  “Don’t  you  people  know  

anything?  If  he  had  continued  the  same  pattern,  he  would  have  gone  down  to  a  low  

F.  Well?  Has  it  occurred  to  some  one  yet?  The  violin  only  goes  down  to  a  G.  There  is  

no  low  F  so  he  must  go  up.  There  is  no  other  place  to  go!”  All  of  this  was  delivered  

with  a  tone  of  impatience  as  if  there  wasn’t  enough  time  to  explain  all  of  the  

important  ideas  to  people  who  probably  didn’t  understand  them  anyhow.  

“I  don’t  know  why  I  even  look  past  the  third  row;  they  all  have  blank  

expressions.  How  many  theme  groups  does  Bruckner  have  in  a  first  movement?”  

Someone  from  Toronto  answered,  “Three.”  Silence.  “You  Austrians!  Why  do  you  

have  to  let  a  Canadian  tell  you  about  Bruckner?  Don’t  you  know  anything?”  And  so  it  

went  until  one  became  used  to  this  approach  and  could  delight  in  the  lopsided  give  

and  take  and  the  high  temperature.  

Once  every  year  or  two  Swarowsky  would  discuss  the  two  giants  of  the  

lighter  muse,  Offenbach  and  Johann  Strauss,  Jr.    “Offenbach’s  music  is  as  elegant  as  

Mozart’s:  you  never  hear  the  seams.  Who  were  two  of  he  greatest  French  opera  

composers  of  the  nineteenth  century?  Meyerbeer  and  Offenbach,  two  German  Jews!”  

So  much  for  nineteenth  century  French  opera!  Then  he  would  launch  into  a  

description  and  analysis  of  the  Viennese  waltz,  its  four  sections,  how  their  tempi  

vary  because  of  the  different  dance  steps  (which  he  demonstrated),  and  what  

modifications  of  tempo  should  occur  if  the  waltz  is  being  played  as  dance  music  or  

concert  performance.  It  would  also  be  brought  out  that  of  the  famous  Viennese  

composers,  only  Schubert  and  Johann  Strauss,  Jr.  were  actually  born  in  Vienna.  

In  the  United  States  Hans  Swarowsky  is  primarily  known  as  the  teacher  of  

Zubin  Mehta  and  Claudio  Abbado.  He  was  Viennese  but  born  in  Budapest  in  1899,  

died  in  Salzburg  in  1975.  Simultaneously  with  his  art  history  and  psychology  studies  

at  the  University  of  Vienna  he  studied  piano  with  Rosenthal,  Busoni  and  

Steuermann,  theory  with  Schoenberg  and  Webern,  and  conducting  with  

Weingartner  and  Schalk.  Later  he  was  assistant  to  Richard  Strauss  and  Clemens  

Krauss  at  various  seminars.  His  opera  career  took  him  from  the  Vienna  Volksoper  to  

Stuttgart,  Hamburg,  Berlin  and  Zurich.  After  World  War  II  he  was  Music  Director  of  

the  Stuttgart  and  Graz  opera  houses,  the  Vienna  Symphony  Orchestra  and  the  

Scottish  National  Orchestra.  His  guest  conducting  took  him  all  over  Europe,  North  

and  South  America  and  Japan,  and  from  1959  on  he  conducted  regularly  at  the  

Vienna  Staatsoper.  He  taught  at  the  Vienna  Academy  of  Music  from  1946  to  1975.  He  

published  a  number  of  articles1  and  recorded  extensively  in  Europe.  He  was  a  

successful  conductor  with  an  international  career  who  desired  but  did  not  achieve  

major  prominence,  whose  teaching  was  so  effective  that  it  ultimately  overshadowed  

his  other  work.  He  was  a  lecturer  who  would  lead  you  from  a  discussion  of  

Schoenberg’s  Variations  for  Orchestra  to  an  in  depth  explanation  of  Roman  columns  

(sketching  the  orders  from  memory)  and  back  again  to  musical  concepts  while  

interpolating  an  occasional  bawdy  joke  or  political  irreverence.  

Children  born  of  good  families  in  turn  of  the  century  Vienna  were  given  a  

classical  education  –  Greek,  Latin,  mathematics,  history,  literature,  etc.  Someone  

with  and  intellectual  flair  could  build  monuments  upon  such  a  foundation,  and  

Swarowsky  did  just  that.  He  educated  himself  to  such  an  extent  that  he  could  have  

given  university  lectures  in  art  history,  European  literature,  philosophy,  western  

religions,  history  of  drama,  and  western  history  in  general.  

The  American  conductor  Lawrence  Foster  once  told  me  of  an  afternoon  spent  

with  Swarowsky  in  London.  They  went  to  a  famous  art  dealer’s  salon  where  

Swarowsky  held  forth  on  everything  from  medieval  iconography  and  early  

Renaissance  Madonnas  to  cubism  and  Dada.  Foster  discreetly  excused  himself  and  

queried  the  proprietor  about  this  information.  It  was  all  correct.  Swarowsky  really  

had  a  thorough  grasp  of  Western  civilization.  

