But justification came into his eyes, and his hands began to gesticulate eloquently.
"Karlson is a Swede," with contempt. "The Swedes know the science of music; but they are hard; they are seldom artists; they cannot express. And when one of this nation—a man with the ice of his country in his soul—tried to instruct me how to play the warm music of my own Italy, I called him a fool!"
"I see," said the investigator.
"I am to blame," said Spatola, contritely. "But I could not help it. He was a fool, and fools seldom like to hear the truth."
"The Germans, now," said Ashton-Kirk, insinuatingly, "are somewhat different from the Swedes. Were you ever employed under a German conductor?"
"Twice," replied the violinist, with a shrug. "Nobody can deny the art of the Germans. But they have their faults. They say they know the violin. And they do; but the Italian has taught them. The violin belongs to Italy. It was the glory of Cremona, was it not? The tender hands of the Amatis, of Josef Guarnerius, of old Antonio Stradivari, placed a soul within the wooden box; and that soul is the soul of Italy!"
"Haupt, a German, wrote a treatise on the violin," said Ashton-Kirk. "If you would read that—"
"I have read it," cried Spatola. "I have read it! It is like that," and he snapped his fingers impatiently.
"But you've probably read a translation in the English or Italian," insisted the investigator, smoothly. "And all translations lose something of their vitality, you know."
"I have read it in the German," declared the Italian; "in his own language, just as he wrote it. It is nothing."