Edgar Mouncher (1885 - 1970)
Between 1965 and 1968, I was taught the violin by Mr Edgar Mouncher, who had been a student of Professor Otakar Ševčík in Prague from 1909 to 1912.
Searching the Web in 2006 for references, I am surprised to find more biographical detail (at any rate, in English) about Mouncher than about Ševčík (which I hope may one day be rectified). In particular, I should draw attention to the biographical article about Mouncher by his friend Albert Coooper.
Since I supose that there are not many people alive today who have been taught by a Ševčík pupil, nor indeed versed in the technique taught in the latter part of the 19th century, I thought it might be of interest to chronicle here my experience and recollections, particularly insofar as they contribute to what is known about Professor Otakar Ševčík.
I am certainly not the most illustrious of Mouncher's pupils. That honour might perhaps belong to Eda Kersey (1904 - 1944), who died tragically young. Nor am I his youngest: for a while, he taught my younger sister Clare. I was, however, his last pupil, and believe that I am now the only one to be still playing.
I recall having misgivings about receiving lessons from an 80-year-old. I imagined someone wrapped in blankets, talking in a faint squeaky voice. I was in for a surprise. Although he was a little slow on his feet, Mr Mouncher was as alert and agreeable as I could wish, and I soon discovered that he was a fascinating raconteur, often regaling me with stories of Prague in the 1910s. He always dressed the same, in a smart and well-made pinstripe suit, white shirt and stiff collar, grey tie with lyre-shaped tie-pin. Although his clothes were a little shiny with age, he was always immaculately turned out, and not a hair out of place.
At our first meeting, Mouncher wished to listen to me play, to see if I was suitable material. He quickly and enthusiastically decided that I was, and so plans were laid.
Lessons were to be once a fortnight, for a nominal hour. My father was encouraged to attend all my lessons, so that he could remind me of anything necessary while supervising my practice.
I was to do one hour's practice a day: less than that, we were told, would simply not be enough for me to make any progress. Not a single day was to be missed. Every missed practice would cause my playing to deteriorate: it would be like two steps forward, one step back.
At the outset, Mouncher rebuilt all the technique I'd learned to date. My stance, my bow-grip and my hold on the violin were all to be revised.
When standing, I was told that one must place one's weight on the left leg, with the right extended slightly forward and out. However, Mouncher pointed out, although this is what Ševčík taught, it was possible to play as Menuhin did, equally balanced on parted legs, and at times rocking from one to the other.
When seated, I was to position myself on the right of the chair so that I could set my right foot back, thus lowering my knee to make plenty of room for my bow.
The bow-grip was quite conventional, although the mechanics of it had never been properly explained to me before. Particularly crucial was the opposition of the point of the thumb (always bent outwards!) to the distal joint of the middle finger, making a kind of universal swivel joint with the bow, which was held just in front of the frog. [Subsequently I have tended to hold the stick a little further forward, so that the thumb is on the protective leather, and I am assured by a bowmaker that this is essential in order to preserve the stick, which otherwise wears away with resulting detriment to the balance.]
I had originally been taught to hold the violin with my left shoulder, not using any kind of shoulder-rest, so that it the instrument was not horizontal and projected at least 45° to the left. This, however, was to change. Instead, the instrument was to be more horizontal and almost straight in front of me. This, I was assured, was so that I wouldn't have to reach round so far with my bow, and would give me better bow control. In order to make this work, I was to have made a “Ševčík pad”, a rather full crescent moon shaped thick velvet pad stuffed hard with cotton wool. At one end a ribbon was to be attached, at the end of which was a hook designed to fasten to an eye at the other end of the pad. The pad would then be inserted under the jacket, the ribbon passed round the back of the neck, under the tie and so to the eye fastening. It was to be made about 6.5in from end to end, about 4 in wide at the widest point, and about 1.5in deep.
To this end, he produced a piece of paper and we made a tracing round his own pad, which he had faithfully copied from Ševčík's original.
I was to have a different chin-rest, too, with a substantial ridge crossing the tail-piece to give the chin a firmer, more positive grip. It should be impossible for someone to pull the instrument out from under my chin.
I was surprised to find that after the first lesson, Mouncher never simply listened to me play, but would always play with me. Sometimes he would stop me and demonstrate a point of technique, but then I would have to do it with him. The nearest I came to playing alone was when we did the Kalliwoda Duos — great fun they were too, and I think he intended them as a bit of light relief.
Part of Mouncher's style was that once we had studied a piece to his satisfaction, we'd move on to something that at first sight looked impossibly difficult. He would choose a piece of music – typically from the second half of the nineteenth century – that posed seemingly insuperable technical demands. Then we would address these using relevant exercises from Ševčík's progressive studies.
Once or twice, when confronted by a passage that gave me especial difficulty, Mouncher would have me practise it using different rhythm, reverse bowing, and even playing it backwards. To my surprise, approaching a passage by repeatedly using these transformations of the original material – some of which seemed easier, and some harder, than the original – always resulted in solving the technical problem; and I have since wondered if there was not a considerable psychological advantage in this approach. Instead of repeatedly attempting, and stumbling at, one and the same problem, this approach tended to dilute the terrors of the passage at issue and present more variety in the pursuit of the single goal. There was also the sense that there was no such thing as an insuperable problem: any technical demand, no matter how daunting, would eventually yield to a properly mounted attack — and this tended to increase one's confidence that initial difficulties would eventually be surmounted.
