I recall noting as a child that even a less than first-rate French orchestra could invariably do justice to Mozart, whereas all but the best German orchestras punished his delicacy with a heavy hand, a comparison which taught me that Mozart could be appreciated only in a chivalrous tradition. Thibaud’s Mozart was without rival in my young days. Acquaintance with Kreisler did not blunt the worshipping regard of my youth, but rather the reverse; he remained for me the player who above all others spoke the music, as if each piece was a poem recited to the beloved.