“It is only to play?”
“Yes, for the present.”
“Then,” said the Master, changing the position of the bridge on the violin in his hand, “if you have no talents for composition, why do you not let the composer of your concerto have his own way? You should not correct him—it is most impolite.”
“What—what do you mean?” stammered Lynn.
“Nothing,” said the Master, “only, if you have no gifts, you should play G sharp where it is written, instead of G natural. It is not what one might call an improvement in the concerto.”
Lynn flushed, and began to play the movement over again, but before he reached the bar in question he had forgotten. When he came to it he played G natural again, and instantly perceived his mistake.
The Master laughed. “Genius,” he said, “must have its own way. It is not to be held down by the written score. It must make changes, flourishes, improvements. It is one pity that the composer cannot know.”
“I forgot,” temporised Lynn.
“So? Then why not take up the parlour organ? You should have an instrument on which the notes are all made. I should not advise the banjo, or even the concertina. The organ that turns by the handle would be better yet. To make the notes—that is most difficult, is it not so? Now, then, the adagio. Let us see how much you can better that.”
Lynn played it correctly, and with intelligence, but without feeling.