One night we heard the gypsies entertaining the diners in an open-air tavern. It astonished me that they could fetch such extraordinary sounds from primitive instruments, using bows that were saplings strung with unbleached horsehair. At my urging, Aba made arrangements to have them visit our pension, where we matched nature against nature, they playing a repertoire as raw as bird calls, I playing the polished equivalent, Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata. Their leader gave me baskets of wild strawberries; I gave him one of my three new gold-mounted Sartory bows.