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Updated: June 11, 2025
Field looked at her husband. "Why, Ed, he is playing Sarasate!" "That's what he is," he returned, slangily, too much astonished to do more than gaze. Williams played on. There was a faint defect in the high notes, as if his fingers did not touch the strings properly, but his bow action showed cultivation and breadth of feeling.
Although Sarasate made Paris his home, he began to travel as early as 1859, and in 1872, when he played in Paris, he was welcomed as a new star. When his prestige was well established in Paris his friends advised him to go to Germany, but he feared that so soon after the Franco-German war he, who by long residence was practically a Frenchman, would not be welcome.
"To play the Sarasate alone to you?" he asked. "That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can." "I will come yes, I will come," Jethro answered, the lids drooping over his eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the created world. "Here is my address, then." Ingolby wrote something on his visiting-card. "My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well, good-bye."
"Paganini Joachim Sarasate any one, it is good enough," was the half-abstracted reply. "It is good enough for you almost, eh?" Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot into the Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganini or Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
M. Gregorowitsch is remarkable for a large tone, and in the smoothness and finish of his playing he has been compared with Sauret and with Sarasate. A far greater sensation was caused in America by Willie Burmester than by Gregorowitsch. Burmester was born in Hamburg in 1869, and received his first instruction from his father.
"Everywhere," he answered sullenly. "You've got the thing Sarasate had," Ingolby observed. "I only heard him play but once in London years ago: but there's the same something in it. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I've got it now." "Here in Lebanon?" The eyes of the Romany were burning. An idea had just come into his brain.
As his eyes brightened from gloom and sullenness to valiant enmity, they suddenly fell on a table in a corner where lay a black coffin-shaped thing of wood. In this case, he knew, was the Sarasate violin. Sarasate once he had paid ten lira to hear Sarasate play the fiddle in Turin, and the memory of it was like the sun on the clouds to him now. In music such of him as was real found a home.
When Frederick Keppel, the American print expert, first called upon the artist at the Tite Street studio, the famous portrait of Sarasate, "black on black," stood at the end of the long corridor that he used to form a vista for proper perspective of his work. Laying his hand on Keppel's shoulder, he said: "Now, isn't it beautiful?" "It certainly is," was the reply.
Sarasate appeals to those who have loved, and thought, and suffered those who have climbed the heights of passion and wrung out the depths of pain, and therefore the PEOPLE, taken en masse, as, for instance, in this crowded hall, instinctively respond to his magic touch. And why?
In the course of a year after entering the Conservatoire, Sarasate won the first prize for violin playing. From the first he manifested remarkable facility in mechanical execution, and his playing was distinguished for elegance and delicacy, though nothing indicated that his talent would become extraordinary.
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