SOME REMINISENCES OF ARNOLD BAX

by Tilly Fleischmann

THE SIR ARNOLD BAX WEB SITE



Last Modified September 1, 2000

Arnold Bax in Cork with Aloys Fleischmann (Senior) who was married to Tilly Fleischmann

Note on Tilly Fleischmann (1882-1967)

The following account of Arnold Bax’s visits to Cork in the Republic of Ireland was written in 1955. The author, Tilly Fleischmann, pianist and teacher, was born in Cork on 2 April 1882 to German parents. Her father, Hans Conrad Swertz, had come to Cork from Dachau in 1879 to take up a position as church organist. Tilly studied the piano in Munich at the Royal Academy of Music from 1901 to 1905 with Bernhard Stavenhagen and Berthold Kellermann, both pupils and associates of Franz Liszt. In 1906 she married Aloys Fleischmann, a church musician and composer from Dachau who had studied with Joseph Rheinberger, whom she brought to Cork to succeed her father as cathedral organist and choirmaster. They both worked in Cork until the 1960s. Aloys Fleischmann senior died on 3 January 1964, Tilly on 17 October 1967, teaching until the day of her death at 85.

Their son Aloys studied music at University College Cork and in Munich from 1932–1934 under Joseph Haas. He became professor of music in Cork, where he taught from 1934 to 1980. He was a composer, conductor, founder of the Cork International Choral Festival, and an authority on Irish traditional music. Just before his death in 1992, he completed his monumental Sources of Irish Traditional Music, which was published in New York in 1998.



Tilly Fleischmann’s book Tradition and Craft in Piano-Playing, completed around 1952 and dedicated to Sir Arnold, was finally published in full in May 2014 by Carysfort Press, Dublin. It is also on the web site of the Bavarian State Library:

https://www.vifamusik.de/index.php?id=207&L=1



SOME REMINISCENCES OF ARNOLD BAX

and how he came to Cork

by Tilly Fleischmann

One day in 1917, J. J. O’Connor, nicknamed the “Great J. J.” owing to a pompous and officious manner, came to see me in a state of great excitement. His first words were: “You often said to me that Irish people expect a Chopin or Grieg to fall from the skies, that it took years and successive precursors before the ground was really ripe for a genius. Well, this time you are mistaken. A star has fallen from heaven – an Irish genius – Dermot O’Byrne.” He told me in an awe-struck voice that Dermot O’Byrne, a “spoiled” priest from Maynooth, was writing music under the pseudonym of Arnold Bax, that he had written seditious poetry after the Rising in 1916 and “that of course the works of a rebel would never be performed in England”. This was the first time I heard Arnold’s name. I wrote to a London publisher, who sent me songs and piano music.



From that time onwards my husband and I procured as much of his work as could be got, and we followed his career with ever increasing interest and enthusiasm. Ten years later, in 1927, a meeting was held of the Father Matthew Feis [music festival] Committee of which I was a member. Rev Father Michael (OFM) presided. We were discussing adjudicators for 1928. Father Michael suggested Sir Edward Elgar, Sir Henry Wood and various other outstanding English musicians. I was appalled at the idea – orchestral and chamber music were practically non-existent in Cork at the time. “It is a wonder, Father Michael” said I “that you don’t write to Arnold Bax.” “Who’s he?” said Father Michael. I told him. “And where does he live?” I said I didn’t know but I thought it was in London. Well, we had a good laugh, I’m afraid rather at Father Michael’s expense – but in which he joined merrily. The meeting was adjourned for a fortnight, Father Michael saying in his light-hearted manner on leaving, “You had better all make up your minds by then as to whom you are bringing over.”



About a week later I met him sauntering down the South Mall (Arnold used to say that “Father Michael always walked as if in a meadow, kicking the daisies before his feet.”) “He’s coming.” said he in great glee. “Who?” said I. “Arnold Bax, of course. I just wrote ‘Arnold Bax, London’, and he got my letter!” I got a shock and was very annoyed too. “Well, Father”, I said, “I never thought you would have the courage to write to him or that he would have the humility to come.” “Oh” said Father Michael cheerfully “he is delighted to come. Read his letter.” I read it there and then. It was certainly a charming, warm-hearted letter saying how much pleasure he would have in coming and that from now on he would be looking forward to his visit to Cork.

He came to adjudicate for the Feis for three successive years, during which time we all got to know him intimately. And he was a regular visitor, staying with us or with my son, Aloys Og, every year, (except 1939-47 when he didn’t leave England) until 1953. It was a friendship of twenty-five years. Strange to say, Father Michael was the first to greet him when he arrived in Cork, on the “Innisfallen”, in 1928 and was the last to leave his grave in 1953.

SOME CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS
Arnold had an extraordinary memory for people and Irish place names in particular. If we were visiting some place he had not seen before he would ask Aloys Og for its name and English translation. Incidentally I became interested myself, and on hearing them thought that these lovely poetical Irish place names were still a living story of romantic Ireland, alas now dead and gone. He liked playing with words too, and making a good pun when the fancy took him.



Arnold had a particularly soft spot in his heart for the simple folk of the countryside and, though he was usually reticent and aloof with other people, he would sit on the sea wall opposite our cottage in Oysterhaven and enter into conversation with any fisherman or peasant passing by.

He had a fine sense of humour, and I think he enjoyed the trips we made in Aloys Og’s ramshackle old car – which had been purchased for 25 pounds – more than when we were travelling in a grand comfortable Austin! When we got stuck going up a hill, which happened often, we would all get out, Arnold included, and push her up.
Another trait in him was his disregard for his personal safety. Once coming down a long incline from Wilton to the Western Road, we got a terrible bump. The car had hit the kerb stone. Arnold was sitting next to the driver, always his favourite place. Looking at him he announced simply to us at the back, “He’s asleep”. And so he was. He had been driving all night from a funeral in West Cork, and couldn’t keep himself awake.

