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In the lobby the luckless cameraman was identified as Frank Muto of Hearst's International News Photos, who had bought a seat early, kept his camera hidden until the chance came to snap the conductor bowing his goodbye. The audience filed out denouncing the Hearstling as a "desecrator," a "barbarian," a "vandal." But Frank Muto Was unabashed while he waited to get his camera back. One blazing-eyed young woman marched up to him and flayed him for having "marred the ending of a great historic concert." "But it might have been a grand picture," retorted Frank Muto who is no musician.
Backstage Toscanini quickly recovered. Not really blinded, he had been dazed, upset, enraged. Cameramen have long been requested not to use flashlights near the Maestro's weak eyes. The request was disregarded when he arrived in the U. S. last January. Last week the shock was greater because he was under a heavier strain. After his next-to-last concert when the audience stood cheering him for 15 minutes, Toscanini had shut himself up in his dressing-room and wept.
Regardless of Frank Muto there would have been no farewell speeches from the stage last week, no shower of flowers. Bouquets, Toscanini once said, "are for prima donnas and corpses, not for a conductor." When he had regained his composure he received a delegation from the Philharmonic directors who presented him with an elaborate silver beer service (he never drinks beer), a Beethoven letter and a glowing testimonial. From the Hall he went to his hotel where he gave a supper party for his orchestramen.
Critics wrote reverently when they saluted the departing Maestro, recalled his many magical performances, his tireless quest for perfection, his abhorrence of all claptrap. Few other conductors could have withstood the adulation that has been lavished on Toscanini during his decade with the Philharmonic. Yet not one commentator has failed to point to Toscanini's humility in the presence of great music. When players interrupted a rehearsal to applaud their leader, he would cut them short with: "It is not I, Gentlemen. It is Beethoven."
As if to atone for his abrupt leavetaking, Toscanini issued one of his rare press statements, expressed gratitude and affection for his audiences and his orchestra. But he would permit no public demonstration when he sailed for home, probably never to return to the U. S. again. Aboard the S. S. Champlain he locked himself in his cabin with Mrs. Toscanini, admitted a few friends, barred all reporters, all photographers.