And Still Champ

When Arturo Toscanini made his farewell public appearance with the NBC Symphony two months ago. the world of music sighed with regret. Toscanini himself was so moved that, incredibly, he fumbled an excerpt from Tannhaeuser and, for about a minute, lost his place (TIME, April 12). Had the 87-year-old maestro finally reached the end of the score? Last week Toscanini was again conducting the NBC orchestra--in two recording sessions to polish up rough spots in earlier tapings of Verdi operas. The maestro was still in supreme form.

Pouts & Frowns. The first day's session at Carnegie Hall began as the conductor nervously walked to his podium. The orchestra's applause calmed him down, and in a flash he called, "Duetto!" Soprano Herva Nelli and Tenor Jan Peerce began singing the last-act duet from Un Ballo in Maschera. Here & there the maestro stopped to shout a fiery "Vergogna!" or "Madonna mia!" and the group diligently began again. Finally, everybody managed to get through the duet according to Toscanini's demands, and the piece was recorded.

On the second day observers got a closer look of genius at work. As the orchestra hushed to a quiet, the old man came onstage, baby-pink and robust. He was chewing his favorite cherry pastilles. Titian-haired Soprano Nelli was all set for her first solo, Ritorna Vincitor!, from Aida. The maestro conducted vigorously. Whispered a technician in the control booth: "What a man! Look at that beat." With the run-through and actual recording completed, the playback started. Toscanini listened intently, poring over the score, at times reconducting the music. In his high-collared rehearsal jacket, he looked like a priest. Then suddenly, the fireworks began. Wrathfully, he turned to Soprano Nelli, scolding and pointing at his score. She had, Toscanini argued, sung a B instead of a B-flat! Nelli pointed at a clear B in her score. She had sung from that score for years, and no other conductor had ever caught the error before. Dutifully, Soprano Nelli restudied the passage, but when she was set to record again the red "ready" light failed to come on. The maestro threw down his arms, withdrew pouting to the side of the podium. He frowned at the stubborn bulb, but still no light. Then he reached over with his baton and tapped the bulb. It lit. The baton slashed the air, and the recording went on without a hitch.

Sorrow & Pleasure. A few moments later, Nelli began her toughest assignment, Aida's great aria from the Nile Scene. Toscanini demanded that she sing a long, difficult phrase in one breath. "I know," he had said earlier, "there is not a soprano today who does it. But you do it." He also insisted on his own interpretation of anguish in the phrase O patria mia, o patria mia. He sang it through himself, beating his chest. Nelli tried it. No, no, said the maestro, and launched into the phrase again, leaning toward her, hugging his own shoulders, swaying in sorrow. When finally the recording began, Nelli's voice rang through the hall with all the tone and feeling that Toscanini cajoled from her. When the aria came to an end with a final, tense pianissimo, the maestro dropped his hands and the string section rapped their bows on the music racks. Everybody laughed in relief and pleasure. Toscanini himself stepped off the podium and gave Soprano Nelli an affectionate whack on the rump. She turned and threw her arms around him, buried her head in his shoulder for a moment.

After still another exacting session that day--a total of 3 1/2 hours of conducting during which he never once seemed tired--the maestro returned to his suburban Riverdale home. This week Arturo Toscanini is flying to Italy. Many musicians who know him were ready to bet last week that the maestro's conducting days were far from over.

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