of it was unsought and unconscious.  Were I a teacher I should not say:  ‘You must bow as I do’; but rather:  ’Find the way of bowing most convenient and natural to you and use it!’ Bowing is largely a physical and individual matter.  I am slender but have long, large fingers; Kreisler is a larger man than I am but his fingers are small.  It stands to reason that there must be a difference in the way in which we hold and use the bow.  The difference between a great and a mediocre teacher lies in the fact that the first recognizes that bowing is an individual matter, different in the case of each individual pupil; and that the greatest perfection is attained by the development of the individual’s capabilities within his own norm.

[Illustration:  JACQUES THIBAUD, with signature]

MARSICK AS A TEACHER

“Marsick was a teacher of this type.  At each of the lessons I took from him at the Conservatoire (we went to him three days a week), he would give me a new etude—­Gavinies, Rode, Fiorillo, Dont—­to prepare for the next lesson.  We also studied all of Paganini, and works by Ernst and Spohr.  For our bow technic he employed difficult passages made into etudes.  Scales—­the violinist’s daily bread—­we practiced day in, day out.  Marsick played the piano well, and could improvise marvelous accompaniments on his violin when his pupils played.  I continued my studies with Marsick even after I left the Conservatoire.  With him I believe that three essentials—­absolute purity of pitch, equality of tone and sonority of tone, in connection with the bow—­are the base on which everything else rests.

THE MECHANICAL VERSUS THE NATURAL IN VIOLIN PLAYING

“Sevcik’s purely soulless and mechanical system has undoubtedly produced a number of excellent mechanicians of the violin.  But it has just as unquestionably killed real talent.  Kubelik—­there was a genuinely talented violinist!  If he had had another teacher instead of Sevcik he would have been great, for he had great gifts.  Even as it was he played well, but I consider him one of Sevcik’s victims.  As an illustration of how the technical point of view is thrust to the fore by this system I remember some fifteen years ago Kubelik and I were staying at the same villa in Monte-Carlo, where we were to play the Beethoven concerto, each of us, in concert, two days apart.  Kubelik spent the live-long day before the concert practicing Sevcik exercises.  I read and studied Beethoven’s score, but did not touch my violin.  I went to hear Kubelik play the concerto, and he played it well; but then, so did I, when my turn came.  And I feel sure I got more out of it musically and spiritually, than I would have if instead of concentrating on its meaning, its musical message, I had prepared the concerto as a problem in violin mechanics whose key was contained in a number of dry technical exercises arbitrarily laid down.