Homecoming

Back in familiar surroundings, the flow of music began within me anew. First came two larger works: the “Our Father” for choir, solo voices, and organ, and immediately afterward the Second Symphony .

From 1920 to 1938 I had played and heard much new and atonal music. But although it interested me, it did not satisfy me. When I began serious composition in 1940 , I decided to follow a different path. The old triad‑based music no longer enticed me, and I thought that if one were to add a dimension — that is, to employ constant four‑part chords — unusual sound effects might emerge. I also favored clear themes, even several simultaneously, so that my music took on a strongly polyphonic character. Thus, almost no triads anymore; later I added five‑ and six‑part chords, and still later even seven‑part chords, though only sparingly, for I felt that the human ear would need time to grow accustomed to them.

Shortly after the end of the war I obtained a performance of my string quartet with the Londonderry Air at the British Council , beautifully played by the well‑known Konzerthaus Quartet . Soon afterward the Prix Quartet performed my other quartets on Radio Vienna .

I would gladly have secured a church performance of the “Our Father,” but the Catholic Church rejected the ending “for Thine is the kingdom” , and a Protestant pastor declared that the “Our Father” should not be sung at all in church. So I waited for a better time. Regarding the Second Symphony , strange though it may sound, I know too little about it now, and have not yet sought a performance.

The next work, Opus 26, was a Clarinet Quintet , for which I had good fortune. It drew the attention of Prof. Weissgärber , and was performed by his string quartet together with the well‑known clarinetist Prof. Wlach on radio and in concert. Prof. Weissgärber became a good and kindly friend to me, and I greatly regretted his early death.

Around this time, I came upon a volume of poems by the Irish poet William Butler Yeats . In it I found a drama, “The Shadowy Waters,” which delighted me and inspired me to compose an opera. A friend advised me first to write a symphonic poem based on it, partly because I could not be sure of obtaining performance rights from Yeats’s heir. After completing the symphonic poem, I no longer cared for it, and threw myself with full passion into the opera. From September 1948 to May 1949 I lived in a world of my own with The Shadowy Waters , and I felt that I had captured the right mood. I also received permission from Mrs. Yeats to perform it, but it has not yet come to that.

I had shown my Irish Symphony to Dr. Hans Swarowsky , who advised me to submit it to the radio. I did — and, behold — I had success.

Up to this point I had never had a copyist; everything was handwritten by me. But now a copyist was needed. A pleasant young student offered to take on the work, claiming to be experienced — something I readily believed, knowing he badly needed the income. The performance date at the radio was set, the Symphony Orchestra engaged, and I innocently sent in all the orchestra parts. In my naivety it did not occur to me to carefully check the parts. An experienced musician knows that errors always slip into copied parts, especially when the copyist is inexperienced.

When the first rehearsal in the Great Hall of the Konzerthaus began, the mistakes became immediately apparent. The conductor, Felix Prohaska , and the musicians grew nervous and irritated, and it was not long before part of the orchestra put down their instruments and refused to continue. The conductor informed me that the parts had to be corrected before a performance could even be considered.

This was a heavy blow to me, and I went home very depressed. Still, I set to work at once to correct the parts — with the help of a good friend, Armin Kaufmann . When I was finished, I notified the radio, though I had little hope that they would give me a second chance.

But at the Radio I had found two people who were exceptionally generous and free of prejudice: Prof. Dr. Kralik and Dr. Halusa . They were not swayed by the widespread opinion that women could not compose anything worthwhile. In that regard, we women are still disadvantaged everywhere.

I also found a helpful friend there — Mrs. Herta Harrand , Dr. Halusa’s secretary — whom I hold in high esteem.

I had to wait half a year until my symphony came up again — but it did come up! And now the rehearsals went fairly smoothly, and the recording gave me pure joy. What especially pleased me was that afterward Dr. Halusa shook my hand warmly and said: “I congratulate you!” Even the conductor was reconciled in the end; he had put forth much effort. For although my scores look simple, the music is not easy to play, as the harmonies are quite unconventional. A friend once said: “With Mary’s music you often think this or that must come — but it always turns out differently!”

The symphony was broadcast three times in Vienna , and — with permission from the Symphony Orchestra and the Radio — I was allowed to send a tape recording home to Dublin , to Radio Éireann . Since then, Radio Hilversum has also recorded it and broadcasts it from time to time, as it found great favor there.

I would like to point out one spot in this symphony that brings me particular joy: a variation in the last movement in which the timpani play the first measure of the theme as a basso ostinato , a rather unusual technique.

