I saw Igor Stravinsky conduct only once, at Carnegie Hall in January 1957, when the New York Philharmonic performed Perséphone (1934), a “melodrama” in three parts, with a text by André Gide. (Vera Zorina narrated, Richard Robinson was the tenor soloist.) Stravinsky’s conductorial manner lived up to its reputation for idiosyncrasy. Unlike most of the flailers and sawyers occupying major podia, Stravinsky often did not move a muscle for entire pages. Crouched over the score, he gave almost no clues to the orchestra. Every so often he would majestically raise his left hand to his lips in order to moisten the fingers for a more rapid turning of the page below. As would be expected from any professional orchestra, the New York Philharmonic, along with the soloists and mixed chorus, busied itself with an attentive sonic realization of the work at hand. A few churlish types must have asked whether, during those moments of physical stasis in front of the orchestra, any conducting at all was going on, at least in the sense that most concertgoers are wont to expect. Indeed, I vividly recall more than a few titters from the front rows; one man cast his eyes toward the ceiling, shoulders shrugged, arms outstretched with palms up, as if to ask, This is a conductor?

Now, it should be said that, on the whole, there were proper motives for such immobility. Stravinsky was husbanding his powers for some special thrusts. At first, there might be a slight hip