I recently came across a small
book entitled Homage to Sir Henry Wood. This had been published in 1944 as a ‘world
symposium’ by the London Philharmonic Orchestra to commemorate the great conductor’s
75th birthday. Alas he was to die a few months after this celebration. A number of eminent musicians contributed to
this volume including Ernest Ansermet, Leopold Stokowski, Alan Bush, RVW and
Harriet Cohen. Bax’s tribute is particularly
attractive. No commentary is required.
" ... A physical giant"
The very first time that I saw Henry J. Wood was in 1896, when as a small boy I
was taken to a Promenade Concert, by an aunt. We arrived late, just as the
violins began that Tannhauser
Overture figure in the slow movement of Mozart's G Minor symphony.
Not unnaturally I cannot remember
any of the rest of the programme. To my juvenile eyes the Queen's Hall was a vast
bewilderment and the imposingly black-bearded conductor a physical giant.
Two years later I stole off alone
from Hampstead to attend my earliest symphony concert. Though still super-human
the conductor's stature had slightly diminished. Sir Henry has always seemed a
little touched that I recall my first hearing on that occasion of Brahm's Third
Symphony in a programme concluding with the ‘Prelude and Liebestod’ [Tristan
& Isolde]. I had never yet heard this adored work either, but dared not
stay for it for fear of reprimand at home. (I was supposed to have gone with my
brother and tutor to a Memorial Exhibition of the paintings of the recently
dead Burne-Jones.)
In September, 1910, I was
summoned to a preliminary run-through on the piano of ‘n the Faery Hills’, the
first piece of mine to be performed under Wood's direction. I knocked at his
door in considerable trepidation, but was quickly relieved when he bustled into
the music room-quite normally life-sized-and proved kindness itself. Ever since
that morning he has been my fast friend, has conducted most of my orchestral
works and given the first performance of many of them-always with the same
sympathy and quick appreciation of the essentials of the score.
Perhaps I may boast of being the
only composer who has ever played lawn tennis with Sir Henry. I must
confess-and he is unlikely to put in a counter-claim-that his dexterity with
the racquet was scarcely on a par with his skill with the baton. But, he
brought plenty of zest to the game, even though he often seemed vague as to the
court in which he should be standing.
I hope that someone else will
write fully of his delightful paintings of the Alps and Grampians.
Arnold Bax Homage to Sir Henry Wood, 1944
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