nists
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 m