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By 1930, Szell had earned a minor but worldwide reputation. As Europe geared itself for war, he moved from Prague to Scotland. When World War II broke out, Szell was returning to Glasgow from an Australian tour and found himself stranded in New York. Toscanini invited him to conduct the NBC Symphony; other U.S. orchestras soon extended invitations and, in 1942, he joined the Met, amazing the musicians by conducting Wagnerian operas from memory. It was there, later, as a guest, that he collided with the equally autocratic General Manager Rudolf Bing. Szell bowed to no man, and since Bing was boss, he left in a fury, vowing never to return. He never did.
New Leaf. An orchestra is to a conductor what a fine piano is to a pianist. So far, George Szell had played a long series of pianos, but none built to his specifications. When the Cleveland Orchestra asked him to become its permanent conductor in 1946, Szell knew he had his chance. His contract gave him absolute control. "A new leaf will be turned over with a bang," he announced, and fired twelve musicians. Szell kept weeding and replanting until he had the 108 people he wanted. He demonstrated an unswerving aural vision of how music should sound—and the ear, the technique, the almost psychic power of leadership to make it sound that way. "I have created an instrument perfectly suited to express my artistic intentions," he said of the results.
Everyone agreed. In a decade, the once provincial Cleveland Orchestra had achieved world stature. Szell's artistic intentions were being perfectly expressed. If he specialized in Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Brahms and Mahler, slighting French, Russian and avant-garde music, he had earned the right to be selective. Guest soloists came and went, most of them shuddering in fear of Szell's learning and notorious lack of patience. "Szell is a man who is dreadfully right," said Isaac Stern. "He is always right. If he doesn't know something, he won't even offer an opinion on it."
He expressed himself with Szellous precision. Unlike Toscanini, who would shriek, swear, smash watches and hurl chairs, Szell preferred the freezing stare and the poisonous epigram. Canadian Pianist Glenn Gould once arrived for rehearsal and proceeded to adjust his piano bench with Gouldish concern. Up a bit, down a hair, up a fraction, down a smidgen—while Szell smoldered. Finally he spoke: "Perhaps if I were to slice one-sixteenth of an inch off your derriere, Mr. Gould, we could begin." Later he was to say of Gould: "No doubt about it. That nut's a genius."
Those who could meet Szell's altitudinous standards, though, found him a helpful colleague and an artistic inspiration. Pianist Gary Graffman, who was the last soloist to play with the Cleveland Orchestra under Szell's baton, says, "He was the most human person that ever was. His uncompromising attitude was because he cared so much." The great conductor was once jocularly chided for working at rehearsal "as if it were a matter of life and death." Characteristically, Szell did not get the joke. "Don't you see," he said, "it is. It is!"