I teach them “rounds,” folk songs, sea chanteys, spirituals, and always end with a hymn. I always arrange beforehand to have one of the fellows talented along some line, to perform a piece or so, and then the rest of the time is for the “making of music” with our combined voices. It is truly wonderful — we do a lot of singing — and the boys and masters in it, love it.
By 1940 World War II was raging in Europe, but the United States was still in its lull before the storm. Jack’s letters home dealt mainly with performing, schoolwork, and sometimes girls. (“Steele won’t let Ken and me go to the senior dance down at Dobbs on the second because it’s too near exams! He is the one master in school whom I can’t stand.”) He was “not actually sure in my mind” that he wanted to go on to four years of college work. He played the Pirate King in The Pirates of Penzance (“Boy, do I tingle with excitement during the playing of the overture!”), and after dragging his feet for a while, he followed the example of his two younger brothers and was confirmed into the Episcopal Church.
Younger brother Ken, more successful at schoolwork, was now headed for Harvard, on scholarship. Jack would have to go back to Choate. He spent part of the summer of 1940 with David at the Pinewoods Camp near Plymouth, Massachusetts, for its Country Dance Society summer session; they washed windows and cleared the grounds, as part of the cleanup team before the camp opened. By now the wide Langstaff network of friends included not only Carol Preston, May Gadd, and Douglas Kennedy but most of the major names of the early folk-dance movement, including Helen Storrow, who had founded Pinewoods, and the Conant family, to whom she left it when she died. At some point, Jack recalled later, May Gadd involved him in a folk-dance program for the early days of television. “I had to sing some songs in the first television studio in New York, in Grand Central Station, very primitive. I can’t imagine who saw it.”
More momentous in his own view was a recital that he regarded as his first real concert, initiated perhaps by his mother. “It was in a hall in Brooklyn — I sang some opera, this and that. We did it as a benefit for the Met, and raised maybe four hundred dollars. I had a young accompanist called Duncan Phyfe, who later on became head of music at Choate. And I got a review in the Journal-American, whose headline read, ‘A Singer to the Manner Born.’ I was nineteen years old, and that meant a lot to me.”
Back at Choate, he ran the Glee Club and started to learn the piano, with an eye to music school entrance. The family carol party was the peak of Christmas 1940, though the three attractive Langstaff sons all had a crowded New York social life. Jack wrote home, “It doesn’t look as if I will have any evenings at all with you at home, if I accept many of these stupid deb invitations.” Ken listed eight dates for dinners and dances in as many days, and even fifteen-year-old David had a dinner-dance invitation, from another fifteen-year-old, Diane Guggenheim.
Then Jack sent in his application for the Curtis Institute of Music, in Philadelphia — with some misgivings, since he had much admired its president, the composer Randall Thompson, who had recently been fired. Then as now, Curtis was remarkable not just for the quality of its teachers but for providing every accepted student with free tuition. Jack was given an audition, at which he sang one piece from Handel’s Messiah — and “I got in, which was amazing.”
Large dark clouds were looming over this tranquil world of music and dancing in the summer of 1941, and he tried not to look at them.
The news seems to get worse and worse each hour with amazing horror. I don’t see how France is going to hold out much longer, and I have finally gotten to the point, myself, where I purposely avoid the news comments broadcasted each evening because of the inevitable cowardice it makes me feel for our own country’s actions.
In August he went on his first miniature tour, giving seven recitals of songs in assorted Vermont camps and houses, with David as accompanist. Then off he went to Philadelphia, to settle himself for his studies at Curtis. His mother went with him.
“She helped me find somewhere to live — a little room at the top of a dentist’s house, for four dollars and fifty cents a week. And because I needed to earn money, we went to four or five churches and I auditioned to sing. The one who took me was in Germantown — ‘I need a bass,’ he said. And my amazing mother said to him, ‘We’re ten dollars short to get home.’ So we borrowed it.”
He wrote home, at the beginning:
Start in this Sunday morning at Calvary Church in Germantown with “Elijah’s” prayer. I have to pay my rent in advance and I don’t know when I’ll get my first pay (end of the month, I guess). Am having a piano moved into my room here this week — going to cost me $10 — but I believe that it is most necessary. . . . I do get a bit lonely once in a while, and find myself wasting precious time by wandering around.
He wasn’t lonely for long, of course.
