e "entered." He would bend
gracefully as he stepped from the narrow passage beneath the stage into
the orchestra. He would stand upright among his boys for a little minute
while he adjusted his white gloves. His evening dress would have turned
George Lashwood sick with envy. The perfect shirt of the perfect shape
of the hour, the tie in the correct mode, the collar of the moment, the
thick, well-oiled hair, profuse and yet well in hand, the right flower
in the buttonhole at just the right angle--so he would stand, with lips
pursed in histrionic manner, gazing quietly before him, smiling, to
casual friends, little smiles which were nothing more unbending than
dignified acknowledgment. Then he would stretch a godlike arm to the
rail, climb into his chair, and spend another half-minute in settling
himself, turning now and then to inspect the house from floor to
ceiling. At the tinkle of the stage-manager's bell the grand moment
would come. His hand would sail to the desk, and he would take the baton
as one might select a peach from the dessert-dish. He would look
benignly upon his boys, tap, raise both resplendent hands aloft, and
away he would go into the "Zampa" overture.

His attitude to the show was a study in holy detachment. He simply did
not see it. He would lean back in his chair at a comfortable angle, and
conduct from the score on his desk. But he never smiled at a joke, he
never beamed upon a clever turn, he never even exchanged glances with
the stars. He was Olympian. I think he must have met Irving as a young
man, and have modelled himself on his idiosyncrasies. Certainly every
pose that ever a musician or actor practised was doubled in him. I
believe he must have posed in his sleep and in his bath. Indeed, my
young mind used to play upon the delicate fancy that such a creature
could never do anything so common as eat or drink or pursue any of the
daily functions of us ordinary mortals. I shrank from conceiving him
undressed....

Once, I remember, he came down from his cloudy heights and stood my
cousin a drink and myself a lemonade. I didn't want to drink that
lemonade. I wanted to take it home and stand it under a glass shade. He
himself drank what I was told was a foreign drink in a tiny glass. He
lingered over it, untouched, while he discussed with us the exact
phrasing of the symphony for the star man's song; then, at the call,
with a sweep of his almighty arm he carried the glass to his lips with a
"To