The Maestro, who has been coming to this country since 1908, speaks better English than most of us.  He knows his English literature and is in the sometimes disconcerting habit of quoting by the yard from the works of Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley and Swinburne.

Almost as great a linguist as he is a musician, he coaxes and curses his men in perfect, idiomatic French, German and Spanish as well as English and Italian.

He likes reading, listening to the radio—­he is fond of good jazz—­and driving out in the country.  He loves speed.  An American friend who some years ago accompanied him on a motor trip from Milan to Venice groaned when the speedometer began hovering around 78.  “What’s the matter with you?” the Maestro wanted to know.  “We’re only jogging along.”  Whenever possible he flies.

Since 1926 he and Mrs. Toscanini have occupied an apartment in the Astor—­the same suite of four smallish rooms.  The place is furnished by the hotel, but the Maestro always brings his beloved knickknacks—­his miniature of Beethoven, his Wagner and Verdi manuscripts, his family photographs.

He has no valet and dislikes being pawed by barbers.  He shaves himself, and Mrs. Toscanini or one of the daughters cuts his hair.  He eats very little—­two plates of soup (preferably minestrone), a piece of bread and a glass of chianti do him nicely for dinner.

He begrudges the time spent in eating and sleeping.  Like the child he is at heart, he loves staying up late.  Occasionally he takes a nocturnal prowl.

The other night, after a concert, he asked a friend to take him somewhere—­“some place where they won’t know me and make a fuss over me.”

The friend took him to a little place in the Village.  The moment Mr. Toscanini entered, the proprietor dashed forward, bowed almost to the ground and said:  “Maestro, I am greatly honored ...  I’ll never forget this hour ...”  Then he led the party to the most conspicuous spot in the room.

Mr. Toscanini wanted a nip of brandy, but the innkeeper insisted that he try some very special wine of the house’s own making.  From a huge jug he poured a brownish-red, viscous liquid into a couple of tumblers.  The Maestro’s companion says it tasted like a mixture of castor oil, hair tonic and pitch.

Turning white at the first sip, Mr. Toscanini drained his glass at a gulp.  Outside, his friend asked him:  “Why did you drink that vile stuff?”

The Maestro said:  “The poor fellow meant well, and I didn’t want to refuse.  A man can do anything.”

XXIV

LEOPOLD STOKOWSKI

Many years ago this reporter was traveling, as a non-fiddling, non-tooting member of the Philadelphia Orchestra, on a train that carried the organization on one of its Pennsylvania-Maryland-Ohio tours.

It was 2 o’clock in the morning, Mr. Stokowski, the conductor, was secluded in his drawing room, perhaps asleep, but more likely trying to digest three helpings of creamed oysters in which he had indulged at the home of an effusive Harrisburg hostess.  Mr. Stokowski in those days couldn’t let creamed oysters alone, but neither could he take them.