Carl Engel and Acquiring the Gutenberg Bible

The following is a guest post by Senior Music Specialist Loras John Schissel, who shares the account of former Music Division Chief Carl Engel on bringing one of the nation’s most renowned treasures, the Gutenberg Bible, to the Library of Congress. This excerpt of Carl Engel’s published essay has been collated, condensed, and annotated by Schissel.

It may strike some as peculiar that the Chief of the Music Division at the Library of Congress played an important role in the negotiations, packing and shipping of one of the most precious treasures in our holdings – but that, in fact, is the story that we present herewith.

The following excerpt is from an article titled “Guido Adler in Retrospect (1855-1941),” which appeared in the July 1941 edition (vol. 27, no. 3) of “The Musical Quarterly.” The article by Dr. Carl Engel (1883-1944) pays tribute to Guido Adler, a distinguished Bohemian-Austrian musicologist and author who had just died. Adler and Engel became friends while the two were attending the Beethoven Centennial Celebration in Vienna in March of 1927. (Adler and Engel, then chief of the Music Division of the Library of Congress, were joined by former Music Division Chief Oscar G. Sonneck who was representing the U.S. Beethoven Association at the celebration, as well as by musicologist Dr. Alicja Simon, from the staff of the Music Division.) It was also in 1927 that, through the intercession of Engel, a one-thousand-dollar grant was made by the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Foundation in the Library of Congress to Adler to continue the research and publication of his monumental “Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich,” which had begun publication in 1894.

It should be noted that Carl Engel was a Parisian-born composer, author, and musicologist. After studies at the universities of Munich and Strasbourg, he emigrated to the United States in 1906. From 1909 to 1922, he was chief musical editor at the Boston Music Company. In 1922, he was named Chief of the Music Division at the Library of Congress, succeeding Sonneck, and was instrumental in establishing the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Foundation and the construction of the Coolidge Auditorium. Engel also founded and developed the Recorded Sound Archive and the Archive of American Folk-Song in the Library (now the American Folklife Center). Upon the death of Sonneck in 1928, Engel became editor of “The Music Quarterly.” In 1934, Engel resigned from his position in the Library of Congress to become president of G. Schirmer Music Publishing in New York. Engel died in New York on May 6, 1944. His compositions have remained in the repertoire, particularly his song-settings of poems by his friend Amy Lowell. Engel’s “Sea-shell” (1911) and “Triptych for Violin and Piano” (1920) have been performed and recorded by numerous violinists over the years.

A portion of Engel’s article documents Engel and Adler traveling from Vienna to Klangenfurt, Austria, to meet Librarian of Congress Herbert Putnam, who was negotiating the purchase of the three-volume Gutenberg Bible and the necessary arrangements for its shipment to Washington, D.C.

Engel writes:

I [made a] return visit to Europe in 1930, this time in the company of Dr. Herbert Putnam, Librarian of Congress (1). After a few days spent in attending to various Library matters in London, our ways parted, to be joined again later for the purpose of completing one of the most important single acquisitions made by the Library and authorized by Congress: the purchase of the Gutenberg Bible on vellum from the monastery of St. Paul in Carinthia, for the price of three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Had anything gone wrong at the last minute, there was a determined bidder lurking in the background, waiting to offer half a million. It is now obvious that, had this purchase been delayed, our National Library might never have rejoiced in the possession of one of its richest treasures. The time has not yet come for a detailed story of all the strange complications that accompanied the final stages of this deal. Basically, the deal was a triangular affair, with angles within angles. It took Putnam’s imperturbable calm and suave resourcefulness to turn some of the sharpest angles into pleasant curves.

The strategic point, nearest St. Paul, from which certain transactions could best be handled, was the town of Klagenfurt. If I played any part in these transactions (both at Klagenfurt and St. Paul, and later in Vienna) it was chiefly because I was “available” and because I understood German and, should the need arise, could act as an interpreter (2).

I fled from Venice to Klagenfurt on a Sunday afternoon in a hot, slow, roistering train, to arrive at my destination while the somnolent little provincial town was in the grip of its soundest sleep. The only hotel worthy of the name, which had been agreed upon as headquarters, was not prepared for nocturnal arrivals. I was somewhat resentfully admitted by the “Nachtportier” to the luxuries of a room with a surprisingly “modern” (art nouveau, 1900!) private bath. I believe I was the only one in the house. Because of my precipitate departure from Venice, I was the first to be on the scene. I killed a whole day of abject loneliness by “doing” the Wörthersee in a motorboat. The next morning Adler appeared. I still see him descending from the train and with elastic step advancing towards me on the railway platform. We embraced, and from that moment on I was no longer lonely.

