"From a position of
first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician. How did it
happen?"
Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.
"The fault," he declared, "is here. I have not the--what do you call
it--sense? What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times
before--in Italy, in France, in Spain. I have not the good sense!"
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.
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