On another occasion at Oysterhaven, Aloys Og took Arnold and myself in a small punt over a wall in the estuary. It could only be passed over if there was a high full tide. The water then flowed into the fields, which were a maze of small channels containing mullet and with all kinds of seabirds and wild flowers on its banks. It was fascinating to paddle along the rivulets, with the oars on the bank at each side. But one had to watch when the waters began to ebb. Arnold and Aloys Og were so engrossed in chasing the mullet and enjoying themselves that they didn’t notice the waters receding – the tide flows out very quickly, much more rapidly than coming in. We just barely got over the ditch without capsizing the punt into ten feet of water below. I said to Aloys: “You really ought to be more careful. If anything happens to Arnold, England will declare war on Ireland.” Upon which Arnold made a bitter and rather caustic remark. It made me think of a passage in a letter to E. J. Moeran in which he wrote that “37 copies of Arnold’s published works, including full orchestral scores and chamber music, have been stolen from the public library at Nottingham. We all wonder who is the burglar with a taste for modern music. Arnold says it is the greatest compliment he has ever received.” And again of my teacher Stavenhagen of the Munich Royal Academy of Music telling us that when somebody said to Liszt how they deplored the neglect of his music at concerts etc, he simply said “Ich kann warten” (I can wait.)

GOUGANE BARRA AND ST SENAN’S ON THE SHANNON
With all Arnold’s outward realism and agnosticism pertaining to religion, he had a peculiar love for anything mystical or deeply religious. And although he seldom revealed it, when he did so he was as simple as a child. On one occasion in 1928 Aloys Og and I took him to Gougane Barra. On the way we whetted his appetite by telling him of the marvellous hotel where one ordered trout on arrival which was then fished from the lake and cooked for tea. After we had waited over an hour for the feast, a girl appeared with the tea and one plate, which contained two small little fishes that looked like sprats. She apologised, saying that they were unable to catch anything bigger that evening. However all this added to the fun of the day, and we ordered a substantial meal of bacon and eggs.

Having finished our tea we set forth to visit St Finbar’s monastery on the lake. Arnold was enchanted with it and we stayed there for some time. Before leaving the little island I went to the Holy well, dipped my fingers into it and sprinkled the others with the holy water. All turned to go back to the car with the exception of Arnold. He took off his hat and stretched out his arms without saying anything. I reached into the well again and made the sign of the cross with the water on his hands. He put on his hat and returned silent to the car. Later on in 1929 he told me that he had just been finishing his Third Symphony and he thought it must have been the holy water that helped him.



Years afterwards, I think it was 1932, we were guests at Lord Monteagle’s seat, Mount Trenchard in Foynes, Co Limerick. One lovely sunny day Lord Monteagle took Arnold, Mr and Mrs Norman, Aloys, Aloys Og and myself in his motor launch down the Shannon to visit St Senan’s grave. I must confess that when we landed on the little island, we were shocked to see the neglect of the place. All fences around the holy well were broken and flattened on the ground. The place was covered with nettles, and cows and goats had been drinking there.
We had brought picnic baskets intending to have luncheon on the island. Scarcely were we seated and the baskets on the point of being opened, when Lord Monteagle walked quickly up to us. He had been studying the sky and river and said: “We must return at once”. A storm was approaching and one never knew what might happen on the river. Already drops of rain were falling and the place, all sunshine a few moments ago, now looked grey and threatening.

We got up quickly to get into the launch and in the hurry and confusion I forgot all about the Holy Well. All were in the boat again including myself with one exception: Arnold. He remained standing at the well. “Tilly,” he said, “you have forgotten the holy water.” He took off his hat as at Gougane Barra and held out his hands in the same reverent childlike manner.



When we were half way home to Foynes, the storm grew violent. The waves were actually two to three feet high. Had we not all been wrapped up in oilskins, which Lord Monteagle evidently always kept in his launch, we would have been drenched to the skin. None of us thought that such an innocent looking river could behave like the sea.



THE GOAT’S PASS, SHEEP’S HEAD (Fourth Symphony)
In 1937, five of us, Father Pat, Arnold, Anne Crowley, Aloys and I were driving up the Goat’s Pass at Sheep’s Head, a long and steep hill at one of the furthermost ends of the Irish coast. Arnold suddenly became uneasy and kept looking at his watch. It was about 7.30. Sir Henry Wood was performing Arnold’s Fourth Symphony for the first time at 8 o’clock, and would be “very annoyed if I didn’t listen in.” We had no wireless with us at the time, and didn’t see the BBC programmes. Arnold rarely if ever spoke about his own music; we hadn’t known that a work of his was on that night.



We put on as much speed as we could, and came down at the other side of the hill on to a straight road, and entered the little village of Ahakista. There was no wireless in the village “pub” nor in any of the houses where we enquired. Suddenly Father Pat had a brainwave. About a mile further on was the curate’s house. He knew him, and knew that he had a wireless. As it was a misty night in late August it was already dusk when we arrived. We left the car at the entrance, and walked as quickly as we could up a long dark avenue overshadowed by trees. There was no light or smoke from the house. The priest was away on holidays! Father Pat and Anne climbed in the sitting room window, the only one that was open. They went round into the hall and opened the door for the rest of us to come in. Then Father Pat fumbled in the dark until he had found the wireless. He turned the knob, and the first sound to emerge was the first chord of Arnold’s symphony!



During the slow movement footsteps were heard along the hall. The sitting room door was opened cautiously and somebody peeped in. We were all sitting around motionless, and as our clothing was dark, we must have looked like ghosts. Father Pat stood up quickly but noiselessly and waved his two long arms towards the figure in the doorway signifying it to go away. The door closed quietly.



After the last chord of the symphony had been played we broke the silence and talked. Suddenly the room was flooded with light. Somebody had switched on the light from outside. The door opened and in came a middle-aged woman with a tea-tray: lovely hot buttered scones and rich cake. She looked frightened and bewildered. Father Pat told her our story, which she understood and appreciated. The curate was away in France but she, his housekeeper, was living in the house.