Through friends, the American conductor Charles Adler came into possession of the score of this symphony. His judgment was: “It is the hell of a good symphony.” He wanted to secure a performance in Philadelphia , but unfortunately was unable to do so.

In the early 1930s the Europäischer Verlag had published my three piano pieces : Basso Ostinato , Aquarelle , and Scherzo , and later, after the war, a string quartet . I had a contract giving them the rights to all my works, but it became clear that the publisher was unable to fulfill it. With the help of the A.K.M. (the Austrian copyright society) I was able to dissolve the contract and turned to Dr. Hans Pero .

One work followed another. Opus 30 (1949) was a Suite for Solo Violin , which was fortunate enough to interest the violinist Friedrich Wührer so greatly that he studied it and later premiered it on Radio Vienna. It is an effective but difficult piece, splendidly played by Wührer. The recording was made in 1959 , though not broadcast until 1961 .

In the years after the war, I again had the opportunity to see Paul Hindemith , who was conducting his works. I visited him afterward in the artists’ room and greeted him with: “Professor, you surely won’t remember me.” He replied: “Oh yes! Salzburg, 1922 — violin!” which quite astonished me.

I had learned that, as a composer, one must be patient; the years do not matter, nor does consideration for the composer.

Next came three songs with wonderful texts by W. B. Yeats . Then Opus 33, a Symphony for Strings , which earned me a fine performance on the radio with Kurt Richter conducting the Tonkünstler Orchestra . This symphony is dedicated to my dear friend Flora Garzarolli , to whom I owe so many beautiful and good things in my life.

Then followed Japanese songs for soprano and two flutes , and a small Capriccio for piano .

For some time I had been pondering a large‑scale work that should express my worldview. For two years I collected the text for an oratorio , titled “From Night to Morning,” divided into three parts:

1. The Struggle (the struggle of the soul),
2. Night — Contemplation ,
3. Morning — Fulfillment .

It was written for solo voices, chorus, orchestra, and organ . I used words from the wisdom‑books of many nations, often finding it difficult to choose. A large introductory theme, then a baritone solo using verses from the Indian Bhagavad Gita , in which Arjuna is urged by Krishna to fight against his brothers. The second part opens with Nietzsche’s “Nachtlied” : “Night it is. Now speak more loudly all the fountains that leap.” The third part brings a brighter tone: the penultimate chorus is a great fugue; the closing chorus sings: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

It contains contributions from many nations, through the various text passages. I required from September 1950 to April 1951 to complete the work.

Composing itself always went quickly for me, but writing out the full score neatly is a great labor that one must take time for; it cannot be rushed. At that time, I had no other obligations and lived quietly with my old friend Teta. My son had married in the meantime and moved first to Nussdorf , then to Klosterneuburg . I no longer played the violin much; to play well one must practice a great deal, and all my time was filled with writing music — and I did not care to play “less than well.”

I attended many concerts, hearing everything that was worth hearing, especially new music, from which I sometimes learned how not to do things.

One may ask: “Where did you acquire your technique for orchestral writing?” — “I do not know!” My training at the Music Academy had been meager enough, yet over time a great deal had accumulated within me. I seem to possess a particular gift for orchestration; the color of sound interests me immensely, and every instrument is familiar to me in its tonal nature. I have a special fondness for variations and fugues, and I believe this is why my music is sometimes compared with that of Reger , whom I greatly admire.

Opus 37 was a Prelude and Fugue ; Opus 38 a Sonata for Cello and Piano , both performed by the Austrian Society for Contemporary Music , of which I became a member shortly after its founding.

Then came three small piano pieces , and thereafter the Third Symphony . Upon submission, it was immediately accepted by Radio Vienna and soon performed by the Tonkünstler Orchestra under Kurt Richter . When I expressed my thanks to the concertmaster afterward and praised the playing, he replied: “It is also a beautiful piece.” That, of course, pleased me greatly.

An English journalist, Mr. Swan , then encouraged me to write something for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth of England , and so I composed a Coronation Hymn with a text of my own. There was no opportunity to make use of it at the time, so I saved it for a later symphony.

I received the text for an opera, “The Seven Ravens,” a fairy tale by Grimm , beautifully arranged and written by Hans Pero . The work brought me great joy. It took me a full year to compose, for the text is long — four acts — and the opera was permitted to last over three hours. I worked on it in a cheerful mood, which is reflected in the music, and I had high hopes for it.

Interest arose in Hamburg and Nuremberg , thanks to Pero, but unfortunately I possessed only the score and a single handwritten piano reduction — and not the money to have even the piano reduction duplicated. Pero could not leave the only copy anywhere, and without it nothing could be done. And so things still stand today with my beloved Seven Ravens : they cannot fly.