With the opening (& concluding) phrase of the last movement of the Sonata in E Major (109) still echoing in my head, I must write you a word of thanks for this lovely evening & one of regret that you were not with us at John Hunt’s recital. He played beautifully of course, such sincerity, such choice reticence & such perfect execution; but I felt: “Here’s a young man, still to make.” He knows, & feels, & is beautifully intelligent; but he hasn’t yet the emotional experience Beethoven really demands. Sometimes there was a sense of conscientious rectitude; & then I found myself thinking of the emotional giant in Beethoven that sometimes played with rather than on the piano & sometimes sat on it instead of at it. Hunt was “in the line”, as it were; wholly sensitive & appreciative, but seemingly a little non-committal where one felt Beethoven himself was impressive & full of emotional bravura. I aver that Hunt is young whatever his age, & that the best is yet to come; but he is good & nice, & I think Beethoven was good & nice & not just lush & disagreeable. (But as you know I know nothing, you can laugh at that & discount all I say for nonsense). Anyhow I loved it—got the cold streak down the back—& felt grateful to the pianist in the kind of way that the stupid modern concert room hasn’t room for, being too polite for spontaneity. There was a good sprinkling of people; but not enough (there never are, I think, unless the place is nearly empty or nearly full) & they seemed rather cold. I’m as certain as I am that I’m writing that Hunt would play better at Pine House than in any concert room—public one, I mean of course. —He needs the warmth of generous approbation to make him blossom. I wish he could come & play to you often; it would do him very precisely the good he needs. This hesitant English temparament needs more of the sun than its climate can give it. << less