“It iss beautiful—de melody. I did not believe you could do it, even on a Cremona.”
“It is not me, Herr, but this wonderful violin,” the girl cried in admiration.
“Oh, come, now, vhen ve simmer t’ings down to a fine point, de Cremona iss not so different from your own instrument, Miss Dorothy.”
“Oh, Herr, surely you are mistaken. Why, I seem to be dreaming when I am playing on the Cremona.”
“Und vhy iss dat? Because you have made up your mind dat dis iss absolutely de finest violin in de whole vorld, und have prepared yourself to hear somet’ing vhich iss not there. De tones are clear und full, but so are those of your own violin, on vhich you played for me vhen I vass here before.”
Dorothy shook her head in disbelief, unable to appreciate the full truth of his words.
Herr Deichenberg smiled.
“You von’t believe me, eh? Very vell. Let us on with de lesson. I shall convince you at another time.”
“I’m afraid you will have a hard time ever convincing me of that,” the girl replied.
Dorothy’s own violin was tuned, and on this, under the music master’s direction, she ran scales for the better part of an hour—to limber her fingers, Herr Deichenberg said.