I’ve got a grand bunch of teachers here at Curtis; Bonelli is my major; Soffray for Solfège and Dictation; Vittorini for Italian language and Italian Renaissance (cultural); Jeanne Behrend for piano; Mme. Gregory for Italian diction; and Westmoreland and Rosenek as two separate coaches every week. . . . I’ve met some very nice people here in Philly and have had some delightfully enjoyable times. Tonight I dine with Martha Benson who heard me in Manchester this summer, and then to the Symphony with her to hear Rachmaninoff! Drinkers tomorrow evening for music, after luncheon with the Heilners in Chestnut Hill. My job is certainly going to make life difficult when vacation sets in, and I find I have to commute! So I’m trying to make it up by picking up odd jobs here and there; going to try to connect with the Germantown Symphony and Germantown Youth Symphony Orchestra to see if they would like to hire a young American baritone as soloist this year; would like to pick up odd Sunday night or afternoon services here in town; WFIL offered me a program with small string orchestra (after my audition for them) to go on the air each week with the kind of music I would like to do, but — no pay. WCAU promised me this week that they don’t let their artists go unpaid — my audition for them comes up this coming week.
“Drinkers tomorrow evening for music” was a reference to Henry Drinker, founder of the Bach Choir, who, Jack said later, would invite to his house only people who could perform. “I wasn’t so good at sight-reading . . . but one night it would be madrigals, another night people would be there with fiddles for chamber music. . . . He’d say, ‘And after supper we’ll do the Brahms Requiem.’ He was a terrible conductor, flailing around, like Vaughan Williams — but wonderful.”
By October 1941, he was reporting home from Curtis that he had some “swell friends.”
I’m practically “in love” with my piano teacher, I think, but I guess I’m also her problem child, at that. Wait till you hear the amazing tale of how close I came to doing the Messiah with a big choral society here in town and an orchestra of over fifty pieces under Nicholas Douty; and how I tried to learn “Why Do the Nations Rage” in twenty-four hours from a recording. I think you’ll be proud of my brashness! Boy, the work sure is piling up here, and I feel that unless I’m really helping to earn my living (in other words, being paid for some work) that the best return for my investment of time is spent in working at my studies. That’s one reason why I’m not taking that nonpaying job on the air — and I don’t think it’s fair to Bonelli or the Institute for me to take on any work beyond what’s necessary. I’m to appear as soloist with the American Society of Ancient Instruments on the fourth in the afternoon at the Ritz-Carlton. English and American folk songs, ballads, carols — with harpsichord accompaniment and dressed in costume! $25 — not much, but it is a great honor, really and lucky happening.
His voice teacher at Curtis was the baritone Richard Bonelli, who was actually born George Richard Bunn, near Syracuse. (Jack reported that his Wagnerian tenor uncle, Arthur Geary, also succumbed to this kind of emendation, calling himself Arturo di Geari.) “Bonelli was great,” Jack said, “but sometimes you wouldn’t have a lesson for a few weeks because he was a wonderful bariton
e and was singing at the Met. . . . Three times a week I had Leo Rosenek, a great teacher of German lieder — a little short German, a lovely man. . . . And the first desk people from the Philadelphia orchestra were some of the best teachers there. Tabuteau, the great oboist, he had the Curtis orchestra and conducted it every week. He’d lock the hall, but I’d go in half an hour early and lie down under the seats at the back. He was brutal, he’d tear someone down every time, but he was wonderful, his phrasing. . . . I heard everything he said about phrasing, and he was a tremendous influence on me without anyone knowing.”
His piano teacher, Jeanne Behrend, was a tremendous influence too; indeed, she was his first lover. “I was a terrible piano student. . . . She lived across the street from me. I was nineteen and she was in her thirties, but she looked younger. . . . I fell madly in love with her. She’d been married to a pianist, but he was manic-depressive and he’d committed suicide. Alfred Mann was a friend of hers, and John Edmunds, and she’d been a classmate of Sam Barber’s — she was a real Charles Ives person too; she really got me interested in singing American music. And she wrote me a couple of songs. . . . Jeanne was very important in my life, a great friend. And then the war broke out.”
In his early years at Choate, Jack had felt he was a pacifist (“I remember passing out leaflets at a rally at Madison Square Garden where Paul Robeson spoke”), but that had long been overtaken by his conviction that he and his country should no longer stay apart from the conflict raging in Europe. Now, suddenly, the world changed. On December 8, 1941, along with most other Americans, he listened to President Roosevelt’s address to the nation after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The speech took six minutes.
Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives:
Yesterday, December 7, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
The United States was at peace with that nation, and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleague delivered to our secretary of state a formal reply to a recent American message. And while this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya.
Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.
Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.
Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.
Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island.
And this morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.
Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.
As commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.
But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.
I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us.
Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger.
With confidence in our armed forces — with the unbounding determination of our people — we will gain the inevitable triumph — so help us God.
I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.
With FDR’s voice still in his ears, Jack called his father and announced that he was going to enlist in the Army. “In my ignorance, I thought it would all be over in two or three months. I knew Dad would have disapproved if I’d been a conscientious objector — he’d been in the infantry in World War I. So I called him. And he said, ‘Can’t you come back first for the carol party?’”