During  Swarowsky’s  childhood  and  youth  he  came  into  contact  with  the  

notable  artistic  personalities  of  the  period.2  As  the  age  of  seven  he  saw  Mahler  

conduct  at  the  Vienna  Hofoper  (now  Staatsoper),  and  in  1910,  at  the  age  of  eleven,  

he  sang  in  the  boys  chorus  for  the  world  premiere  of  Mahler’s  Eight  Symphony  in  

Munich  under  the  composer’s  direction.  Because  his  father  had  a  villa  in  Cagnes  sur  

Mer  on  the  Riviera,  Swarowsky  met  and  had  his  portrait  painted  by  Renoir,  a  

neighbor.  As  he  matured  he  worked  with  singers  who  had  learned  Lieder  with  

                                                                                                               

1  Swaroswky,  Hans,  Wahrung  der  Gestalt  (Defending  the  Form),  edited  by  Manfred  Huss,  Universal  Edition,  1979.  2  Ibid.  pp.  258  –  259.  

Brahms.  He  frequently  had  tea  with  Adele  Strauss,  widow  of  Johann  Strauss,  Jr.  

Belonging  to  the  Schoenberg  circle  and  the  Society  for  Private  Performances  led  

him,  after  Schoenberg,  Berg  and  Webern,  to  Hauer  (inventor  of  the  other  twelve-­‐

tone  technique),  Ravel,  Bartók,  Prokofiev,  Kodály  and  Hindemith.  At  a  somewhat  

greater  distance  he  knew  Respighi,  Pfitzner,  Schreker,  Malipiero,  Weill,  Zemlinsky,  

Satie  and  Milhaud.  Eventually  he  worked  with  Stravinsky,  Britten  and  von  Einem.  

The  period  between  the  wars  was  one  of  great  social  and  artistic  ferment  in  

Europe,  and  in  Vienna  the  coffee  houses  played  an  important  role  as  gathering  place  

for  all  and  sundry.  Swarowsky  became  an  habitué  of  the  famous  Café  Central  where  

the  intellectual  elite  of  Vienna  congregated.  At  the  same  time  his  sister  led  an  

elegant  literary  salon  where  he  chatted  with  Karl  Kraus,  Altenberg,  Kafka,  Werfel,  

Hauptmann,  Wedekind  and  Hofmannsthal.  Later  on  he  met  the  architects  Adolf  

Loos,  Gropius  and  Le  Corbusier.  

With  such  a  background,  talent,  and  an  interest  in  the  practical  aspects  of  

music,  he  emerged  as  an  artist  who  could  fully  understand  a  specific  piece  of  music,  

its  stylistic  period,  its  place  in  the  history  of  music,  and  its  importance  in  the  

panorama  of  cultural  history.  It  is  no  wonder  that  he  lectured  his  class  for  nine  

hours  a  week  (Monday,  Wednesday  and  Thursday  from  10  am  to1  pm);  he  had  a  lot  

to  give  and  he  gave  generously.    

Originally  Swarowsky’s  greatest  desire  had  been  to  become  a  psychoanalyst,  

and  he  had  studied  with  Freud  at  the  University  of  Vienna.  Then,  one  day  after  

World  War  I,  he  suddenly  had  to  earn  a  living.  Because  he  played  piano  well,  he  got  a  

job  as  a  coach  in  an  opera  house.  One  thing  led  to  another,  and  he  was  soon  

conducting.  By  the  early  1930s  he  was  principal  conductor  at  the  Hamburg  opera.  

One  evening  Richard  Strauss  attended  Swarowky’s  performance  of  Die  Frau  ohne  

Schatten.  Afterwards  Strauss  congratulated  him  on  a  fine  job  and  invited  him  for  a  

chat  the  next  day  “to  point  out  a  few  things.”  Thus  began  a  long  relationship  which  

was  pivotal  to  Swarowsky,  who  claimed  to  have  learned  everything  about  

conducting  from  Strauss.  Strauss  in  his  turn  had  served  an  apprenticeship  with  

Bülow,  who  had  been  greatly  influenced  by  Liszt  (to  the  point  of  marrying  his  

daughter  Cosima,  who  eventually  left  him  for  Wagner);  and  Liszt  as  a  child  had  

played  for  Beethoven,  but  more  importantly  he  was  a  student  of  Czerny,  who  was  a  

disciple  of  Beethoven.  And  Beethoven,  of  course,  had  come  to  Vienna  to  study  with  

Haydn.  This  is  the  type  of  European  tradition  which  inculcates  a  subliminal  self-­‐

confidence  in  one’s  approach  to  the  music  of  the  past.  

His  conducting  career  never  achieved  the  status  he  felt  it  deserved.  The  post-­‐

World  War  II  European  conducting  scene  came  to  be  dominated  more  and  more  by  

Herbert  von  Karajan.  Handsome,  suave,  graceful,  charismatic,  with  a  private  life  that  

showed  him  piloting  his  own  jet,  driving  fast  cars  and  skiing  the  slopes  of  St.  Moritz,  

it  was  Karajan  who  set  the  tone  for  the  fifties  and  sixties.  Swarowsky,  professorial  in  

demeanor,  portly,  balding,  with  thick  horn-­‐rimmed  glasses,  did  not  posses  that  

presence  which  can  galvanize  an  orchestra  and,  through  it,  the  audience.  He  had  a  

vast  repertoire,  both  symphonic  and  operatic,  but  his  performances  would  range  

from  average  to  superb.  He  was  not  the  man  to  develop  an  orchestra’s  potential  over  

the  long  run,  but  as  a  guest  he  was  the  musician  to  bring  out  the  orchestra’s  best  in  

difficult  works.  

