Knave

A swarthy little man tipped back in his swivel chair one day last week and heaved a fat sigh of relief. He was Fortune Gallo, impresario of the San Carlo Opera Co., "whose trump card of the season has been his announcement that the San Carlo season in Manhattan would open Sept. 13 with none other than Pietro Mascagni at the conductor's desk." "Cavalleria first, of course, then Il Piccolo Marat, Mascagni's latest, NEVER BEFORE HEARD IN THE U. S. . . ." He read the press stories proudly, grinned back at the calendar that fairly flaunted Aug. 28. On the day, Signer Mascagni was to, did surely, sail.

Of course, there had been obstacles. The great composer, Mascagni was temperamental, yes. Once decades ago, a much-touted journey of his to this country had proved a castle in Spain; and later when he had made a trip here, to be sure, U. S. temperament-haters were disgusted at his antics. Only three years past U. S. music-lovers had been slightly vexed but not surprised to hear that he had again jumped ship in his home port. But the Maestro was now safe in his stateroom, had been quiescent for 24 hours, due only to his, Impresario Gallo's, efforts. Ah, in the last few months. . . . There had been releases to obtain from irate managers with whom Signer Mascagni had broken contracts; there had been assurances to secure, guarantees against any judicial proceedings that might be hanging over from an earlier visit when the great Mascagni had slipped by a score of creditors; then there had been reservations to be made in a secluded quiet hotel where the Maestro would not be disturbed by that "most offensive American jazz"; and there had been a special laundress found to do up his shirts, for had not those U. S. laundries ruined them on his previous visit? Trivialities here, pettinesses there, such as only an artist could conceive--all these had the Impresario overcome for the Maestro Mascagni, the superb Pietro, composer of Cavalleria Rusticana and myriad other operas. . . .

The rnext day newspapermen quizzed Mr. Gallo further. Mr. Gallo recanted. "No, Signor Mascagni did not sail. A cable had come. Explanations? No explanations. Perhaps, he would still come. These artists. . . . " It was a deflated Italian who sighed wearily this time, made a second announcement to a cynical music-loving public which no longer cared.