Before leaving, I went into the kitchen to apologise for our intrusion and to thank her for the lovely tea. I said she must have got a fright when she saw people sitting around in the dark. She told me she had gone out to visit a neighbour and on her return was surprised to “see an abandoned car at the foot of the avenue”. She had got “a bit of a shock”. It reminded her of those `Black and Tan’ days of the Troubles. When she looked in through the sitting room door her nerves “nearly went”. She didn’t know whether we were living or dead spirits. Next to the sitting room there was a little Sacred Heart oratory. She went in and said a prayer. Then she made up her mind to become active. She would make scones and tea and the minute she heard a voice she would bring in the tray to the living or the dead.



Arnold spoke to Sir Henry Wood the next day telling him the story adding “this could happen nowhere but here”. He got a postcard in return saying Sir Henry was so glad Arnold had heard the symphony, which he thought went very well but that he was surprised to hear that Arnold had taken to burgling houses whilst in Ireland.

MIZEN HEAD LIGHTHOUSE

On one occasion in 1929, our friend J. J. Horgan drove Arnold, Mary Horgan, Aloys, Aloys Og and myself to Mizen Head. We left the car a good bit further back and walked to where the suspension bridge is linked with the lighthouse on the other side. (We had all just read “The Bridge of San Luis Rey”). As soon as Arnold came near he turned back and left us, Aloys Og following him. Arnold could never bear heights of any kind. Nobody would cross the bridge except myself. I stepped along gaily but half way over I looked down. My heart nearly stopped beating. There was a terrible chasm beneath with foam slashing waters and on the right side the precipitous cliffs looked black and frightening. Having gone so far I couldn’t turn back. I simply ran to the other side without looking towards the right or left. Having got there I quickly crossed myself and thought: if you hesitate now you won’t have the courage to go back at all. So I half closed my eyes, and raced over the bridge as quickly as my feet could carry me. I was greeted by the others with icy chilliness. Nobody said anything but my good husband’s eyes looked daggers. We sauntered back to the car and on the way looked over the cliffs. Down below a huge monster was swimming in the water quite close to the rocks. He was about eight feet long and had his mouth wide open. The sun was shining on the water and his mouth looked like a big white basin. It never closed. A fisherman passing by said it was a tiger shark. None of us had ever seen one before. He had yellow stripes on his back, hence the name. He followed us all the way along to the car close under the cliffs. A horrid monster and somehow an uncanny sequel to our visit to the Mizen Head lighthouse. Afterwards John drove us to Crookhaven, a picturesque little village, where we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves wandering about, and watching tanks full of lobster and crayfish.

ILLNACULLEN – GARNISH ISLAND May 1st 1930
On a lovely May day the singer Maura O’Connor drove Arnold. Aloys, Aloys Og and myself to Glengarriffe. Having crossed from there to Garnish in a little boat, we walked through the island to the other end where there was a grove of pine and fir trees. We sat down on the grass, which was exceedingly dry. There had been an unusual summer-like spring. Arnold and Aloys smoked their pipes and Maura lit a cigarette.
After some time I noticed a little puff of smoke issuing from the grass about two feet away. A few minutes later another little white puff, this time at a distance of about three feet. I became interested, and watched closely, not thinking of any danger. Suddenly a small flame shot up. I got to my feet and said: “The grass is on fire!” By this time, however, little flames were popping up all round. I ran away as fast as I could shouting: “Help, help, fire!” Fortunately I came across a gardener, who came running back with me. Terror! The whole place was ablaze.

The gardener shouted and called men, who came running up to where we were. There was a huge stack of dry boughs and thick pieces of wood nearby. We all, Arnold included, started beating the flames with sticks. Now a fir tree caught fire and it looked hopeless. The guests in the hotel at Glengarriffe had seen the fire by this time and boat after boat came over to help. Finally we conquered the fire but not before about ten lovely fir trees had been destroyed. Gradually everyone went away and we stood there speechless. I said we should go and see Mrs Bryce immediately and inform her of the dreadful happening. Arnold was as white as a sheet and terribly upset. Just then we saw two rather masculine ladies approaching. One, Mrs Bryce, called out before she was even near us, “Who set fire to this place? Do you not know that smoking is prohibited on the island?” We hadn’t known. I went over to them and told them that we hadn’t the faintest idea how it happened. She said, pointing to Arnold: “Who is that man over there?” – poor Arnold looked so guilty. I said: “He is Arnold Bax, our guest” . The other lady, who had not spoken up to now, said: “Surely not Arnold Bax the composer?” I answered in the affirmative. “Oh” she said, full of enthusiasm, “please introduce me to him. I heard his Third Symphony some months ago. It was simply marvellous.” So I brought Arnold over to her, but he had not yet recovered his speech and just muttered something. After some conversation Mrs Bryce invited us all to tea. But we were too upset, and gratefully declined. We went back to our car at Glengarriffe.

To this day we really don’t know how it happened. Arnold said he thought it might have been when he was knocking the ashes out of his pipe on a little stone near where we were sitting that the grass first took fire. Actually we were very lucky. If I had not run away that time the whole grove might have been burnt out and perhaps the huts near it as well. They were full of dry wood.

Some days later a headline appeared in an English newspaper: “Labour Day, May 1st. Clifford Bax sets fire to Garnish Island”. Clifford Bax was raging and wrote an indignant letter to Arnold asking him what was the meaning of this shocking affair. Evidently some English guest at the hotel had written to the newspaper mistaking Arnold for his brother, the famous author. On my return home, I wrote a letter of apology to Mrs Bryce, saying how terribly grieved we all were at what had happened, and offered to compensate her for the trees. She wrote a nice letter in return refusing my offer but caustically remarking “that one could not compensate for trees of fourteen years growth”. Years later we revisited the spot with Arnold, but somehow the old distress made itself manifest, and we left rather quickly. The black and charred appearance was gone – but so too were many lovely trees.