Swarowsky’s  basic  interpretational  stance  assumed  that  the  composer  knew  

what  he  wanted  and  wrote  it  into  the  score;  it  was  the  conductor’s  highest  calling  to  

perform  a  work  as  close  to  the  composer’s  intentions  as  possible.  Ideally  this  

involved  an  acquaintance  with  the  manuscript  materials  which  lay  behind  the  

published  score.  Swarowsky  once  took  Toscanini,  the  first  great  conductor  to  

publicize  the  issue  of  fidelity  to  the  score,  into  the  Austrian  National  Library  to  point  

out  two  wrong  notes  in  an  old  manuscript  copy  of  Mozart’s  Symphony  No  39.  And  

fidelity  did  not  mean  a  blind  reading  of  the  written  notes.  Swarowsky  taught  us  

what  the  written  symbols  meant  for  each  musical  epoch,  and  how  their  execution  

changed  over  the  course  of  several  centuries.  He  led  us  to  the  historical  treatises  of  

C.P.E.  Bach,  Leopold  Mozart,  Quantz  and  Mattheson.  The  intensity  of  his  inner  

conviction  that  a  composer  knows  his  own  mind  came  from  his  involvement  with  

some  of  the  geniuses  of  his  time:  Schoenberg,  Webern,  Richard  Strauss,  Stravinsky,  

Britten.  They  all  had  firm  opinions  about  the  performance  of  their  music,  suggesting  

to  Swarowsky  that  composers  of  previous  generations  also  had  precise  conceptions.  

All  of  which  led  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is  absurd  for  one  piece  of  music  to  be  

interpreted  in  20  different  ways;  each  masterpiece  has  one  basic  interpretational  

spectrum,  which  allows  room  for  only  minor  modifications.  

Viewing  a  score  from  the  composer’s  perspective,  grasping  the  form  in  its  

large  and  small  entities,  appreciating  why  the  composer  did  what  he  did,  these  

concepts  formed  the  core  of  Swarowsky’s  outlook.  A  clear  and  concise  

understanding  of  the  work  at  hand  was  the  ultimate  goal.  Emotional  wallowing  was  

not  countenanced.  It  was  typical  of  Swarowsky  that  he  could  and  would  expound  at  

great  length  about  the  reasons  for  each  of  his  interpretational  decisions;  nothing  

was  ever  arbitrary  or  left  to  whim.  

This  approach  tended  not  to  make  him  popular  with  his  colleagues.  Who  was  

he  to  poke  fun  at  Furtwängler’s  slow  tempi?  Of  the  Scherzo  from  the  Eroica,  a  

frequent  victim  of  speed,  he  said,  “Beethoven  didn’t  write  that  movement  so  the  

American  precision  orchestras  could  show  off  how  fast  they  can  play,”  a  statement  

which  also  points  out  a  Central  European  prejudice  from  the  1960s  about  American  

orchestras.  However,  he  much  preferred  Toscanini’s  straightforward  approach,  

despite  the  fast  tempi  of  his  old  age,  to  Furtwängler’s  romanticized  overindulgence.  

On  only  one  occasion  did  he  play  a  recording  for  us,  Tchaikovsky’s  Fifth  Symphony  

with  Mravinski  and  the  Leningrad  Philharmonic.  This  demonstrated  the  Russian  

tradition  which  follows  Tchaikovsky’s  markings  closely  and  has  none  of  the  

sentimental,  saccharine  mannerisms  common  both  in  Western  Europe  and  the  

United  States.  

Of  his  contemporaries  Swarowsky  had  kind  words  for  only  three:  Karajan,  

Szell,  ad  Steinberg,  all  from  the  Austro-­‐Hungarian  Empire,  like  himself:  born  in  

Salzburg,  Budapest  and  Vienna  respectively.  When  a  student  announced  that  he  

would  attend  the  summer  course  at  the  Salzburg  Mozarteum,  Swarowsky  asked  who  

would  be  teaching  (they  had  had  some  undistinguished  East-­‐Europeans  for  a  while).  

Upon  being  told  it  would  be  Bruno  Maderna  he  replied,  “At  least  you  will  be  working  

with  a  real  musician.”  And  when  Pierre  Boulez  conducted  at  Bayreuth  for  the  first  

time  (Parsifal,  1966)  Swarowsky  said  that  he  liked  the  radio  broadcast.  That  was  it.  

No  one  else  merited  positive  comment.  The  rest  of  the  world  received  the  same  

scorching  treatment  as  his  students.  He  poked  fun  at  Karajan’s  jet-­‐set  image,  

Boehm’s  Austrian  dialect,  Bernstein’s  jumping.  His  most  blazing  salvos  were  aimed  

at  the  Director  of  the  Staatsoper,  Dr.  Egon  Hilbert,  a  generally  loathed  figure  whose  

machinations  helped  bring  on  Karajan’s  resignation  and  departure  from  Vienna  in  

1964,  after  which  he  was  in  sole  charge  of  things.  Such  positions  are  political  

appointments.  Hilbert’s  previous  experience  as  an  intriguing  bureaucrat  (he  was  a  

former  legal  official)  obviously  qualified  him  for  the  operatic  job.  He  died  three  

years  later,  the  day  his  resignation  became  effective,  and  was  succeeded  by  Dr.  

