Music Empire Builder

For a dozen years the musical battle raged, from high chambers of the Nazi Party to high balconies of Austrian concert halls. Aging Conductor Wilhelm Furtwangler, backed by Goebbels, clearly could not stomach the competition given him by young Conductor Herbert von Karajan, a Goring protege, and undercut him at every opportunity. Von Karajan (pronounced approximately carryon) coldly played a waiting game. His attitude: "I have time." He was right. When Furtwaengler died in 1954, Von Karajan assumed all the old man's prestige and more. Today, Austrian-born Herbert von Karajan is lord of a unique musical empire: he controls the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, the Salzburg Festival and the Vienna State Opera, directs the major recordings of London's Philharmonia Orchestra, performs major assignments at Milan's La Scala Opera. At 48 he is the most powerful musician in Europe, perhaps in the world.

As impressive as his musical domain is his travel schedule. Last month he visited the Salzburg Festival, darted over to Lucerne for another festival (he conducted a Mozart program), then flew on to the island of Ischia in the bay of Naples, where he rested for a few days. From there he sailed his 50-ton yacht (crew of three) to Portofino, motored to Genoa, hopped a plane to Zurich, got into his waiting silver-grey Mercedes 300 SL and soloed at a breakneck 90 m.p.h. back to Lucerne for rehearsals and a concert, then caught a plane for West Berlin for three days of rehearsals with the Philharmonic. Last week, with the orchestra following by plane, he embarked on the Queen Mary for New York, to begin the Berlin Philharmonic's second U.S. tour.

Never a Chair. Such a pace may seem too much for one man, but wiry Conductor von Karajan thrives on it. His secret: a field marshal's talent for delegating authority. He maintains secretarial teams or artistic aides in Berlin, Vienna and Milan, employs a roving personal secretary named Andre Mattoni, who functions as his chief of staff. His wife Anita, herself an effective staff member, lives at their Austrian villa not far from Innsbruck.

Since a large part of his repertory is devoted to music long since committed to his, and most listeners', memory, Von Karajan has also found leisure to become an avid sportsman, often slips off for a week of skiing in the Alps or an afternoon's spin in a rented light plane or a glider. In all these pastimes, as in music, he luxuriates in what he calls "harmony of movement"--the remarkable performance that is given without apparent effort. He has also had time to indulge a broad streak of vanity that extends from his brown suede shoes to the set of his ample brown hair; he used to arm a secretary with a pair of hairbrushes, station him in the wings so that he could brush his hair between curtain calls.

On ordinary working days Von Karajan wakes at 7, but stays in bed until lunchtime, studying scores, listening critically to tests of his numerous recordings, going over stage designs for forthcoming opera productions. On rehearsal days he rises early. In his turtleneck sweater and flannel slacks, he sits on a podium stool, left hand in pocket, right wielding a long white baton. With calm, patient and polite manner, he lingers over an effect until it sounds right, but he never gets excited. He naps for an hour after lunch, then rehearses again. When he meets friends during an evening off duty, he stretches out on the floor to relax. Says an acquaintance: "I have never seen Karajan sit on a chair except at the dinner table."

Restless Giantism. If anybody has fathomed the compulsion that leads Herbert von Karajan into his restless search for power, nobody has said so. Certainly now that most of the competition is shrouded in Von Karajan's dust, he seems less the unscrupulous, hard-driving opponent and more the generous, thoughtful dispenser of great music and lofty wisdom. "There is one sin of which I am not guilty," he says. "Jealousy."

Herbert von Karajan is a masterful conductor in the European tradition: well-disciplined and respectful of the music, mellow if not warm; his classics are sometimes dazzling, and sound with unsuspected inner voices. But in his various "home" cities there are murmurs of discontent. Some think he moves around too much, and that it even affects his music. Said one Berliner: "He and his music have very few enemies, but also very few friends."

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