DINGLE PENINSULA (Nonet)
In the late Autumn of 1938, Arnold, Aloys, Aloys Og and I were motoring with Arnold in the kingdom of Kerry. This time he told us early in the afternoon that he would like to hear the first broadcast performance of his Nonet. He was doubtful whether we could get any reception “so far west”. We arranged to be back in time. As far as I can remember the broadcast was at 9.30 pm. On our return journey, however, we lost our way and had no notion of where we were. It began to rain. The night became dark and stormy and it poured in torrents. After driving about for some time in and out of laneways that led to nowhere we saw lights shining through the trees at the end of an avenue. We drove up to the house and I rang the bell, (with fear and trepidation, I must confess). After some minutes a maid opened the door and I enquired if I might see the lady of the house. At that moment she came down the stairs. I told her our story. She invited us all in, but not without an air of uneasiness. And no wonder. We were all carelessly dressed and it was just not the time for a visit from complete strangers, the rain and the storm adding to the queer situation.



We were taken to the library, where there was a crystal set with earphones. As with the Fourth Symphony, we were just in time. The transmission could not have been better. It was as if the nine players were in the room. The atmosphere outside had evidently something to do with it. And what a lovely work it was: exquisite lyrical music. Arnold was delighted with the performance. We got up to leave immediately afterwards although the lady was kind enough to offer us food and drink. When we came into the hall two children came running down the stairs in flowing nightdresses with autograph books tucked under their arms. Their mother had evidently told them whose music we were listening in to. A gentleman also appeared: a parson, the lady’s husband, for the house was a rectory. I told him we came from Cork. He said: “Perhaps you know my brother, the Rev Mr Hobson, head teacher at the grammar school.” I said: “Indeed we do. He lives quite near us.” He smiled and said: “When you meet him again greet him for me, and tell him of your adventure.” Which I did, to his great amusement and pleasure.



STAIGUEFORT
Many years ago, I think it was in 1931, Arnold, my husband, Aloys Og and I were motoring in Kerry. En route we stayed at the Staiguefort Hotel near Sneem. We had not been there more than a few hours when a messenger arrived with a letter from the Hon Mrs Broderick (a sister of Lord Middleton) inviting us all to afternoon tea. Arnold hesitated to go, so I did not press him. And of course my husband, who loathes all kinds of parties, was only too delighted to have the excuse of having to keep Arnold company. So Aloys Og and I sauntered forth alone. When we arrived at the hospital – a huge rather ugly structure, which Miss Broderick had built for wounded soldiers in 1914 – the big gate that led right into the kitchen was open. A long table surrounded by wooden chairs was set for tea. On it there were large mugs without handles, evidently some kind of Irish pottery; also wooden platters with lovely white and brown home-made bread.



There was no sign of our hostess or of anyone. We began to feel slightly embarrassed and wondered what we should do. We saw no bell or knocker anywhere. However after a little while our hostess appeared through a door in the kitchen and welcomed us very warmly indeed. She was dressed in the costume of a Princess Christian nurse and was very charming and simple, as most true aristocrats are. I thought she might have been in her middle fifties.

After a most delicious tea with home-made butter and heather honey Miss Broderick opened a drawer in the table and took out some pamphlets, which she handed us to read. It was Republican anti-treaty literature and written in the most violent language denouncing “traitors, cowards” etc. She mentioned Michael Collins, the “arch-conspirator.” That gallant soldier had been ambushed and shot some time after the conclusion of the Treaty and I had felt terribly sorry for him. I said poor Michael Collins had to accept the Treaty to prevent his people being completely eliminated, and surely to goodness Ireland had suffered enough deaths having lost her noblest and best sons. Also that he probably accepted the Treaty as a stepping stone, hoping that in the years to come partition would be abolished. This brought forth some very heated remarks from Miss Broderick. She said she was greatly surprised to hear me talk like that. She had heard from Mary MacSwiney that I was a great friend of hers and Terence’s – her brother the Lord Mayor of Cork, who had died on hungerstrike in Brixton Prison in 1920 – and that she had thought I was wholeheartedly with the cause. I answered that naturally every Irish woman would have sympathy with the ideals of Ireland’s heroes and martyrs but personally I thought that there was nothing more tragic than fraternal strife and that when peace came I felt relieved. I added that artists seldom take part or interest in politics; that they live principally for their work, that questions of nationality or politics didn’t interest them, that it was the individual and what he stood for that was of importance. After this Miss Broderick took her pamphlets from me and put them back into the drawer. From then onwards the atmosphere was a bit strained.

Suddenly there was a noise of wheels on the gravel outside, and in came a lady with a bicycle who might just have stepped out of Denis Johnston’s play “Moon on the Yellow River”. She was of medium size, and had short clipped hair, wore dark glasses, was dressed in plain tailor-made tweed suit and spoke in a rather loud high-pitched voice, with a pronounced English accent. We were introduced. I don’t remember her name. She took little notice of us, and only spoke to Miss Broderick, who offered her a cup of tea. Shortly afterwards our party broke up, and Miss Broderick accompanied us up the hill outside the hospital. On the right there was a field with a ditch running up the whole way. When looking over there casually, I thought I saw rifles on the ditch. I looked more carefully, and to my amazement six or eight heads appeared on top, and the rifles were pointed at us. I laughed and said to Miss Broderick: “I hope they are not going to shoot us.” “Oh no,” said Miss Broderick seriously, “these men are always on the alert when any strangers appear. It is only a matter of practice for them.”

Returning to the hotel in a rather excited frame of mind, we were glad that Arnold and my husband had not come with us. I heard later that Miss Broderick had “gone native”. Hence the kitchen which served as reception and dining room. The chairs were very comfortable. I cannot remember now if they were the traditional sugan chairs made of woven straw. But the cups were impracticable: one couldn’t drink hot tea without burning one’s fingers. I was told too that Miss Broderick besides being “a great patriot” was the kindest and most charitable person that ever lived among those people. She had a little store near the village where only home made goods were sold: hand knitted woollen articles, mugs, baskets, chairs, every kind of article made by the villagers and people in other parts of Ireland. This gave employment and encouraged people to stay at home. So we left Staiguefort full of admiration for Miss Broderick and felt rather sorry that she should have been so disappointed in us.