Heinrich  Reif-­‐Gintl,  a  functionary  in  that  opera  house  for  over  30  years  who  had  no  

imagination.  All  of  this  was  grist  for  Swarowsky’s  mill.  

The  flip  side  of  Swarowsky’s  flamboyant  rhetoric  was  a  penchant  for  

exaggeration,  stretching  reality,  and  even  pure  improvisation.  As  unsuspecting,  

unsophisticated  students  we  lapped  it  up  as  the  Gospel  According  to  St.  Hans.  

Example:  his  espionage  activities  in  World  War  II  resistance.  “In  late  1941  the  

Americans  were  expecting  the  Japanese  to  do  something.  When  Pearl  Harbor  was  

bombed  Roosevelt  notified  me  to  send  the  prearranged  signal  to  Churchill,  which  

was  ‘Tonight  Butterfly.’  My  message  was  his  first  knowledge  of  that  deed.”  It  was  

this  sort  of  bagatelle  which  led  pianist  Alfred  Brendel    to  tell  me,  “I  never  caught  him  

at  the  truth.”  The  following  story,  however,  was  true.  During  the  Third  Reich  

Swarowsky  had  a  guest  appearance  lined  up  in  Poland,  as  yet  a  free  country.  He  

went  out  of  his  way  to  program  Beethoven’s  Ninth  Symphony,  a  hymn  to  the  

brotherhood  of  all  mankind.  The  Nazis  could  not  forgive  him  for  doing  this  in  a  

Slavic  country  and  issued  a  Dirigierverbot  (conducting  prohibition).  The  next  year,  

1937,  he  was  engaged  as  Chief  Conductor  of  the  Zurich  Opera.  

Swarowsky’s  lectures  had  two  basic  divisions:  baton  technique  and  score  

analysis.  He  had  evolved  a  clear,  neat,  easily  discernible  stick  technique  which  

provided  the  novice  with  skill  to  handle  all  of  the  demands  from  Bach  through  

Stravinsky.  We  were  given  the  following  scenario;  “Imagine  that  you  get  a  phone  call  

to  conduct  a  concert  tonight  because  conductor  X  has  become  ill.  No  rehearsals  are  

possible.  You  must  walk  out  and  do  it  without  any  verbal  communication.  Your  

gestures  must  be  so  precise  that  the  orchestra  will  have  no  trouble  following  you.  

That  is  good  technique!”  

These  technical  discussions  took  up  about  10%  of  our  nine  weekly  hours  

with  the  Herr  Professor.  The  bulk  of  the  time  was  devoted  to  score  analysis.  He  

would  take  us  through  a  Mozart  symphony,  then  Ravel’s  Daphnis  and  Chloé  Second  

Suite,  then  a  Beethoven  symphony.  He  taught  us  to  look  at  a  score  through  the  back  

door  the  way  the  composer  thought  of  it.  He  wasn’t  interested  in  telling  us  what  the  

composer  did;  that  was  obvious.  He  pointed  out  why  the  composer  did  a  specific  

thing.  He  made  us  think  about  the  music.  And  foremost  we  thought  about  the  form  

of  each  piece,  because  when  that  element  has  been  grasped,  all  else  falls  into  place  

naturally.  

That  last  lecture  of  the  year  was  invariably  devoted  to  a  non-­‐musical  subject,  

albeit  an  important  one;  the  proper  tailoring  and  wearing  of  a  Frack  (white  tie  and  

tails).  This  non-­‐intellectual  topic  is  crucial  to  the  achievement  of  a  high  level  of  

artistry.  The  wrong  kind  of  bow  tie  creeping  up  the  neck,  burrowing  itself  into  the  

folds  of  the  skin,  is  simply  not  conducive  to  a  good  performance.  With  years  of  

experience  in  this  sidelight  of  musical  endeavor,  Swarowsky  explained  in  great  

minutiae  just  how  to  prevent  the  vest  from  wriggling  up  the  torso.  One  was  given  

specific  instructions  in  just  what  kind  of  elastic  hooks  the  tailor  should  install,  that  

could  be  affixed  to  both  sides  of  the  trousers.  It  was  also  advised  that  since  our  

careers  would  begin  slowly,  we  should  go  to  a  good  tailor  who  would  cut  the  

material  to  our  individual  measurements.  It  would  be  worth  the  extra  expense,  

because  the  better  quality  material  would  last  for  at  least  10  years.  I  picked  

Swarowsky’s  tailor.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  had  clothes  tailor  made  to  my  

specifications.  One  was  treated  royally  in  the  chic  salon  by  the  impeccably  dressed  

host.  While  being  measured  for  the  vest  I  most  causally  mentioned  the  Herr  

Professor’s  suggestion  about  hooks.  A  bemused  smile  took  in  my  29  inch  waist  and  I  

received  the  ever  so  genteel  answer  that  in  my  case  it  would  not  really  be  necessary.  

After  all,  the  Herr  Professor  had  a  rather  different  figure.  

