Scarcely had the orchestra ceased preluding and the singer brought out
the first notes of his song, than Barber slowly rose from his seat.
"That man is not an artist," he said in a loud and perfectly final
voice, "I will sing myself."
"Sit down, for God's sake!--The management--the police"--
Some words like these I gasped, foreseeing the terrible scandal which
would ensue, and I caught him by the arm. But he shook himself free
without any difficulty, without even a glance at me, and walked up the
aisle and across the front of the house toward the little stairs at the
side which led up to the platform. By this time the entire audience was
aware that something untoward was happening. There were a few cries of
"Sit down! Put him out!" An usher hastened up as Barber was about to
mount the steps.
Then a strange thing happened.
As the usher drew near, crying out angrily, I saw Barber turn and look
at him. It was not, as I remember, a fixed look or a determined look; it
was the kind of untroubled careless glance a man might cast over his
shoulder who heard a dog bark. I saw the usher pause, grow pale and
shamefaced feel like a servant who has made a mistake; he made a
profound bow and then--yes, he actually dropped on his knees. All the
people saw that.
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