From coast to coast, in every major orchestra were Russians. Usually they were from the string section, the woodwinds being predominantly French and the brass German. Russian voluptuousness, French elegance, and German power, combined here and there with other nationalities different in schooling and culture, made the American orchestra a unit of unique quality. Playing with them, I played for them, and the degree of my satisfaction with the performance depended on their reaction to it. At the rehearsals I occasionally turned my back to the empty hall and faced the orchestra. I wanted to see whom I was “speaking” to, and I thought that seeing each other would catch an expression of such boredom on someone’s face that I wished that I was facing the hall. I knew that most orchestras had at least one member allergic to music. It was locating him that was unpleasant. The Los Angeles Philharmonic seemed not to have such people. The conductor was Arthur Rodzinski, and although our rehearsal proceeded smoothly and almost businesslike, I was baffled at what could have provoked such an extraordinary reaction. Stamping, shouting, and applauding, the orchestra would not leave the stage. Surrounded by musicians, I played for them during the intermission and, after the rehearsal was over, until late in the afternoon. Before I reached my hotel, to my astonishment I found a front-page account of this rehearsal. / The concert, only a few hours later, culminated the unusual day. Its most interesting aspect was that, after the Don Quixote and the Dvořák Concerto, Mr. Clark, a wealthy patron who apparently singlehandedly supported the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra, brought my cello on-stage, insisting that I respond to the demands for encores. Movement after movement from various Bach suites followed, and the last orchestral piece on the program was not played at all. / “Have you had such success everywhere?” asked Rodzinski./ “Once is puzzling enough”. << less