The  Academy  offered  its  conducting  students  a  training  orchestra  to  practice  

upon.  This  was  not  the  student  orchestra.  It  consisted  mainly  of  retired  musicians  

and  a  few  amateurs.  Students  from  the  Academy  were  used  to  fill  in  gaps  such  as  

second  oboe  or  trombone.  Everyone  in  the  orchestra  received  a  modest  fee  per  

rehearsal.  The  musicians  were  very  nice  and  because  of  their  age  felt  rather  paternal  

towards  us.  However,  one  could  not  call  it  a  good  orchestra.  Intonation  was  a  

fluctuating  concept.  The  range  of  dynamics  was  not  large.  And  precision  was  an  

occasional  affair.  As  the  concertmaster  was  bowlegged  and  used  a  cane,  we  

affectionately  nicknamed  it  the  “cripple  orchestra.”  But  they  could  follow!  And  that  

was  the  most  important  point.  If  you  gave  a  sloppy  upbeat,  they  returned  a  sloppy  

downbeat.  If  you  stumbled  over  a  fermata,  they  stumbled  with  you.  If  you  executed  a  

tricky  rhythmic  change  properly,  the  results  were  satisfying.  This  orchestra  should  

be  compared  to  a  beginner’s  violin;  the  tone  quality  is  not  very  good,  but  it  is  an  

appropriate  instrument  on  which  to  practice  until  the  student  is  ready  for  a  more  

sensitive  one.  

The  course  of  study  at  the  Academy  lasted  four  years.  However,  one  was  not  

allowed  to  conduct  the  rehearsal  orchestra  until  the  third  year,  which  meant  the  

students  had  two  years  of  intense  preparation.  And  when  the  golden  moment  finally  

arrived,  the  aspiring  conductors  either  shook  so  much  from  nervousness  that  they  

were  rendered  ineffective,  or  they  demonstrably  over  conducted.  To  the  latter  

Swarowsky  would  growl,  “While  you  are  with  me  you  will  do  it  properly!  After  you  

leave  the  Academy  there  will  be  ample  time  to  develop  you  personalities!”  

Each  student  was  allowed  20  minutes  with  the  orchestra  per  week.  And  

Swarowsky  would  be  there  to  make  sure  you  did  it  just  as  he  said.  If  you  fell  into  a  

trap  at  a  change  of  meter  in  a  Schumann  symphony,  he  would  shout  out  “Aha!”  with  

great  glee.  “You  did  just  what  I  said  you  would  do!  Why  didn’t  you  listen  to  me  and  

do  what  I  showed  you?  It’s  so  easy  that  way.”  Then  he  would  jump  onto  the  podium,  

grab  your  arm  and  lead  you  through  it.  The  fact  that  this  may  have  only  been  the  

second  time  in  your  life  that  you  ever  stood  in  front  of  an  orchestra  (the  first  being  

last  week  when  Swarowsky  was  in  Budapest)  and  that  you  were  nervous  was  

irrelevant.  The  first  time  I  conducted  we  were  doing  the  Marriage  of  Figaro  with  

singers.  I  had  never  done  opera  before.  Not  knowing  how  to  deal  with  vocalists  yet,  I  

gave  my  attention  to  the  orchestra,  where  I  felt  more  comfortable.  “Kleiner!”  (little  

one!)  he  shouted.    “You  must  lead  the  singers.  This  is  an  opera!  They  are  singing  

from  memory,  but  the  orchestra  has  the  music  in  front  of  it.”  While  saying  this  he  got  

onto  the  podium  in  back  of  me  and  took  my  right  arm  in  his  right  hand  and  my  left  

arm  in  his  left  had.  “Now  with  this  arm  you  conduct  the  Countess  (tugging  at  my  

right  arm)  and  with  this  arm  Susanna  (twisting  my  left).  The  orchestra  will  follow.”  

With  that  we  all  started  again,  Swarowsky  moving  my  arms  as  if  I  were  a  hand  

puppet.  “See.  Isn’t  that  much  better?  Everybody  can  follow.  Use  two  arms.  Why  do  

you  think  Jews  make  such  good  conductors?  They’re  always  talking  with  both  

hands!”  

His  approach  at  these  rehearsals  was  deliberately  severe.  He  ridiculed  errors  

harshly,  right  there  in  front  of  the  orchestra,  colleagues  and  singers.  Next  day  in  his  

class,  with  only  his  own  students  present,  he  would  explain  that  it  was  necessary  to  

be  firm  when  standing  in  front  of  an  orchestra.  “After  all,  in  real  life  you  will  be  

facing  80  professional  musicians,  most  of  them  older  and  more  experienced  than  

you,  and  yet  it  will  be  your  job  to  tell  them  how  to  do  things.”  Hence  his  withering  

attacks.  If  you  could  learn  to  deal  with  those,  you  were  on  the  right  track.    

