Arts and Letters

The world knows that Deems Taylor was among America's most gifted composers. All music lovers know his grand operas, The King's Henchman and Peter Ibbetson. Millions of them have enjoyed the charm and unaging freshness of his Through the Looking Glass Suite, Circus Day, and other orchestral works. Fewer, perhaps, know his beautiful choral pieces and arrangements and the exquisite English translations he made of French, German, and Italian songs. It was as a composer that he became a member of the Institute and the Academy. But I don't believe that many people today are aware that his enormous musical versatility evidenced only a fraction of his talents.

In the early twenties anyone who could write verse or humorous prose woke up most days with the hope that F.P.A. had liked something of his or hers and had printed it in what thousands of New Yorkers turned to before they read anything else, the "Conning Tower" in the World. Having your work published there was a kind of accolade. Usually "Conning Tower" items were signed by pseudonyms or initials. What was important was the individuality of the work rather than the identity of the individual who wrote it. Before I knew Deems there were scores of mornings when breakfast had an extra zest because of something in the "Tower" signed SMEED. It might be a triolet or a ballade—SMEED was a master of vers de société—a witty aphorism or a comment on a subject of current interest. One day you would read a gay, iridescent example of verbal bubble-blowing because SMEED had been in the mood for blowing bubbles. On other mornings you would find him being ironic with a watercolor brush or the needle of a silverpoint etcher. And had something provoked scorn, his could come from a machine gun. The only thing not straightforward about SMEED was the way he spelled his name.

Once a year the identity of "Conning Tower" contributors would be disclosed at an annual dinner at the Majestic Hotel when the contribs, as they called themselves, and the Boss, as F.P.A. was affectionately known, would get together for an evening of fun. You could read the pen name of a fellow guest on the card pinned to his or her clothing. (I was always very proud to be among those present. I think it was at one of the dinners that I first met Deems.) The big moment was the presentation by the Boss of a watch to the writer of what he considered the best thing printed during the year. I can't remember how many times Deems went home with one of the watches, but I can still hear F.P.A. saying, "Tonight, to set no precedent, it goes to SMEED." And I can't recall any dinner when everyone there didn't approve the Boss's choice.

In the twenties I shared an apartment with Deems. It was over a garage on East Eightieth Street. A third member of the household was the current representative of a dynasty of cats. Over the years Deems always kept a cat. Each was called Mrs. Higgins. The only Mrs. Higgins whose personal conduct I ever heard Deems criticize was one he had many years later when he was living on Fifth Avenue at Sixtieth Street. I had dropped in for cocktails and asked about the well-being of the latest Mrs. Higgins. "I don't really know what's happening to this one, but I have suspicions," said Deems. "Let me show you." A phonograph company had sent him an album of Cardinal Spellman's sermons. As he put one of its records on a turntable he remarked, "You should know that Mrs. Higgins completely ignores Bach, jive, and everything between them. Now watch her." The moment the Cardinal's voice was heard Mrs. Higgins abandoned her window seat inspection of Central Park, leapt to the phonograph, and, facing it, listened with riveted attention. Deems whispered, "She hasn't yet learned to genuflect, but she sneaks out of the house every day to take instructions."

In his early twenties Deems had been a member of the editorial staffs of the Nelson Encyclopedia and of the Britannica. In 1916, at thirty-one, he was assistant Sunday editor of the New York Tribune and the same year served as one of its correspondents in France. From 1917 to 1919 he was an associate editor of Collier's Weekly. Two years later he was made music critic of the New York World. In 1927 he took over the editorship of Musical America.

Had a stranger walked into the apartment on Eightieth Street he might have thought half a dozen people worked in our living room. When Christmas holidays approached Deems designed wonderfully ribald greeting cards for friends. They were triumphs of Gothic script and elaborate monkish illuminations. Deems had another unusual graphic gift. He could devise extraordinarily good monograms. He regarded every fresh group of initials as a delicious challenge. Sometimes they would result in wonderfully fantastic interweavings. Sometimes they were as simple and beautiful as Doric columns.

One night when I arrived home Deems was away and the lights were out. In the dark I started across the living room and banged into something. I turned on the switch. Deems had been experimenting with a bit of ornamental, and quite admirable, brick laying. Later I watched him demonstrate a very sound knowledge of masonry. Had he wanted to he could have built a mansion singlehanded.

One night he surprised even his intimates with an unsuspected gift, the ability to make a perfect curtain speech. He demonstrated it before several thousand people in New York's Metropolitan Opera House. The curtain had fallen on the world premier of The King's Henchman. The singers and conductor had appeared again and again to acknowledge the applause. Increasing shouts for the composer were unanswered. When they had mounted to a demanding roar Deems finally appeared. His face was nearly as white as the tie and shirt of his formal evening clothes. But its paleness was only in contrast with the makeup of the singers. He was by no means a victim of first-night jitters. He lifted his hand for silence. The audience waited for him to speak. He startled them by first turning his head slowly to the right and after a moment again slowly to the left so that his profiles could be seen by everyone watching him. He then faced the audience, smiled his very engaging smile and said:

"Now I want you to go home with something to remember all your lives. You have just seen a truly happy man."