Tireless Toscanini

Arturo Toscanini remembers anniversaries. Last week, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Brahms's death, he led his NBC Symphony Orchestra through an all-Brahms program. It was played with such precision and such cohesive beauty that listeners had a hard time believing that next week Toscanini will celebrate an anniversary of his own: his 80th birthday.

The studio audience in Manhattan's Radio City (which had scrambled for tickets--free but hard to get) saw a little, erect man in a dark suit coming on stage after the show was already on the air. He led with an economy of gesture; only occasionally did he indulge in vigorous sweeping motions. But at the end Toscanini was obviously exhausted: he kept patting his brow with a scented handkerchief as he made his exit through the violin section.

Rage or Resignation. No critic had to excuse Toscanini's present by recalling his brilliant past. In this season's memorable 13 broadcasts, the Maestro has put on --and carried off--demanding programs that would have taxed conductors 30 years younger. He has not taken things easier because of his age, and he did not allow anyone else to either. In a business where wrath is an occupational privilege, Toscanini is still the tyrant of them all. Last week, rehearsing Brahms, the Maestro joyfully sang melodic passages with the orchestra in his croaky voice (which is often audible on the air)--then abruptly stopped the orchestra. He thoughtfully rubbed his right cheek, told the orchestra to try again. Then he hid his face in his hands dramatically--with a look of resigned despair--and suddenly, in a hoarse, tragic voice, ordered the brasses to modify their tone.

A stickler for detail, he usually rehearses the orchestra for two hours, but for special programs, like his Romeo et Juliette broadcasts, he sometimes works over singers and orchestra from 2 p.m. until midnight. Afterwards he takes home recordings of the rehearsal, to check the orchestral balance. He allows radio engineers no easy tricks either. In La Traviata, a chorus is supposed to approach from afar. A simple way to get the radio effect was to have the chorus stand still and sing with increasing volume; Toscanini insisted that the chorus go off stage, approach gradually.

Last week, it was announced that Toscanini will shortly record two or more operas (probably La Traviata and La Boheme). If RCA Victor can beat Columbia Records to the draw (Columbia last month signed a five-year contract with the Metropolitan Opera), Toscanini's will be the first full-length opera ever recorded in the U.S.

Nearing 80, Toscanini eats little, sleeps little (four or five hours), goes to Broadway musicals like Annie Get Your Gun but not on opening night, stays away from places where he is likely to be recognized and fussed over. He is driven to rehearsals by a chauffeur in a Cadillac from his 22-room house in suburban Riverdale where he lives with his wife, Carla, and two servants. At home, he is fascinated by his television set, on which he recently saw his first prize fight. He dreams of traveling by rocket ship or atomic power.

In December, after bouncing out of a well-heated studio into windy Rockefeller Plaza without coat or hat, Toscanini caught a cold. He insisted, despite a fever, on conducting his Sunday broadcast. Against his wishes, a doctor was called, and bundled the Maestro into bed. The doctor made Toscanini cancel his scheduled flight to Milan to open the La Scala opera season. Toscanini is fatalistic about death--he believes he will probably be killed in an accident--and scorns such medical precautions. Says he: "If you don't want to be sick, you don't have to be sick."

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