Joseph Kaye

One autumn night in the eighties a young Irishman of twenty-seven, who had passed most of his life in Germany, took his place in the orchestra pit of the Metropolitan Opera House to play the cello. His name was Victor Herbert. He had just arrived in New York, and from his obscure seat he looked around curiously at the mass of faces glowing weirdly in the vast, dim auditorium. He felt a symbolic force in the crowding immensity of the place, in the numerous dazzling points of light that leaped...