AT THE ROCK OF CASHEL
(The following anecdotes illustrate Arnold’s dual personality.)
Once I told him that I could never understand why England didn’t abandon partition, that an all-Irish Republic would stand shoulder to shoulder with her in any trouble. He answered jocosely that “England couldn’t trust Ireland” that the latter might turn round and conquer her. That remark reminded me of an amusing story and I told him how an old priest, Dr Hennebrey, a Celtic scholar, related that when he was dining in New York one day, a waiter serving him at dinner said “In fifty years time England will be Ireland’s coaling station.” I took it as a joke, but to my surprise Arnold seemed both annoyed and upset. He had a dual personality. His loyalty remained with England but his heart was in Ireland.



In 1933 Maura O’Connor took Arnold, my husband and myself to see the Rock of Cashel. I had never been there before and knew nothing of its history. We wandered round the place admiring the Hiberno-Romanesque architecture with the wonderful 10th century Cormac’s chapel, reading the inscriptions on the old tombstones etc. After some time a man came on the scene, I think he must have been an official guide. He spoke to us and gradually unfolded the history of the church. We were all most interested but when he came to the massacre of the women and children within its walls, I noticed Arnold getting very uneasy. In fact it was the only buy soma online mastercard time I ever saw him change colour. Only then did I realise how painful the story was for him. I tried to interrupt the man and put him off the track, but I didn’t succeed and he kept on until he had finished his tale.When we gathered to leave the rock Arnold was missing. We searched for him for nearly an hour. Finally Moira found him in a field a good bit away and in a very agitated and depressed condition. She brought him back to the car, and we drove home talking about everything and anything to distract him but it was useless.
For some days after this episode he didn’t return to his old self. He knew the history of Ireland and in 1916 he felt it was a repetition of what had gone on centuries before. Hence his striking patriotic and fiery poem which he wrote under the name of Dermot O’Byrne beginning with the lines:



O write it up above your hearth
and troll it out to sun and moon
To all true Irishmen on earth
arrest and death comes late or soon.

GHOST STORIES
Arnold loved listening to ghost stories. Anne Crowley told us while we were staying at Vale Cove in 1937 that there was an old man living up in the hills at Borlin, one of the loneliest districts near Glengarriffe, and that he had marvellous stories. He was over eighty years of age, and lived all alone in a little cottage. There wasn’t a living soul anywhere near him. Anne went up to him a few days beforehand to ask him if she might bring us, and if he would tell us some stories. He said he would, provided of course that he was “in the humour for telling them.” She had to tell him who we were, and he said that he wouldn’t open his mouth if he thought we were coming out of curiosity or to make fun of what he had to relate. Anne reassured him of our integrity. So we purchased a bottle of whiskey, tobacco and matches and set out on our journey.



It was a lovely drive right up the mountain. One could see little farms and cottages here and there far away below in the valley. (Poor Jack Moeran liked Borlin better than any place in Kerry). We were all keyed up on entering the cottage. He welcomed us as all these peasants in the west of Ireland do in a dignified, simple, I might even add, royal manner. He didn’t look his age. I would have thought him about 60 years old. Erect in figure with a kindly voice, but with extraordinary penetrating eyes. He spoke in Irish first, and addressed himself to Anne. Then a few words to us in English. We sat around the turf fire where there was a cauldron simmering, hanging from a hook. Arnold spoke a few words to him in Irish, and we did likewise in English. He pulled out an old clay pipe, signifying that Arnold and Aloys should do the same, and lit his pipe with a sod of turf. We waited in suspense. No story. Anne reasoned with him in Irish and in English, so that we could understand. Not a word out of him even after we had helped him to some whiskey. He just made ordinary remarks about the weather, and enquired about some people he and Anne knew. After staying about an hour or so we went home, he sending us away with the warmest farewells in both Irish and English. Anne could never make out why he didn’t talk. He was known to be the best storyteller in that part of Ireland. It was a mystery to her and to us. She saw him a few times in later years but whenever she asked him what had happened to him that night that he wouldn’t tell us “all sympathetic people” his life’s stories, he gave her no answer.



THE HAUNTED PIECE OF MUSIC
One of the nicest and most intelligent pupils I ever had was M – . When she came to me she was married and had three children. All her life she was anxious to study music, but her parents would not allow her to do so, although she loved it more than any of the other arts. She was practically a beginner but her innate love of music combined with a brilliant mind and hard work enabled her to make rapid progress.

After about 5 years of study one day in 1916 she brought me a piece of music – “Threnody” (song of lamentation on a person’s death). It was composed by Ludwig Thuille of Munich. Where she got it I don’t know. Technically and musically it was beyond her but as she was so keen on studying it that I agreed. She told me she wanted to play it as a surprise for an uncle in Birmingham, the only one in her family who encouraged her and of whom she was more fond than of her own parents. This uncle was very musical himself, and a friend of Arthur Nikisch.

There were three movements in the work: Allegro Appassionato, Adagio and Allegro Molto. She got as far as she could with the first movement, and after some weeks she said that she would like to study the Adagio for the next lesson. She didn’t turn up for it owing to a death in the family – that of her uncle! Later on she said she would never play it now: that it would always remind her of him, of how she had been looking forward to his hearing it, and how she would never really recover from the shock and grief of his death. So the piece was laid aside.

Two years afterwards, early in 1918, she brought it to me again, saying she liked it better than anything she had ever studied or heard, and would like to go back and study the first movement. She thought she might be able to play it better now she had acquired more technique.

About a fortnight afterwards she should have played the Adagio for me. She didn’t come, neither did she telephone, an unusual procedure with her. On my enquiry she got agitated, wouldn’t speak about it, and played a Mozart sonata instead. From that time onwards I thought she had changed somewhat towards me, When I asked her about my sister Wally, her answers were curt and rather hard. I must explain here that Wally was the eldest in our family of nine children, and was my favourite sister. Besides having a most angelic character, she was a brilliant scholar, and after studying at University College Cork, Heidelberg, and the Sorbonne was appointed Professor of German in Cork. At the outbreak of the First World War in 1914 she was on holidays with an aunt in Crefeld, Germany. She couldn’t get back to Cork. Sir Bertram Windle, President of the University, would not accept her resignation, which she sent him through the War Office, and he told my mother that if the war lasted ten years he would keep the position open for her.

