The distinguished use to which Taylor later put the technic he had acquired in these excursions into the theatre, saves them from classification as “pot-boilers.” And, what is more to the point, the music itself which he had written for these various productions, was of a quality which calls for no apologetic comment. Again he had shown his versatility and again he had added to the stature of his name as a creative artist.
During the period of prolific productivity in the theatre Taylor’s addresses to the audiences of the formal concert halls were less frequent. Three outstanding works, however, found expression amid the whirl of activity attendant upon daily reviews of musical performances for his paper “The World,” with his work often interrupted by conferences with producers, scenario writers, playwrights, actors, managers and others, to say nothing of the supervision of rehearsals. These contributions were the song for baritone, Captain Stratton’s Fancy, a setting of the John Masefield poem; the symphonic poem, Jurgen (Op. 17); and the suite for Jazz Orchestra, Circus Day (Op. 18), for which the resourceful Ferdie Grofé was called upon to supply the orchestral arrangement.
Jurgen offers additional support to the contention made in the opening paragraphs of this record. It is another example of the service rendered by Deems Taylor to the cause of the American composer, for it represents one of the pioneer instances in which a conductor of an American symphony orchestra has sought out an American composer and commissioned him to write music for specific performance. Our composers had accustomed themselves to regard our symphony orchestras and their conductors as stumbling blocks in the road of progress. Taylor, in company with George Gershwin and Henry K. Hadley, and with the far-seeing Walter Damrosch as the instigator, was helping, then and there, to change a securely established custom. The orchestra was to go after the composer; and this shattering of precedent is of far greater consequence than may seem apparent to casual observance of the facts.
For the same reason the attitude of the Metropolitan Opera Company toward the American composer and toward homemade opera, is a subject which offers unlimited opportunities for conjecture. Proof of an open-minded policy, a sincere desire to bring forth the best that was to be had, is afforded by the action (during the Winter of 1925) of the Board of Directors in commissioning Deems Taylor, on the strength of his achievements in other musical forms, to compose an opera which would be promised a production. No restrictions were placed upon him: The choice of a libretto was left entirely in his hands.
Note again the part which Deems Taylor was playing in the breaking down of traditional methods to set the function of the native composer in a new light.
When this call came to him, he determined to sacrifice every other of his manifold activities to a successful prosecution of the mission. Reluctantly he gave up the duties of music critic—a position in which he was fast winning sympathetic and widespread approval, even as the successor of the late James Gibbons Huneker.
He turned with enthusiasm and high hopes to the task of finding a libretto, a search which promised no easy fulfillment, for little had been done in this land to stimulate the production of operatic books that would satisfy the complex requirements of the lyric stage.
Acting upon his own frequently expressed conviction that a genuinely poetic and dramatic libretto is an indispensable adjunct to the score of a grand opera, Mr. Taylor turned for assistance to Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose volumes Renascence, Second April, A Few Figs From Thistles, and The Harp Weaver have established her as one of the few great lyric poets of this generation. Miss Millay’s response to the appeal was an idea based upon a mediaeval legend; it was the story of The King’s Henchman, and it made a strong appeal to Taylor’s inherent sense of public taste. He could discover in it those elements which meant operatic success. He bade Miss Millay to go on with its development and meantime he busied himself with the laying out of his patterns.
Two years later, on the evening of February 17th, 1927, the world première of The King’s Henchman took place at the Metropolitan Opera House. This was no ordinary première, even as brilliant as such events usually are. For months in advance the sagacious press department of the big theatre, aided enthusiastically by a sympathetic press, had aroused public interest in the production. The “Evening Post” declared that “Never in the history of the Metropolitan Opera House had a native offering been attended by such advance interest and such good omens of success as The King’s Henchman.”
At the opera house, in the corridors, on the stage, back in the executive offices, everywhere there existed a spirit of expectancy and optimistic hope.