I met Pavlovsky in St. Louis, where we had two recitals with a repeated program. The severe cold, to which my cello had been sensitive, lowered the bridge and the strings, a condition that hardly permitted the sound to be heard. Not to overpower my painfully whispering cello, poor Pavlovsky barely touched the keys. The public, hearing me for the first time, probably accepted my miniature sound and did not act as if it missed anything. / Early next morning I was at the violinmaker. Even to change a string on the day of the concert could upset me, and to become accustomed to a new bridge required days. The new, very high bridge completely changed the sound of the cello. “Must I again play as if walking on a soft cheese?” asked Pavlovsky before the concert. / “Heavens, no. My cello refuses to play anything less than fortissimo.” / In the same hall, playing the same program, we thundered throughout the recital. / A critic came backstage. He looked at me carefully and said that he was wondering if I was the same man who played yesterday. “Formidable”, he marveled. “The same artist, but what a different conception! I don’t know which one I like better. Which do you prefer?” / “Neither”, I said.