After the first year of the war, we heard no more. My husband was interned in January 1916, and as all prisoners of war were allowed to correspond with their relatives in Germany he heard from Wally from time to time. After 1918 he ceased mentioning her in his letters to me but he evidently wrote to M about her. I remember going to see M one afternoon in May: I went to her especially to get news of Wally. She left the room abruptly saying she was going into town, and would I come with her. At that time I had a flat in the Western Road (we had to give up our home when my husband was interned). Next day about eleven o’clock after finishing my practising I was going out through the sitting room door when I saw a huge spider, a “Kreuzspinne” with a cross on its back, creeping down the wall and it stopped just near me. I still remember how I shuddered. A few minutes later I saw Mrs Stockley, and Professor Elizabeth Sullivan coming up the garden with a large basket of beautiful roses. When I opened the door – they didn’t have to tell me – I knew poor Wally was dead. For years after I couldn’t bear the sight of roses.

Now comes the strange part of the story. The hour that M took out the Adagio, and was just sitting down to study it her maid brought her a letter from my husband in the POW camp, telling her that Wally had died on the 12th January 1918. He told her on no account whatsoever to let me know until after the church services of the Holy Week were over (I had the Cathedral Choir while he was interned). And that was the cause of M’s strange behaviour. I was always asking her for news of my sister. The day I arrived and she went down to town with me, she went straight to Mrs Stockley at Woodside and told her that she could stand it no longer. Mrs Stockley should break the news to me.

Well, “Threnody” was put aside for the second time until 1920 when one day early in July, to my amazement, she brought it again. This time I didn’t like it. “Oh” she said, “nothing can happen now”. The war is over and Aloys is coming home in September. What a surprise he will get when I play for him!” So she started the Adagio for the third time, and came to play it for me at the following lesson. I shall never forget it. It was as if she had written it herself. She played it in perfect time and rhythm, and with an extraordinary depth of feeling and concentration. I couldn’t make one suggestion. It was incredible for she really was not advanced enough in her playing to play it at all. She was delighted with herself and so was I with her.

We had a “Play Day” as usual the last week of July. M was third on the programme. She had asked me if I would allow her to leave out the other two movements, and play only the Adagio. A strange request – however I agreed. These play days were always held in my home, the pupils waiting below in the sitting room until their turn came.

The music room door was opened, and she came in. She was dressed in a deep red silk afternoon gown. No ornaments of any kind. Her face was as pale as death, but I had never seen her look so beautiful. She looked like someone from another world. And so was her playing. It was not M – it was her spirit – and that was the last time she put her fingers on a piano.

She went to London on a visit to her sister a few days afterwards, in the best of health and spirits. On her return from there she was taken ill and never recovered. She died on November 10th 1920 in her 33rd year. May she rest in peace. After hearing this story Arnold said to me: “You must write that story and call it the ‘Haunted Piece of Music’.” Later he told me he had incorporated the mood into his Sixth Symphony – or was it in his Threnody and Scherzo? – it is so long ago now I forget which.

CHOPIN PRELUDE No 15
This story has no direct connection with Arnold, but he and Jack Moeran were the very first people I told it to. They were very much impressed, and Arnold said it was the most extraordinary and interesting ghost story that he had ever heard, and that I should write it down. Arnold knew Doctor H personally, the latter having driven him to some beauty spots in Kerry in 1930 and judging from the doctor’s character he knew that the story was a true one.

Dr H. was a well known medical practitioner in Cork. He came to study with me when he was well over middle age. He was passionately fond of music, and had been playing all his life, but had never studied music seriously. Owing to his mature mind, deft fingers and artistic temperament he got on remarkably quickly. He was the only professional gentleman in Cork who ever gave a public piano recital. He gave it for the Art Society of the University in 1931. His programme was of Mozart’s Sonata in A (K330) and Chopin’s 24 Preludes. Some years before this event he was studying the Preludes with me. One day he came to his lesson as usual and I told him to bring the 15th Prelude for the next one. I didn’t see him for some weeks, and when he returned to resume his work he brought me No 16. I said: “What about No 15; I haven’t heard that yet”. He said curtly: “I can’t play it”. I was surprised, and was just going to ask him why, when he interrupted me and said, I thought rather rudely: “I am not going to study it.” It was so unlike him, I couldn’t understand it. However I said no more, although I felt rather annoyed. I would like to say here that Dr H was a quiet self-possessed gentleman, not an emotional, airy or romantic character. Being a surgeon and a scientist in his own particular branch of work (gynaecology) he had his head well on his shoulders, in fact to people who didn’t know him he seemed rather a Philistine. But he was always appreciated as one of Cork’s best and most conscientious doctors.

About two years afterwards we had finished the Preludes, and he was working on a Beethoven sonata, when one day he said he would like to study Prelude No 15 for his recital. I had forgotten the incident in relation to it, but he reminded me of his apparent rudeness and refusal to study it. “Well,” he said, “it is only now that I can tell you the cause of my behaviour. I had a terrible experience and it upset me so much I thought I should never recover from it. But I have and now I will tell you my story.”

“Some years after the first world war, my best friend, of the same age as myself, retired from the Army and bought an estate near Cork, a lovely house with some land and a farm. He came to see me the day he went to live there, and said: “As soon as I am settled down you must come and spend a weekend with me.”

“To my surprise, two days afterwards I got a wire asking me to come and see him at once. I thought he might have been taken ill although he always enjoyed rude health, and I had never seen him looking better and happier than when we parted two days before.

“I arrived in time for luncheon and he was delighted to see me. On my enquiry about his health he said he had never felt better. Well, he showed me over the attractive lovely old house. I then said I must be going as they were expecting me at home but he asked me as a great favour to stay for tea, which I did. After tea I got up ready to go, but he implored me to stay for dinner. I looked at him closely but he showed no trace of anxiety or worry of any kind.

“However I stayed for dinner, he enjoying the good food as much as I did. After dinner I said I must really be going now. They would be wondering at home what was keeping me. He begged me to stay a little longer. We spoke about old times when we studied together at Oxford, mutual friends etc etc. It was coming near midnight and I said determinedly that I must go immediately – he implored me to stay and for the first time I noticed that he had become agitated.

