und him in a room littered with books on the opera,
books on Wagner, volumes of the composer's correspondence.

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: