FROM THE ARCHIVES: The tensions in France following the second World War between those who had supported the Vichy collaborationist regime and those opposed to it flowed into all aspects of life, including music. The controversial pianist Alfred Cortot had been involved in the Vichy administration, although married to a Jew, and was accused of supporting the German occupation. This newspaper's anonymous Paris correspondent described a concert at which the musicians refused to accompany Cortot.
FOR 3s.4d. last Saturday I had an excellent seat for the Cortot concert, which turned out to be such a riot. I went along at 10am to the general rehearsal. This is always public and, according to Parisians, often more frequented by the musical elite than the afternoon performances. The Champs Elysées Theatre – and it is a very big one – was almost full. Everything started off quietly with André Cluytens conducting Bach’s 1st Suite. That over, the conductor retired and the magnificent piano was placed in position for the next item – Schumann’s concerto for piano and orchestra. A few moments later a medium-sized, rather yellow-faced man, with thin, greying hair, walked diffidently towards the front of the stage, bowed and sat down at the piano. Immediately there was the sound of applause, mingled with hissing and booing. Cries of “Vive la Liberté,” “Vive la France,” “Vous avez la memoire courte,” filled the air.
Cortot began to play. The orchestra-players sat, instruments abandoned. People continued to call out. For the first few minutes not one note of what was being played could be heard. The pianist’s hands moved over the keyboard to cries of “taisez-vous” and “sortez” being bandied about between those who wanted to hear, and those who disapproved. Then silence fell. In spite of the tremendous drawback constituted by the lack of the orchestral accompaniment, Cortot won the day, playing magnificently. He was loudly acclaimed, and if one or two still cried “Vive la Liberté,” their voices were drowned by those crying “Vive Cortot,” who only needed to give as encore some exquisitely rendered Chopin to win the crowd completely. He retired triumphant, a melancholy, unhealthy-looking figure.
Then the fun really started. Insults were hurled at the musicians. People cried out for Schumann to be replayed, with the orchestra accompanying. When the conductor came on the stage for the last item, Debussy's La Mer, he lifted his baton amidst roars of disapproval. The orchestra played the first few bars, stopped, started, stopped again. It was useless to continue. First Cluytens left, then the musicians withdrew, some of them standing irresolutely at the exits while the crowd yelled for Schumann, for Cortot, and a few of the more audacious climbed on to the stage to pull back into the centre the piano which had been pushed into one corner. One of the orchestra came forward to explain why they had not played with Cortot. Each time he opened his mouth to speak he was roared down – so, throwing up his arms in anger and despair, he withdrew. Then, when the crowd realised there was no chance of having Cortot and the orchestra together, they started calling for Debussy. By this time it was too late. Some of the audience had already left. The lights were extinguished and, reluctantly, everyone had to clear out.
The same concert was given on that afternoon and the one following. At each performance there was an uproar – on Saturday afternoon because the Debussy number was played second and people were afraid Cortot was not to play at all, but he did play; on Sunday afternoon the audience was not favourable to him, and it was impossible to hear most of what he played. He continued, however, to the end.