At almost sixty she begins to compose in earnest; the pent-up notes break forth. Four string quartets, the Irish Symphony, a violin and a cello concerto. In 1945 the flight to the Kreuzberg, bombs, Russian troops — and score pages used by soldiers to wrap their shoes.
And now comes the strangest and most interesting chapter of my life. A few years earlier, an inner voice had said to me: “You have not used all the gifts that fate has given you.” The answer was: “I know — but now I am too old.” One does not begin something new at sixty.
That second voice was not to be right, for suddenly the path was cleared and opened for me. Since I had nothing else to do, and could live in great peace with my old Teta and my son, the conditions were perfect for me to write down all the music I had often dreamed of, but never hoped to express. The long‑suppressed tones, melodies, themes, entire works, now broke forth like a flood, and I could hardly write them down fast enough.
First came four string quartets , in which it became immediately evident that the Celtic blood had the upper hand. In one of the quartets I used a well‑known song, the “Londonderry Air,” as the main theme — it runs throughout the whole work in fragments.
But soon I felt the urge to write a larger orchestral work, for I found no difficulty in orchestrating. In certain respects, it was an advantage not to be a pianist, for then I was not tempted to write the music first for piano; instead, I wrote a condensed score straight away, indicating all instruments. I heard each instrument distinctly and always wrote it in its own character, not merely doubling or strengthening others.
Thus, in 1940 , my first symphony , the Irish Symphony , came into being. Since it was wartime, and so many young people were losing their lives, the slow movement became a threnody; the last movement, a set of variations on an Irish folk song. I had the opportunity to show the work to the conductor Hans Weisbach , who spoke very favorably of it and would have proposed it for performance in one of the wartime concerts he conducted — but that was impossible because I was a foreigner. Yet the thought that such a fine musician spoke so kindly of it was a great encouragement to me.
Next came my second violin concerto , which is certainly very playable, but I cannot judge it fully, as I have heard it only with piano and not with orchestra.
Soon afterward, I also wrote a cello concerto , the piano reduction of which Prof. Grüner received and then lost.
I then began to write an Irish folk‑opera — with my own text. That was at the beginning of 1945 , when things were becoming serious here in Austria as well. As the bombs fell around us — into the house next door and opposite, so that we had no windows, no light, gas, or water — we decided it was time to leave Vienna and go to the Kreuzberg in the Semmering region , where I owned a little cottage at 1000 meters altitude.
In 1930 , I had received an inheritance from a distant English cousin — something I had scarcely expected anymore. From that I purchased a parcel of land on the Kreuzberg , above Klamm, which I had long had my eye on. I designed the plan for the cottage myself; it was practical and pretty, and a good builder constructed it exactly as I wished. We were able to move in that same summer. Our Teta, my children, and I spent all our holidays there, even Christmas — always wonderful times. We could never tire of the magnificent surroundings, with views of the Sonnwendstein, and just a few steps down the path, the Rax and the Schneeberg. Many hours I sat on the veranda writing music; time never felt long. Those were happy days for all of us.
But even here the terrible war arrived. When we fled to the mountain in February 1945, things were still quiet for a few months. Then the Russians captured the surrounding area, and we were suddenly in the middle of it. The best solution, we were told, was to move further up the mountain, to the Speckbacher Hut , about an hour’s walk higher. There it was better. We found shelter in a small villa near good farmers, who supplied us with some food. I was able to continue composing my opera “Maureen.”
Then came the order that Marie Stika and I (my son was in Vienna), as foreigners, could not remain in the line of fire, and that we would be taken to Spittal , and from there told to travel west on our own. I will not describe that adventurous journey, for it does not belong here, nor does it concern music.
I had left most of my manuscripts in the villa of Dr. Withalm , the house closest to ours, as she intended to stay no matter what happened. It seemed the safest place. When the Russians later arrived, Dr. Withalm saw them using pages from one of my scores to wrap shoes. I was grateful I did not have to witness it myself.
Amidst the struggle for survival, I could not compose, and many months would pass before that became possible again.
The end of the war found us in Strobl , as guests of dear friends, Count and Countess Paar , in the most beautiful surroundings by the Wolfgangsee . But all the while I longed to return home and to my own work. We were not granted permission until the autumn, and even then it was again an adventurous journey until we finally reached our home in Reisnerstraße .
From “Mein Musikleben” by Mary Dickenson-Auner, 3 October 1963. The text follows the manuscript; the chapter numbering is that of the original.