In the Pullman smoker sat the handsome gentleman who was then manager of the orchestra and your correspondent.  “Tell me,” said the reporter, “just between you and me—­where did Stoky get that juicy accent?”

The manager removed his cigar to reply: 

“God alone knows.”

Mr. Stokowski then had been in this country nearly twenty years.  He has been here now more than thirty years, and still no one on earth, with the possible exception of Mr. Stokowski himself, can tell you where he dug up his rich luscious accent that trickles down the portals of the ear as the sauce of creamed oysters trickles down the gullet.

Surely he didn’t get it in London where, on April 18, 1882, he was born.  Nor did he learn it in Queens College, Oxford, where he was considered a bright student, or on Park Avenue, New York, where he landed in 1905 to play the organ at St. Bartholomew’s.

Mr. Stokowski’s dialectic vagaries are among the mysteries in which, for his own good reasons, he has chosen to wrap himself.  Another one concerns his name and origin.  Is he really Leopold Antoni Stanislaw Stokowski?  Was his father one Joseph Boleslaw Kopernicus Stokowski, a Polish emigre who became a London stockbroker?  Was his mother an Irish colleen and the granddaughter of Tom Moore, who wrote “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms”?  Or is Stoky just plain Lionel Stokes, the sprout of a humble cockney family?

Nobody knows.  But everybody knows that Leopold Stokowski is one of the world’s really great orchestra conductors, a true poet of the stick (though he has dispensed with the baton in recent years), and that he has made the name of the Philadelphia Orchestra synonymous with superb singing, beauty of tone and dazzling brilliance.

Everybody knows, too, that he has few peers as an interpreter of Bach, many of whose compositions he unearthed from the organ repertoire and gave to the general public in shimmering orchestral arrangements, and that critics trot out their choicest adjectives to praise his playing of Brahms and all Russian composers.

Everybody knows, further, that he and his orchestra have made a larger number of phonograph recordings of symphonic music than any other conductor and band, and that the Philadelphia organization was the first of its kind to dare the raised eyebrows of the musical tories by going on the air as a commercially sponsored attraction.

The list, here necessarily condensed, is one of impressive musical achievements, which many an artist of a more placid temperament than Mr. Stokowski’s would have considered ample to insure his fame.

But the slender, once golden-locked, now white-thatched Leopold is and always was a restless fellow, a bundle of nervous energy, an insatiable lover of experiment, innovation and—­the limelight.

Those traits began to come to the surface in 1922, when he had been bossing the Philadelphia band for ten years.  About that time he seemed no longer satisfied with merely playing to his audiences—­he started talking to them.