He has been described as the world’s most patient and impatient orchestral director.  In rehearsal he will take the men through a passage, a mere phrase, innumerable times to achieve a certain tonal or dynamic effect.  But he explodes when he feels that he is faced with stupidity or stubbornness.

Some famous conductors have added the B of Barnum to the three immortal B’s of music—­Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.  Those wielders of the stick are great showmen as well as great musicians.

Not so Mr. Toscanini.  In his platform manner there is nothing calculated for theatrical effect.  He doesn’t care in the least what he looks like “from out front.”  His gestures are designed not to impress, enrapture or englamour the musical groundlings, but to convey his sharply defined wishes to his men and transmit to them the flaming enthusiasm that consumes him.

His motions are patiently sincere, almost unconscious.  He enters carrying his baton under his right arm, like a riding crop.  Orchestra and audience rise.  He acknowledges this mark of respect and the tumultuous applause with a quick bow, an indulgent smile and a gesture that plainly say:  “Thanks, thanks, all this is very nice, you’re a lot of kind, good children, but for heaven’s sake let’s get down to business.”

While waiting a few seconds for listeners and players to settle themselves he rests his baton against his right shoulder, like a sword.  Then the sharp rap.  The Maestro closes his eyes.  Another rap, sharper than the first.  Oppressive, electrical silence.  He lifts the baton as if saluting the orchestra.  The concert begins.

As a rule the right hand gives the tempo and tracks down every smallest melody, wherever it may hide in the score.  In passages for the strings, the baton indicates the type of bowing the conductor wants from the violins, violas or cellos.

The left hand, with the long thumb separate from the other fingers, is the orchestra’s guide to the Maestro’s interpretative desires.  It wheedles the tone from the men.  It coaxes, hushes, demands increased volume.  It moves, trembling, to the heart to ask for feeling, closes into a fist to get sound and fury from the brasses, thunder from the drums.  Through it all, the Maestro talks, sings, whistles and blows out his cheeks for the benefit of trumpeters and trombonists.

After a concert, keyed to feverish excitement, he often plays over piano scores of every number that appeared on the program.  Then he may lie awake all night, worrying over two possible tempi in which he might have taken some passage—­shadings in rhythm that the average listener would not, could not discern.

He is never satisfied with himself.  Some years ago, when he was still conducting at the Scala in Milan, he came home one night after the opera.  Mr. Toscanini does not eat before a performance, and his family wait with the evening meal until he joins them.