"It'll be the chance of a lifetime for an hour's nap," he said as we
took our seats, "if they only keep the trombone quiet."
I repeat his trivial sayings to show how little there was about him in
manner or speech to prepare me for what followed.
I remember that the first number on the programme was Beethoven's
Seventh Symphony. This work, as is well known, is rather long, and so,
at the end of the third movement, I turned and looked at Barber to see
if he was asleep. But his eyes were wide open, feverish, almost glaring;
he was twining and untwining his fingers and muttering excitedly.
Throughout the fourth movement he continued to talk incoherently.
"Shut up!" I whispered fiercely. "Just see if you can't keep quiet, or
we shall be put out."
I was indeed very much annoyed, and some people near by were turning in
their chairs and frowning.--
I do not know whether he heard what I said: I had no chance to talk to
him. The applause had hardly died away at the end of the symphony when a
singer appeared on the stage. Who he was, or what music he sang, I am
utterly unable to say; but if he is still alive it is impossible that he
should have forgotten what I relate. If I do not remember him, it is
because all else is swallowed up for me in that extraordinary event.
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