Shortly after the war, Louis Kentner and I gave a recital in the Salle Pleyel in Paris. The hall was full, right down to the strapontins which fold down in the aisles, and to this mass audience we proposed to present Bartók, then scarcely known in France. The Sonata Number 1 was heard in considerate, or possibly considering, silence, and as it finished a fair volume of applause broke out. From the gallery, however, came shouts of “Ridicule!” “Absurde!” – the only spontaneous negative reaction I believe I have ever encountered. No tomatoes were thrown; in fact, the gallery’s thumbs-down only incited the rest of the hall to re-double its applause, which went on so long that finally it brought Kentner and me back to replay the last movement. Now, the last movement is relatively long. The prospect of being subjected to it again was more than one man in the hall could tamely countenance. He was seated on a strapontin in the central aisle – that is, in full view of the stage. Taking from his pocket a newspaper (the French can fold newspapers smaller than any other people), he patiently unfolded it, spread it to its full width, and read it with flamboyant concentration until Bartók, Kentner and I were done with. << less