One  overwhelming  advantage  of  being  his  student  was  that  he  had  an  active  

conducting  career  to  the  end  of  his  life.  Many  teachers  were  active  while  young,  then  

went  into  teaching.  In  Swarowsky’s  case,  not  only  could  he  tell  you  what  happened  

last  night  while  he  conducted  at  the  Staatsoper,  he  took  us  along  to  his  rehearsals.  If  

he  was  going  to  conduct  an  important  work  in  Vienna  such  as  the  Berg  Violin  

Concerto,  we  would  temporarily  set  aside  our  current  score  and  study  the  Berg  

Concerto,  then  attend  all  of  the  rehearsals  and  the  concert.  After  which  we  were  

introduced  to  Berg’s  widow.  And  when  some  tricky  passage  came  off  correctly  the  

first  time  at  a  rehearsal,  he  would  turn  to  us  beaming,  without  losing  a  beat,  and  say,  

“See!  It  went  just  like  I  told  you.”  

After  a  Swarowsky  performance  the  green  room  would  be  filled  with  

students,  the  usual  autograph  hunters,  relatives,  musical  personages  and  well  

wishers.  A  colleague  from  Hamburg  (Christian  Lange3)  and  I  soon  realized  that  if  we  

nonchalantly  hung  around  until  the  room  was  almost  empty,  we  might  get  invited  

along  to  the  after-­‐concert  dinner  at  the  Hotel  Imperial  (a  repast  otherwise  beyond  

our  means).  Onkel  Hans  -­‐  as  we  began  to  think  of  him  –  was  quite  generous  and  

wouldn’t  think  of  letting  us  pay  for  ourselves.  On  one  such  occasion,  surrounded  by  

a  group  of  Viennese  cultural  elite,  Swarowsky,  then  67,  piped  up  with,  “My  wife  

wants  another  child,  but  I  don’t  know  if  I  can  still  do  it!”  Followed  by  a  quick  “Hans,  

sush!”  About  two  years  later,  Swarowsky  was  attending  a  rehearsal  of  Beethoven’s  

Missa  Solemnis  with  the  Vienna  Philharmonic  conducted  by  Leonard  Bernstein.  They  

were  just  working  on  the  Gloria  of  that  solemn  Mass  when  the  wonderful  news  of  

the  birth  of  his  second  daughter  arrived.  Bernstein  stopped  the  rehearsal  and  said,  

“She  should  be  named  Gloria!”  The  next  day  a  front  page  story  in  Austria’s  largest  

newspaper,  Kurier,  read,  Gloria  Swarowsky  and  related  the  above  incident.  The  

young  lady  was  indeed  named  Gloria,  and  in  Austria  that  merited  front  page  

treatment.  

In  1965  I  also  attended  Swarowsky’s  summer  course  in  Nizza.  (The  Germans  

still  use  the  old  Italian  name  for  the  French  city  of  Nice.  It  is  one  of  those  ironies  of  

history  that  Garibaldi,  unifier  of  modern  Italy,  had  to  agree  to  let  Nizza,  his  

birthplace,  become  a  part  of  France  in  order  to  achieve  his  desired  unification  of  

Italy.)  What  better  way  to  get  a  three  week  vacation  on  the  Riviera?  So,  in  the  

summer  of  ’65  I  headed  south.  The  lectures  were  held  in  Swarwosky’s  elegant  

apartment,  the  rehearsals  in  an  outdoor  shell.  The  two  of  us  from  Vienna    (Lange  

                                                                                                               

3  Christian  Lange  went  into  artist  management,  specializing  in  opera  singers.  His  first  important  client  in  the  early  1970s  was  the  German  baritone  Hermann  Prey.  

and  I)  were  occasionally  taken  along  to  dinner,  partly  because  we  had  a  car,  and  

partly  because  he  wanted  some  company  (his  wife  and  daughter  were  not  with  

him).  The  treat  was  always  on  him,  and  he  took  us  to  delightful  restaurants  which  he  

knew  we  couldn’t  afford.  On  a  balmy  summer  evening  we  were  dining  on  sea  food  at  

an  outdoor  café  on  a  very  narrow  avenue.  I  had  a  view  to  the  cross  street  which  

revealed  a  tall  lady  with  spiked  heels  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  make-­‐up.  We  

speculated  about  her  business  prospects  so  early  in  the  evening.  Dinner  was  

concluded  and  we  went  for  a  constitutional  in  the  soft  Mediterranean  evening.  The  

tall  lady  was  now  conversing  with  a  man  at  least  six  inches  shorter  than  she.  This  

caught  Swarowsky’s  fancy,  and  we  changed  direction.  The  couple  continued  talking.  

As  we  passed  them  Swarowsky  bellowed  “Courage,  Monsieur,  courage!”  The  little  

man  turned  pale.  We  did  not  look  back  for  fear  of  exposing  our  suppressed  laughter.  

But  when  we  could  no  longer  resist  and  did  look,  the  poor  fellow  was  walking  alone.  

One  wonderful  azure  August  afternoon  in  Nice,  with  no  classes  in  sight  and  

the  beach  beckoning,  I  was  asked  to  come  to  Swarowsky’s  apartment.  He  was  

preparing  for  a  concert  the  following  spring  in  Vienna,  which  included  Britten’s  

Spring  Symphony  for  chorus,  soloists  and  orchestra.  No  German  translation  existed,  

and  this  was  the  task  he  was  now  undertaking.  As  a  native  English  speaker  I  was  

able  to  help  with  some  older,  arcane  usages.  A  sensitive  musician  with  a  great  

literary  bent,  he  was  always  particularly  pleased  when  he  turned  a  felicitous  phrase  

which  kept  the  exact  rhythm,  the  spirit  of  the  poem,  and  the  syllabic  structure.  His  

version  of  “Spring,  oh  jump,  spring,”  was  rendered  as  “Spring,  oh  Lenz,  Spring.”  Lenz  

is  an  old  German  word  for  springtime,  and  Spring  means  jump.  He  was  able  to  keep  

not  only  the  meter  and  meaning  the  same,  but  the  sound  of  the  opening  word  as  

well.  It  made  for  a  very  effective  performance  nine  months  later.  

