A century ago the world revered a great symphony conductor, an Italian maestro named Arturo Toscanini (1867 – 1957), who led concerts all over the world. He was known as an absolute perfectionist and had few peers. Toscanini had a biographer who would interview him periodically over the years as a part of a major book he was writing.
One evening he called Toscanini and told him that he would be in town the next night, and asked if he could come to the house to interview him. Toscanini answered that he could not because he would be doing something special that would require absolute concentration; he could not be interrupted. “Maestro,” the biographer said, “what are you doing that’s so special?”
“There is a concert being played overseas. I used to be the conductor of that symphony orchestra, but I could not be there this year. So I’m going to listen on a shortwave radio and hear how the other conductor leads the orchestra. I don’t want any interruptions whatsoever.”
“Maestro, it would be my greatest pleasure to watch how you listen to a concert played by an orchestra that you used to lead. I promise I won’t say anything. I’ll sit on the other side of the room, quietly.”
“If you promise to be perfectly quiet, you can come,” Toscanini said.
The next night, the biographer came and sat quietly while Toscanini listened to the concert, which lasted almost an hour. When it ended, the biographer remarked, “Wow, wasn’t that magnificent?”
Toscanini said, “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“They were supposed to be 120 musicians, including 15 violinists. Only 14 of them played.”
The biographer thought he was joking. How could he know from six thousand miles away, over shortwave radio, that one of the violinists was missing? The biographer had his doubts but didn’t want to say anything and went home. The next morning, he called the concert hall overseas, asked for the music director, and inquired as to how many musicians were supposed to have been playing the night before versus how many had actually shown up. The concert hall director told him that there were supposed to be 120 musicians, including 15 violinists, but only 14 had shown up!
The biographer was amazed. He returned to Toscanini and said, “Sir, I owe you an apology. I thought you were just making it up the other night. But please, tell me, how could you know that one violinist was missing?”
“There is a great difference between you and me,” Toscanini answered. “To the audience everything sounds wonderful. But I’m the conductor, and the conductor has to know every note of music that has to be played. When I realized that certain notes were not being played, I knew without a doubt that one of the violinists was missing.”
We should take the story’s message to heart. Every one of us has been given the gift of playing a part, small as it might be, in the symphony of life. It may seem insignificant to some. But the Conductor is intensely aware of our playing, of every note we hit correctly as well as every mistake that mars the beauty of the entire performance. For as long as we are still a member of the orchestra, we have the privilege to faithfully carry out our assigned task to the best of our ability.
