Naturally I was not allowed to take the “Swan” Strad to my hotel room on account of insurance-policy restrictions. It was up in the dust-laden rooms storing Mr. Wanamaker’s private collections that I had to practice. They were full of mementos, relics, curiosa; on the walls were photographs of the Pope and of General Pershing, and framed autographs of Napoleon, Edison, and other notables. I seem to recall some Madame Tussaudlike features, too: wax figures of Napoleonic soldiers in authentic uniforms; historic swords and saddles; death-masks without end. And I, walking about these rooms, which were peopled only by memorabilia, conjuring up a ghostlike past, practising fragments of the Bach Chaconne on what was also a relic, but a relic that sang out, a living thing amid the dust-covered museum pieces. << less