"When the quartettes were ended, the Baron said, 'A heavenly fellow, this Haydn; he knows how to touch the heart; but he has not an idea of writing for the violin. Perhaps he does not wish to do it; for if he did, and wrote in the only true manner, as Tartini did, you would never be able to play it.'
"It was now my turn to play some variations which Haak had written for me.
"The Baron stood close behind me, looking at the notes. You may imagine the agitation with which I commenced, having this severe critic at my elbow. Presently, however, a stirring allegro movement carried me away. I forgot all about the Baron, and managed to move about with all freedom within the sphere of skill and power which stood then at my command.
"When I had finished, the Baron patted me on the shoulder, and said, 'You may stick to the violin, my son; but as yet you have not an idea of bowing or expression, probably because, up to this time, you haven't had a proper master.'
"We then sat down to table, in another room, where there was a repast laid out and served, which, especially as regarded the rare and marvellous wines, was to be characterized as very extravagant. The musicians dipped deeply into everything set before them. The talk, which waxed more and more animated, was almost entirely on the subject of music. The Baron emitted complete treasures of the most marvellous information. His opinions and views, most keen and penetrating, proved him to be not only the most instructed of connoisseurs, but also the most accomplished, talented, and tasteful of artists. What was specially striking to me was a sort of portrait gallery of violinists which he went through to us in description. So much of it as I remember I will tell you.
"'Corelli,' said the Baron, 'was the first to break out the path. His compositions can only be played in the real Tartini manner, and that is sufficient to prove how well he knew the true art of violin-playing. Pugnani is a passable player. He has tone, and plenty of brains, but, although he has a tolerable amount of appogiamento, his bowing is too feeble altogether. What have not people told me of Geminiani! and yet, when I heard him last, some thirty years ago in Paris, he played like a somnambulist striding about in a dream, and one felt as if one were in a dream one's self. It was all mere tempo rubato; no sort of style or delivery. That infernal tempo rubato is the ruin of the very best players; they neglect their bowing over it. I played him my sonatas; he saw his error, and asked me to give him some lessons, which I was very glad to do. But he was too far sunk into his old method. He had grown too old in it--he was ninety-one. May God forgive Giardini, and not punish him for it in eternity; but he it was who first ate the apple of the tree of knowledge, and brought sin upon all subsequent players. He was the first of your tremolandoists and flourishers. All he thinks about is his left hand, and those fingers of his that have the power of jumping hither and thither. He has no idea of the important fact that it is in the right hand that the soul of melody lies--that from every throb of its pulses stream forth the powers that awaken the feelings of the heart. Oh! that every one of those "flourishers" had a stout old Jomelli at his elbow to rouse him out of his craziness by a good sound box on the ear--as Jomelli actually did--when Giardini, in his presence, spoilt a glorious passage of melody by jumps, trills, and "mordenti." Lulli, too, conducts himself in a preposterous way. He is one of your damnable perpetrators of jumps. An adagio he can't play, and his sole quality is that for which ignoramuses, without sense or understanding, admire him with their stupid mouths agape. I say it again: with Narbini and me will die the true art of the violinist. Young Viotti is a fine fellow, full of promise. He is indebted to me for what he knows, for he was a most industrious pupil of mine. But what does it all amount to? No endurance! No patience! He wouldn't go on studying with me. Now, Kreutzer I still hope to get hold of and make something of. He has availed himself assiduously of my lessons, and will again, when I get back to Paris. That concerto of mine which you are studying, Haak, he played not at all badly a short time since. But he hasn't the hand, yet, to wield my bow. Giarnovichi shall never cross my doorstep again. There's a stupid coxcomb for you! A fellow who has the effrontery to turn up his nose at the grand Tartini--master of all masters--and despises my lessons. What I should like to know is, what that boy Rhode will turn out after he has had lessons from me? He promises well, and I have an idea that he will master my bow.'
"The Baron turned to me, saying, 'He is about your age, little son, but of a more serious, deep-thoughted nature. You appear to me--don't take it ill if I say so--to be a little bit of a--well, I mean, you lack purpose. However, no matter. Now you, dear Haak, I have great hopes of. Since I have been teaching you you have become quite another man. Keep up your unresting zeal and industry. Never waste a single hour. You know that is what distresses me.'
"I was turned to stone with amazement and admiration at what I heard. I could not wait the necessary time to ask the concert-meister if it was all true---if the Baron was, really, the greatest violinist of the day--if he, my master himself, did actually take lessons from him.
"'Undoubtedly,' Haak said, 'he had no hesitation in accepting the profitable instruction which the Baron placed at his disposal; and he told me that I should do well if I went, some morning, to him myself, and asked him to let me have some lessons from him too.'
"To all the questions which I then put to him concerning the Baron and his artistic talent, Haak would give me no direct reply, but kept on telling me that I ought to do as he advised me, and I should then find out all about it myself.