Meredith himself was chafing to get back into uniform, in Washington, D.C. (“Why can’t General Osborn or General Marshall put me in a colonel’s uniform and let me smash into some real constructive work?”) Four days after FDR’s speech, Germany declared war on the U.S., and the conflict officially became worldwide. Jack wrote to his father in D.C. on December 16:
Dear Dad:
In your questioning there in Washington of the right thing for me to do at this time, will you please look into the possibility for some work in the Army along the lines in which I might be most helpful and fitted.
In the two recent contacts I have had with singing for (entertaining) the men — at Fort Hancock and Dix — I can see the kind of relaxation through music they need, as well as discovering the great importance of getting soldiers to sing forth vigorously at such occasions, when I’ve had the chance to get ’em going with informal leadership.
Couldn’t a unit of us go forth from Curtis to give all the camps some of that, through informal, light music — yet of a good standard? It amazes me the amount of amateur (? — no, mediocre!) entertainment that gets into those camps. I’ve seen it, and I know that that sort of thing is no more appreciated by the soldier than it would be by anybody else.
There is a splendid group of us here who would like to help in that way, if it’s possible.
Anyway, I’m waiting until after Xmas, but convinced that I must do something, and finding it hellish to just sit around and wait like this.
So he went home to Brooklyn Heights for the family Christmas, and then he joined the U.S. Army.
The Army sent Jack to Fort Hancock, out on the spit called Sandy Hook off the coast of New Jersey; he had visited it a few months earlier as a singer, entertaining the men. This time he was one of them. In Esther Langstaff’s letter book there’s a copy of a letter from the Office of the Harbor Defense Commander at Fort Hancock headed “Enlistment of Mr. Jack Langstaff.” It reads:
At the present time a vacancy exists in the Office of the Morale Officer at this station.
Mr. Langstaff’s unusual training makes him admirably suited to fill this vacancy.
In view of the suitability of this man, it is desirable to fill this vacancy immediately in lieu of waiting for a suitable replacement.
I accept the responsibility for the recruit training of this man.
Signed: P. S. Gage,
Brigadier General, U.S. Army, Commanding
“I was a sad sack in the Army,” said Jack. “I didn’t know anything about anything. They didn’t have a uniform that would fit me, so I started off in a long greatcoat from World War I. Dropped my machine gun in the sand, the sergeant gave me hell.”
But in no time he had found the makings of a Glee Club among the recruits sharing his basic training. “I got thirty-five or so of them together who li
ked to sing, and I taught them all kinds — the Dartmouth drinking song, Porgy and Bess, sea chanteys, even the Boyce Alleluia. They just loved it, that sound — we’d be drinking beer in the PX and they’d say, ‘Let’s do the Alleluia.’”
Soon his Fort Hancock Glee Club was giving concerts, and Jeanne Behrend came to join one of them, as guest artist.
Jack’s indomitable mother, Esther, came down to visit him at the camp as well. According to his memory later, she contrived to meet his commanding officer, General Gage, and completely charmed him. “She said, ‘Oh, General, I do like those things on your shoulder; I wonder if Jack will ever get some?’ He was very taken with her — later on, Allie told me, he turned up at our Brooklyn house in a car with flags on it to take her out to lunch.”
Esther’s instinct for nudging along the course of Jack’s life was not daunted by the fact that he was now in the Army. Before long she was back again, joining his singing soldiers at a concert as accompanist. She wrote home: “Jack and I called on his nibs the general and he was most cordial and very nice to us. Oh, by the way, Jack came up before the Officers Board last week and evidently they thought very well of him . . . then I went down again yesterday afternoon and I called on Mrs. Gage and we two gals had several martinis that she certainly knows how to make . . . then I returned to the Gages’ for dinner and he was there and we are all very chummy now and they both call me Esther!”
And in April she came back yet again, accompanying Jack at a recital in a high-school auditorium in Fredonia, New York. She wrote to Meredith that Jack had been a great success. “He, of course, thought he didn’t do so well. But then he always thinks that!”
Esther Langstaff, as Jack once said, would have made a wonderful manager. She certainly appears to have been the manager of the Langstaff family, unchallenged until the children grew to an age to contemplate their own unquestioning adoration. In a letter to her from Harvard that summer, Ken wrote about having realized “what an abnormally high-pitched, going-every-minute life” the family had led. “You brought us up the way you did, because your character is that way — it’s driving and impetuous seasoned with clever and invaluable foresight.” He then cautioned her to be more sympathetic to young Esther, later known as Terry, who was the only Langstaff left at home, the daughter who probably suffered from coming after the three beautiful, talented boys.