MEET ME ON THE BARRICADES

.Untrammelled, his fancy leaped, soared, weighted
by no ballast of logic, chilled by no illusions of real-
ity.

Fantasia.’ The renowned Philharmonic is in re-
hearsal. Maybe it is the Philadelphia Orchestra, or
perhaps the Boston or Minneapolis. It is a matter of
small importance. It might even be that Soviet im-
portation, the Conductorless Orchestra. . . . But no,
that would never do!

[He negotiated a familiar diflicult passage in the
score without so much as being aware of it.]

P. Herbert Simpson mounts the podium. The men
of the orchestra, his men, look up eagerly, with ad-
miration, respect. The respect of musicians in a sym-
phony orchestra—what a triumph! The public, the
patient, long-suffering public which is to be found in

A a serpentined queue before Carnegie Hall may be

deluded by press-agentry as to the true character of a
conductor, but not the men who work with him, who
see him in his underwear, so to speak, not the men
who so painstakingly contribute to his greatness. Tos-
canini, Koussevitzky, Stokowski, good men all, no
doubt, each in his way. But then, why make odious
comparisons?

Simpson raises his arms. The orchestra is poised
for flight, alert. He gives the signal and at once a soli-

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