Finally the night of the concert arrived. Half dead from rehearsals and speechmaking, I went to the hall in my full dress. Usually very nervous before a concert, I was surprisingly tranquil. I was on good terms with the orchestra, and I knew that they would do their best. Carefully attending to my cuffs, which I thought should be visible, I walked on the stage. Ready to start with the Euryanthe Overture, by Weber, the concertmaster whispered, “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I had not rehearsed it, and, somewhat bewildered, I gave a sign to the drummer and let him go on for an unreasonably long time. Majestically I raised my hand for a crescendo, and only when it reached its peak did I recall the national anthem. The capacity audience sang and the sound of the orchestra was impressive. The performance of the Euryanthe Overture which followed drew enthusiastic applause. / Next on the program was the Haydn Cello Concerto. I faced my instrument in the backstage room almost in confusion, as if it were a piece of furniture I had never seen before. I frantically ran over the passages I had played all my life. Although the concerto went very well, its impact seemed pale in comparison to the reception of my conducting during the entire program. / The little baton had such an easy victory over my Stradivari. But it felt more bitter than sweet, and when offers for guest conducting began to come in from all over the country, I swore never to touch the baton again. I never did, and so my concert in Denver has the distinction of being my first and last as conductor. << less