WATCHING BERNARD HAITINK from the choir seats behind the orchestra at London’s Royal Festival Hall, I received free masterclasses over several years in the art and practice of conducting. Haitink would come on stage, bald pate sheened with sweat, and after a glance around the musicians get straight to business. Hands, eyes and lips in perpetual motion, the rest of him quite still.
What ensued was a revivalist miracle. A bunch of musicians who had been working non-stop since nine in the morning and might not get home before midnight, had their fatigue dispelled by
