I remember rehearing Willy Burmester in Berlin in 1905. In the previous Budapest years I had, along with the rest of the city, applauded him with childish enthusiasm. My still vivid disappointment at his Berlin performance, the let-down I felt, clearly showed me that I had passed a turning point in my esthetic awareness when I abandoned myself wholeheartedly to the impact of Ysaÿe, Kreisler and Elman.