“At about half past twelve he came down the broad staircase with me to the hall door. There was a porch outside it with glass windows, flowers and plants. The hall door was open. Half way down the stairs I saw a figure standing in the porch. “My goodness,” I said, “what an hour to have a visitor!” He trembled and pushed me over towards the figure. It was a monk with his cowl over his head. He had his back towards me but he slowly began to turn round. I felt that at that moment if I saw his face and looked into his eyes I was a dead man. So with all my strength of mind and will I grasped my friend by the arm, and rushed him upstairs. We were both in a state of collapse. I looked around for some brandy, and though we were both teetotallers, I made my friend drink some.

“He told me that the first day he spent in the house was a happy and uneventful one. He was busy all day and it was late, long after midnight that he went downstairs to close the hall door. (The porch door was locked much earlier on). He saw a figure standing in the porch and asked him rather indignantly what he was doing there at this time of night. There was no answer but the figure began to turn around slowly. Then he had exactly the same experience as myself. He couldn’t move and felt chilled to the bone.

He rushed back upstairs shivering all over, and couldn’t make out what had happened to him. He never thought of a ghost because he didn’t believe that such existed. He reasoned with himself. Was he overworked or overstrained – was he going mad? So he determined to go down again the same time the next night and see what this was all about. He had the same experience. He was transfixed. He tore himself away without looking at the figure. He felt ill and spent a sleepless night. Next morning he thought perhaps it was all imagination although he could not recall anything like that having ever happened to him before. So he determined to send me a wire, thinking: If H sees nothing, then it must be an overstrained mind.

“I stayed the night with him. Neither of us slept, but when in the morning the sun shone through the windows of the lovely old house, we felt normal again but not cheerful.

“I had to leave after breakfast, as patients were waiting for me in Cork. But I wired as soon as I got there to his brother to come at once, as the matter was an urgent one. He didn’t arrive until the following morning, not being able to get away earlier. Next day at luncheon I received a wire saying that my friend was dead. He was found sitting in an armchair in the drawing-room, fully dressed. At the coroner’s inquest the verdict was “heart attack”. But I knew that that was not the cause. Whether he went down into the hall again or whether the figure appeared in the room, nobody will ever know.

“When you suggested the 15th Prelude you had already told me of its origin when you spoke of the tradition connected with the monks of Valdemosa and I couldn’t bear the thought of playing it.”

Some time ago I met Dr H in town. He told me the house was closed up, and so were all the rooms except a few on the ground floor at the back and that an old rector and his wife lived there. He knew them personally. They had often asked him to come and see them but he couldn’t go within miles of the place. He also told me where the house was and the name of the old couple, but asked me not to disclose either name or place for the present.

THE LAST DAYS
I think that Arnold would not have wished to die anywhere but in Ireland. He had a deep rooted love for the Irish people and their country, and was particularly fond of Cork. A few days before his death he told me he was resigning his position in England, and was coming to live here. A friend of his thought he ought to settle down in Dublin, but he preferred Cork. Dublin had become too cosmopolitan.

There were some strange coincidences in connection with Arnold’s death which I think ought to be written down.

The only people I invited to meet him on his last visit to our home on Thursday 1st October were John and Mary Horgan, Seamus Murphy, the sculptor, Maigread, his wife, and ourselves. Usually on his visits to Cork I assembled three or four times this number of guests to meet him. He was with the Horgans on the day he died, on Saturday 3rd October, and Seamus Murphy made his death mask on Monday 5th October.

On Saturday, Seamus, Maigread, Aloys Og and his wife Anne, my husband and I were to spend the evening at `Lacaduv’ (the Horgan house) on John and Arnold’s return from the Old Head of Kinsale. When we arrived about 8.15 Arnold had already gone `home’. John Horgan told us that on arriving back from Kinsale, Arnold seemed in great form. He enjoyed every minute of his trip to the Old Head and was reminiscing about old times and his friends all the way back. They entered the hall and John was just about to give Arnold a drink when he stood up suddenly from his chair, and said: “Please take me home.” John looked at him and saw that he was trembling, and that a change had come over him. He called to his wife Mary, who was upstairs, to drive Arnold to Glen House, Aloys Og’s home, where Arnold was staying at the time. Aloys and Anne were to come to `Lacaduv’ later in the evening as Aloys had a meeting in town.

Mary was terrified as she thought Arnold might die in the car on the way. She knew that he always suffered from heart trouble. To her amazement on their arrival at Glen House, Arnold stepped out of the car just as usual, and walked quickly up the stairs to his bedroom. Anne suggested sending for the doctor but Arnold would not hear of it. He begged her to wait until morning. But Anne, who had qualified as a physician, felt she should not wait. She telephoned Dr James O’Donovan, who arrived within twenty minutes. After examining Arnold, he told Anne that there was no hope – he had coronary thrombosis and acute pulmonary oedema.

Arnold was half sitting up in bed. He had no pain whatsoever and was very grateful as was his wont for any little attention, saying “Thank you, thank you.” These were his last words. After Dr O’Donovan’s fatal pronouncement Anne and Mary Horgan said the prayers for the dying, Anne going in and out of the room. At 10 o’clock all was over – he just fell asleep. May he rest in peace.

The last of his own music he ever heard was “The Garden of Fand”. Aloys Og gave a `Bax evening’ on Tuesday 29th September with the Radio Eireann Symphony Orchestra in the Phoenix Hall, Dublin, Arnold being present. The programme consisted of “Overture to Adventure”, the “Left-Hand Concertante”, with Harriet Cohen as soloist, and “The Garden of Fand”. (The year before Aloys did Arnold’s Third Symphony, also in his presence). Arnold was very happy that evening and told me how delighted he was with the whole performance. A few hours before his death on the following Saturday he was at the Old Head of Kinsale looking out on to the Atlantic. John Horgan, who drove him there, said he had never seen such a glorious sunset. The whole sky was ablaze with colour of every possible hue. Red, deep orange, yellow and far away on the horizon there was a pale blue mist. Arnold was lost in gazing at it, and John had to take him by the arm gently and remind him that we were all waiting for him at `Lacaduv’

The next day, 4th October, Harriet Cohen, who had arrived from Dublin, gave me some red carnations to put on Arnold’s breast. He was laid out in Bon Secours mortuary in the Western Road. Maura O’Connor, who came from Waterford the moment she heard the sad news, drove me there. I entered with deep sorrow, and with fear too, making up my mind that I wouldn’t look at Arnold but just place the flowers on his breast. But I did look – fortunately. I never saw him look so peaceful and so beautiful in life. He looked thirty years younger and there was a gentle smile on his lips. I beckoned my husband and Maura to come in and see him and said: “We must get a picture of him as he is. I’ll go to Seamus Murphy at once. Perhaps he can make a mask.”