That  was  not  Swarowsky’s  first  venture  at  translating  musical  settings  into  

German.  In  1939  while  working  on  the  first  draft  of  their  opera  Capriccio,  Richard  

Strauss  and  his  librettist,  the  eminent  Austrian  conductor  Clemens  Kraus,  invited  

Swarowsky  to  participate  in  this  creative  act.  At  their  request  Swarowsky  did  a  

study  of  16th  century  French  love  poems,  which  led  to  his  adaptation  into  German  of  

a  sonnet  by  Ronsard  (1515  –  1585),  which  is  a  crucial  element  in  the  opera.  

Though  Swarowsky  was  forbidden  to  conduct  during  the  Third  Reich,  Kraus  

was  able  to  bring  him  to  the  Munich  opera  in  1940  as  Chief  Dramaturg  and  

translator  of  Italian  operas.  Operas  had  always  been  done  in  German  even  at  the  

major  opera  houses.  (This  is  no  longer  the  case.)  His  translations  were  so  much  

more  musical  and  poetic  than  those  then  in  print,  that  when  the  Italian  publisher  G.  

Ricordi  decided  to  bring  out  a  new  edition  of  some  of  the  Puccini  and  Verdi  operas,  

it  was  Swarowsky’s  sensitive  renderings  which  became  the  official  published  

versions.  

Publishers  usually  save  themselves  the  expense  of  preparing  full  scores  for  

operettas,  the  instrumentation  being  rather  conventional.  The  conductor  is  forced  to  

use  a  piano-­‐vocal  score  (a  reduction),  which  contains  the  barest  indications  of  what  

instrument  plays  which  passage.  The  publisher  Ernst  Eulenburg  decided  to  bring  

out  a  full  score  of  the  world’s  most  beloved  operetta,  Die  Fledermaus,  and  turned  to  

Swarowsky.  He  edited  the  score  from  the  manuscript  and  sketches.  He  enlisted  my  

services  to  make  neat  copies  of  several  previously  unpublished  pages.  

The  Music  Academy  made  an  effort  to  help  push  its  seniors  onto  their  career  

paths.  In  my  last  year  two  public  performances  were  provided.  The  first,  in  

December,  was  with  the  student  orchestra,  student  soloists  and  five  student  

conductors.  Then  in  June  we  were  given  a  concert  with  a  professional  ensemble,  the  

Tonkünstler  Orchestra,  with  purely  orchestral  works  (no  soloists  involved).  These  

concerts  were  well  attended,  including  the  musical  elite  and  the  press,  for  everyone  

was  eager  to  see  Swarowsky’s  latest  taken  through  their  paces.  One  review  of  the  

December  concert  was  headlined  “In  search  of  a  new  Toscanini,”  and  a  direct  result  

of  that  performance  was  my  first  concert  with  the  Vienna  Chamber  Orchestra  the  

following  season.  

We  had  not  heard  of  it  happening  before,  but  my  graduating  class  (all  six  of  

us)  decided  to  give  Swarowsky  a  gift.  We  thought  about  books,  facsimiles  of  

manuscripts,  but  realized  we  did  not  know  what  he  already  possessed.  So,  a  

colleague  call  Mrs.  Swarowsky,  who  very  sweetly  said  that  “With  his  enormous  

library  he  already  has  all  of  those  things.  There  is  really  nothing  you  can  give  him.  

He  just  likes  to  be  with  you.”  The  light  went  on.  We  would  take  them  out  to  dinner:  

the  Herr  Professor,  his  wife  Doris  and  five  year  old  Danielle.  This  happened  one  

Sunday  evening.  Divided  amongst  the  six  of  us,  we  thought  we  could  handle  the  tab.  

It  was  a  lovely  evening;  the  Swarowsky’s,  and  the  international  graduates  –  two  

Austrians,  two  Germans,  one  Russian  and  one  American.  When  it  was  time  for  the  

gathering  to  break  up,  Onkel  Hans  not  only  took  care  of  the  bill,  he  insisted  that  we  

stay  longer  and  had  more  wine  sent  to  our  table.  But  a  few  liters  of  wine  won’t  last  

too  long  when  pitted  against  six  young  men.  So  we  moved  on  to  another  

establishment  which  served  up  a  rather  vile  potion,  sending  us  home  earlier  than  

anticipated.  The  next  morning  we  carried  our  enlarged  heads  to  class,  and  

Swarowsky  joked  about  the  effects  of  bad  wine.  

