I waited, although boiling over with rage, until the end of the movement, then, in the moment’s silence that followed, I yelled: “Who dares play tricks with Gluck and put cymbals where there are none?” The murmuring around may be imagined. The public, not being particularly critical, could not conceive why that young idiot in the pit should get so excited over so little. But it was worse when the absence of the trombones made itself evident in the recitative. Again that fatal voice was heard: “Where are those trombones? This is simply outrageous!” The astonishment of audience and orchestra were fairly matched by Valentino’s very natural anger. I heard afterwards that the unlucky trombones were only obeying orders; their parts were quite correctly written. After that night the proper readings were restored, the cymbals were silent, the trombones spoke; I was serene. De Pons, who was just as crazy as I on this point, helped me to put several other points straight but once we went too far and dragged in the public at our heels. A violin solo advertised for Baillot was left out. We clamoured for it furiously, the pit fired up, then the whole house rose and howled for Baillot. The curtain fell on the confusion, the musicians fled precipitately, the audience dashed into the orchestra smashing everything they could lay hands on and only stopping when there was nothing left to smash. In vain did I cry: “Messieurs, messieurs! what are you doing? To break the instruments is too barbarous. That’s Father Chénié’s glorious double-bass with its diabolic tone.” But they were too far gone to listen, and the havoc was complete. This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was our wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy modulation, a telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo _claqueurs_, the _claque_ leader, who knew better and whose little plans were upset, tried to wither us with thunderbolt glances, but we were bomb-proof. There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold. Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept off Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear _Œdipus_; however, nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him utterly impervious to the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped over into a seat in front, giving him up in despair. But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement. “Sir, for pity’s sake, do try to be calm.” “Impossible! It’s killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming!” “My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really shouldn’t.” “Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh!”