On the following day Herbert Putnam arrived. He and Adler got on famously. Adler’s English was better than serviceable. At last, we were joined by “the second contracting party.” After some necessary legal pourparlers, we motored to St. Paul, through beautiful valleys close to what was then the Yugoslav border. Here and there could be seen the effects left by the First World War. But nothing had spoiled the grandeur of the scenery. Eventually we got to St. Paul, nestled, as I remember, high in the hills, and almost hidden from sight by the luxuriant foliage of trees as old as the ancient buildings. Our reception was polite in the extreme, with, it seemed to me, a slight undertone of hostility. Parents may feel that way when the suitor presents himself to ask for the hand of their fairest daughter. The monastery needed the money. The Austrian government needed the “tax” payable for the permission to export the finest one of three remaining copies of the Gutenberg Bible on vellum, preserved in perfect condition. Adler, being the one “disinterested” person among us, did much to lighten the patent strain with his detached and diplomatic remarks. His asides to me, whispered through his whiskers, were another matter. I had difficulty in keeping a straight face. We walked through cool and spacious rooms, Putnam and the Abbot leading our group.

Eventually we were taken to the library, a dark and forbidding place. Under the eyes of the stern looking Abbot, the Pater librarian took from some prehistoric safe or strongbox three shabby cartons, and from each produced one volume of that unexcelled masterpiece of the printer’s art. It was my first glimpse of the Bible which is now in Washington. It was a thrilling moment. I had a lump in my throat. I was waiting for Adler to break the silence. When I turned to him, I saw big tears rolling down his cheeks.

On the way back to Klagenfurt, we were caught in one of the worst storms I can remember. The rain was torrential, the lightning uninterrupted, the thunderclaps seemed to come right from behind our struggling car and to re-echo from untold mountainsides. Adler did his best to keep us in good humor. But I think the feeling of relief was general when we safely reached our hotel.

The next morning Putnam, Adler and I went by train to Vienna. We shared a compartment. As a result of our drive through the deluge I caught a nice cold. I could tell that my fever was rising. I did not contribute much to the conversation. I dozed off in my corner, feeling miserable. I remember, though, Putnam and Adler discussing a certain person (3). When Putnam asked Adler whether he thought that person a gentleman or a crook, Adler shook his head characteristically from side to side, and after a moment’s hesitation answered: “Half-and-half!”

When I landed at the “Grand Hotel” in Vienna, I went immediately to bed, sent for aspirin, steaming tea, a flask of brandy, and a hot-water bottle. This last requisition threw the management into complete consternation. After an interminable wait, during which the voice of the boy at the switchboard seemed to be getting fainter and fainter with fear that I might overcome and murder him, a trembling chambermaid entered my room with something from the bronze age; in the last moments of consciousness, I perceived that this something was leaking. So, I aimed it at the rapidly retreating chambermaid and lapsed into oblivion. My fit of temper proved to have been highly curative. I awoke the next morning without fever. Adler telephoned from his home, bright and early, cautioning me not to take any risks and offering to send a doctor. I gratefully declined. I was able to report to Putnam “for duty.”

What this “duty” consisted in, during the following days, has nothing to do with Adler. It might be told at some other time, in some other place. When the delivery of the Bible to the American Legation in Vienna was assured, Putnam and I chose a suitable receptacle in which to ship the books. We found nothing that answered the purpose better than a square little trunk destined for ladies’ hats. Other business called Putnam to Paris. I stayed in Vienna, to supervise a tinsmith lining the hatbox with sheet metal at our Legation. Layers of moisture-proof paper came next, then I carefully packed the three volumes tightly in soft wrapping material. My job finished, the tinsmith, in the presence of the Minister and myself, soldered down the metal top. The cover of the trunk was closed and locked. The seals of the Legation were affixed. A special United States courier traveled with the box to Cherbourg and turned it over to the Librarian in person.

I was “off duty.”

Except for a period during World War II, the Library’s Gutenberg Bible has been displayed near the Great Hall in the Thomas Jefferson Building. As many as a million visitors a year see this historic building and the bible in its temperature- and humidity-controlled display case. Few, if any, know of the role played by the Chief of the Music Division in making it possible. A tip of the hat to our own Carl Engel.

Notes:
1. Herbert Putnam (1861-1955) was the Librarian of Congress from 1899-1939.

2. Carl Engel was a gifted linguist, fluent in French, German, Italian, and Latin.

3. Probably Dr. Otto Vollbehr (1869-1946), a German chemist and book collector.