Seamus didn’t return home until 11.30 that night. He told me he had never made a mask but he would try. Early next morning he travelled the town but couldn’t get sufficient material in any shop. Finally as a last hope he went to the Dental Hospital in the north side of the city and asked the man in charge for plaster of Paris. The man, Mr Walsh, hesitated, saying he could not possibly give him so much of it. But when Seamus told him whose mask it was going to be he exclaimed: “Take the whole lot. Take the whole house – I loved his music and always listened in to it, or I heard it on gramophone records whenever I got a chance.” Arnold would have appreciated this. A dental technician of whom none of us had ever heard – an Arnold Bax fan. Certainly an extraordinary coincidence.

It was late on Monday afternoon when Seamus arrived at the mortuary. The good nuns had already coffined poor Arnold. Seamus had to lift him up all by himself. He spent three hours all alone there. He told me he wasn’t nervous, but he kept thinking all the time of Arnold’s music, and said it was the saddest work he had ever had to do.

The mask is good, but not at all like Arnold’s face the day before, when he was laid out flat. The lifting of his body and the changing of the head in the new position had made his features heavier, the chin seemed to have sunken. But still, seen from the side, the left side in particular, the death mask has a contented, serene and beautiful expression.

POSTSCRIPT
The English newspapers and Arnold’s friends were mystified about the place and time of his death. There was no necessity for an inquest as Dr O’Donovan certified his death from natural causes, namely coronary thrombosis. Through one of the coincidences that I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, John Horgan was the city’s coroner, and Dr James O’Donovan, a mutual friend, persuaded the Bon Secours nuns to accept poor Arnold’s body that night. My son was deeply grateful for their action. His children were very young at the time, the eldest of the five being only eleven years old. Their bedrooms were on the same landing and adjacent to Arnold’s room. It would have been a terrifying and unforgettable experience for them to have seen the body. They heard nothing that night and slept soundly. Aloys Og told them next day after luncheon that poor Arnold had been taken seriously ill and had to be brought to the Bon Secours hospital, where he had since died. Ruth, the eldest, wept but Maeve, aged four, clapped her hands in glee. “Oh” she exclaimed, “we can have all his Turkish Delight now. He only gave us some of it yesterday morning.” And this was strange too. Every year he visited us he got a little box of Haji Bey’s Turkish Delight to take back with him to England. He always said: “One can get nothing like that over there.” We used to be amused and believed he thought it was so good because it was made in Cork. He always packed it away carefully on receiving it. This ritual took place for nearly 25 years. But on Saturday morning, the day of his death, he came down to the children, opened the box, and shared it with them. It was as if he knew that he would never return to England.

THE WAYWARD CHILD
After some controversy about music, I once called him “a wayward child”. He must have liked the name because in subsequent letters he frequently signed them “From your wayward child”.

Arnold was always violently anti-German, but in spite of this he was always a staunch and warm friend to us even during the war years. In the early twenties, he wrote a letter to The Sunday Times suggesting that all German music be banned from British programmes and that only English and American music be performed. He told me, quite innocently, that he was surprised how badly this proposal was received and that people he knew were so annoyed that they even went so far as to cut him in the street. He got no followers to pursue his idea and added: “The English composers were the most indignant of all.”

He could never understand why people were so nervous about playing or speaking to him. He himself thought he was “a monster of mildness”. Yet he could be severe in his comments. On hearing a certain band playing, he asked me who the conductor was. “That fellow”, he said, “ought to be imprisoned for life.” Bach was “sewing machine” music. He admired the extraordinary skill of the fugal construction in Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony. Beethoven wrote “two or three original symphonies.” All the others were repetitions of the same ideas. He said it was the same with Beethoven’s piano sonatas: only a few were outstanding. Handel and Brahms were “the ruination of music in England”. Schubert and Schumann he dismissed with a wave of the hand. I asked “What about Schumann’s Piano Concerto?” He hated it. “Pure sugar-water.”

He poked great fun at the performance of Wagner’s operas. Fat men and women who couldn’t embrace one another so large was their girth, and who stood bawling on one spot of the stage for hours in succession. Yet while at Lord Monteagle’s seat, Mount Trenchard, with my family, I heard him play the Prelude to “Tristan” from memory with a sensitiveness and delicacy which one can only get from a first rate orchestra.

Whose music did he appreciate? “Vaughan Williams, the greatest of the English composers, Chopin and Liszt.” I asked him: “Surely not Liszt?” “Yes”, he said, “He was a great pioneer and the father of us all.”

When Vaughan Williams opened the Bax Room in University College Cork in 1955, I told him what Arnold had said about his music. To my great embarrassment he asked me: “And whose music do you like best?” After a moment’s hesitation and dread, I answered: “I think I like Arnold’s music best because he is more romantic.” At which he was all smiles and seemed to like the answer.

(c) Tilly Fleischmann

I gratefully acknowledge the very kind permission of Ruth Fleischmann to post her grandmother’s memoirs on the Sir Arnold Bax Web Site. I would also like to thank my good friend Colin Scott Sutherland who acted as intermediary to make contact with Ruth. You may like to note that Tilly Fleischmann’s book “Aspects of the Liszt Tradition” ed. Michael O’Neill is available from Roberton Publications, The Windmill, Wendover, Aylesbury, Bucks HP22 6JJ (price £12.00). This book represents a selection from a much larger work now in the Archives of the University College, Cork, with the Fleischmann Papers. Rob Barnett