Once, or perhaps twice a week, he motored over
to Monte Carlo, or even as far as Nice, to attend a concert. On such
occasions he always took at least two companions with him, so that he
never sat next to a stranger.
He preferred a box for his party, but, failing that, the seats were
always secured on the broad cross-aisle, so that he would not have to
rise when anyone wished to pass in front of him. He liked to arrive a
few minutes before the concert commenced, and one of us would read the
program to him. He had an excellent memory for music, and his taste was
broad enough to embrace almost everything good from Bach to Wagner. He
was a keen critic of a performance, and in the intervals between the
pieces he criticized the playing from the standpoint of his musical
experience.
One movement was played too loud, another too fast; in one the brass had
drowned a delightful passage for the violas, which he had heard and
admired the year before in Vienna; in another the brasses had been
subdued to a point where the theme lost its distinction.
It was his habit to beat time with one hand and to sway his head gently
backward and forward when he heard a slow, familiar melody. When
something very stirring was played, the Rakoczy March, for instance, or
the overture to Die Meistersinger, he would mark the down beat with his
clenched fist, and throw his head back as if he were going to shout.
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