In  early  July  of  1967,  after  graduating  from  the  Academy,  I  obtained  my  first  

professional  engagement  as  assistant  conductor  of  a  Viennese  production  of  Lehar’s  

The  Land  of  Smiles  starring  Giuseppe  die  Stefano.  We  were  about  to  depart  for  a  

three-­‐month  tour  of  the  U.S.  and  Canada.  Swarowsky  wanted  to  hear  all  about  it  and  

invited  me  to  his  apartment  one  morning.  All  of  the  furniture  was  covered  and  the  

rest  of  the  family  had  already  departed  for  their  holiday.  So  we  went  for  a  walk,  

enabling  him  to  do  some  last  minute  shopping  while  we  chatted.  We  discussed  

Lehar,  a  Clementi  symphony  I  was  to  do  in  the  fall,  and  Swarwosky’s  plans,  until  we  

came  to  an  expensive  gift  shop.  He  purchased  a  baby  gift  for  a  friend’s  new  

grandchild,  gave  the  clerk  the  address,  and  on  the  card  wrote  the  family’s  former  

noble  titles,  while  discoursing  at  length  on  who  was  the  former  Baron  So-­‐and-­‐so.  

Our  walk  continued,  and  as  we  passed  the  playground  of  an  elegant  old  apartment  

building  he  said,  “I  spent  most  of  my  childhood  there,”  hardly  three  blocks  from  his  

current  residence.  

As  we  turned  a  corner  Swarowsky  pointed  up  to  the  second  floor  of  a  

building  and  said,  “From  that  apartment  they  had  to  forcibly  remove  poor  Hugo  

Wolf  in  a  straitjacket.”  In  Austria  buildings  formerly  occupied  by  famous  musicians  

and  poets  have  signs  of  bright  white  and  red  metal  (the  national  colors)  with  

appropriate  names  and  dates.  There  was  no  bright  sign  to  commemorate  that  dark  

event.  

Later  that  summer  my  Lehar  tour  reached  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  we  were  all  

invited  to  a  reception  at  the  Austrian  embassy.  To  my  surprise,  who  was  in  the  

greeting  line  to  give  me  a  bear  hug?  Onkel  Hans.  He  had  been  invited  to  take  over  a  

conducting  course  sponsored  by  the  American  Symphony  Orchestra  League  at  

Orkey  Springs,  VA,  when  his  good  friend  Richard  Lert  became  ill.  At  its  conclusion  he  

stayed  several  days  longer  just  to  see  me.  

In  January  1967  Swarowsky  was  to  guest  conduct  the  Los  Angeles  

Philharmonic.  As  I  hadn’t  been  home  in  years,  and  my  mother  was  ill,  I  also  flew  to  

Los  Angeles  that  month.  After  attending  to  family  duties  and  visiting  old  friends  I  

drove  Swarowsky  around  town:  to  rehearsals,  performances,  used  book  stores,  and  

to  visit  my  family.  My  parents  were  fine,  unpretentious  people,  who  were  proud  that  

I  was  studying  in  Vienna.  That  my  teacher  was  invited  to  guest  conduct  here  was  

very  impressive  to  them.  They  had  never  met  anyone  so  famous  before.  That  

afternoon  I  even  coerced  my  brother  to  leave  work  early  for  this  event.  My  parents  

came  to  the  door  to  receive  us,  my  mother  slightly  embarrassed  to  be  wearing  a  

dressing  gown,  as  she  had  only  been  out  of  the  hospital  a  few  days.  And  when  he  

kissed  her  hand  in  the  old  Austrian  manner,  she  was  so  overcome  she  hardly  said  

another  word  for  the  duration  of  the  visit.  My  father  remained  his  natural,  unruffled  

self,  engaging  in  casual  conversation,  in  which  my  brother  also  participated.  I  

deliberately  spoke  a  bit  of  German  with  Swarowsky  so  that  my  family  could  hear  me  

converse  in  a  foreign  language  (they  beamed  with  pleasure).  Swarowsky  gently  

suggested  that  it  might  be  nicer  to  speak  English,  but  I  explained  my  ploy  and  he  

went  along.  About  a  year  later  when  I  told  him  that  my  mother  had  passed  away,  he  

was  very  saddened  and  said,  “You  know,  I  told  more  people  about  that  little  20  

minute  visit  with  your  family.  Such  sincere,  genuine  people.  I  was  really  touched  by  

them.”  Five  years  later,  when  I  wrote  to  him  of  my  father’s  passing,  he  sent  his  

condolences  and  mentioned  that  his  mother  had  recently  died  (she  was  about  18  

when  he  was  born).  “I  miss  her  more  than  if  she  had  died  long  ago,  because  I’ve  had  

her  all  my  life.”    

Hans  Swarowsky  was  a  complex  man  whose  lifetime  spanned  a  troubled  but  

fascinating  period,  from  fin-­de-­siècle  Vienna  to  the  post  avant  garde.  He  was  

involved  with  an  overwhelming  number  of  artists  and  intellectuals  who  left  their  

stamp  on  him,  and  he,  in  his  turn,  as  an  excellent  teacher,  left  an  enormous  stamp  on  

succeeding  generations.  He  was  not  a  creator,  a  composer.  He  preferred  to  think  of  

himself  neither  as  a  re-­‐creator  nor  interpreter,  but  rather  as  a  servant  of  the  

composer.  He  considered  it  superficial  to  produce  music  merely  in  terms  of  one’s  

own  temperament  and  idiosyncrasies.  For  him  the  only  valid  task  was  to  bring  to  life  

someone  else’s  spirit,  namely  the  composer’s.