At the same time, it was always presupposed that overcoming difficulties involved a lot of hard work. The Ševčík ethic was certainly a work ethic, and lessons often involved very extensive and repeated exercises. My lessons were nominally one hour long, but it was rare for them to be less than an hour and a half, and on occasion they might even last three hours. On a couple of occasions I remember becoming so exhausted that tears of fatigue began silently to roll down my cheeks. These were not emotional tears, and indeed I would try to brush them away so that Mouncher would not see them. Only once or twice in my subsequent life have I encountered the same phenomenon when working at the point of exhaustion, so that I have been able to confirm to myself that that is how it was during those one or two most exacting lessons. At the time, what I took away from those sessions was the need to practise more effectively — although I don't think I then had as clear an idea of the systematic approach to difficulty that Mouncher was showing me.
For the most part, my lessons involved a mixture of technical exercises – scales, Ševčík exercises and studies — and taxing pieces of music. The latter were not studied with a view to performance, but in order to ground my technical learning. When it was necessary to play a piece in public, or for an examination, Mouncher would choose something that I could play relatively easily, the technical difficulty whereof I had already mastered in the course of studying much more daunting works.
Various aspects of his teaching would be seen as unusual nowadays. One was his insistence on wrist action in the bow arm. To help with practising this, he recommended making a little S-shaped hook out of stiff wire to hold the bow stick, and then holding it in front of the face at about the position where the bow would touch the string when playing normally. Then, one could silently practise drawing the bow up with the wrist flexed and the fingers extended, and then down with the fingers flexed and the wrist extended, so that the wrist would seem to “drag” the bow-hand as the bow changed direction.
He attached such importance to wrist action that it was taught from the outset. Later, I was taught how to use this action to bow using “wrist stroke”, so that I could play faster notes without moving my forearm.
Another interesting feature of his teaching was that vibrato was absolutely banned. Mouncher taught me that while vibrato was OK during performance, it should never, never be used when practising a piece. (Much later, I was to learn vibrato from one of Mouncher's pupils, who instructed me to do so with a precise rhythm, so that e.g. one could do vibrato in quavers, semiquavers, triplets or whatever was suitable — but always in a precise, non-arbitrary tempo. It may be that this is how Mouncher taught his more advanced pupils.) I remember once, just once, doing a little bit of vibrato on a longish note – I must have been getting carried away – and I can still remember Mouncher's dismal tone as he said, “Oh, don't do vibrato.” If you can imagine a mother, more in sorrow than in anger, telling her child not to pick his nose, then you will have the feel of how he said it.
When I first went to Mouncher, I hadn't really started on third position. Once I had got my basic technique straight, this (together with wrist action) was my first major technical hurdle. Mouncher taught using the Ševčík studies, of course, according to which the slide of the finger is always heard as a slow, deliberate glissando. Instead of the “jumps” that I typically make nowadays, bad boy, I was taught to plan which finger was to do the slide, play the slide audibly, and then if necessary adjust the finger to reach the destination note. If, for example, moving from the first finger B on the A string to the second finger E in third position, one could either slide the first finger up to D (making sure that the whole slide was audible and the D perfectly in tune) before putting the second finger down for E, or one could put the second finger down for C, then slide up on 2nd. Even when playing in a concert, Mouncher stressed, the slide must always be played — just very fast, so that it isn't noticeable.
No sooner had I mastered third position than 2nd, 5th, 4th, 7th, 9th and beyond followed in swift succession, each with their battery of almost exactly similar repetitive exercises.
Once or twice, the issue arose of my taking Associated Board grade examinations. When it did, Mouncher would ask me whether I wanted to, and I would (quite honestly) reply that I would rather not. Then, Mouncher would nod dismissively and say, “I don't pay much attention to grade exams. You can grade eggs, but not violinists.”
If my experience is typical, it would seem that the Ševčík approach tended to take musicianship for granted. I do not remember any particular guidance as to interpretation. Certainly, dynamic and tempo markings were taken seriously. Where playing high on the G string would give a better tone than lower on the D or A strings, the G string was prescribed. But in every case, if one played the right note on the right string in a reliable manner, with the bow in the right place, and using the correct degree of pressure, then the result was assured.
On several occasions, when preparing a piece for performance, Mouncher would assure me that precise timing and rhythm were not criticial: “You are the soloist,” he would say, “ and the job of the accompanist is to follow you, not the other way round.” I vaguely recall him citing the celebrated accompanist Gerald Moore to this effect, and even more vaguely a rather offhand indication that he and Mouncher may have played together once or twice.
I came to understand some aspects of Mouncher's teaching better only when my lessons with him came to an end, and I had to move on to another teacher. One thing I remember from my next teacher was his frequent demand for “more tone”. And I would think, “more tone? How do I do ‘more tone’?” Only later did I come to realize that with Mouncher, I had never been asked to do anything without it having been properly explained first. Also, “tone” was not something that was asked for: instead, I think it was assumed that a good sound would inevitably follow from the use of good technique.
Mouncher frequently illustrated his points with illuminating reminiscences and anecdotes. I have grouped those about Ševčík below. But just as New Testament parables always illustrate a theological point, so Mouncher's anecdotes were always told with a view to establishing a particular teacher/pupil relationship, or inculcating a specific attitude to the work at hand.
(After some of the more ridiculous stories, such as the one about the automatic mute below, Mouncher would finish with his characteristic silent laugh. This is how I came to know that he retained at least a few of his original teeth, and refused to wear dentures. Later, his wife was to tell me that for the last two decades of his life, Mouncher existed solely on a diet of Complan, a kind of liquid food for the elderly. It would have been typical of Mouncher's respect for science that he would have regarded this as an “ideal” diet for one of advanced years.)
On a couple of occasions, I remember Mouncher asking me if I enjoyed school. Did I get on well at school? Were my marks, you know, okay? I would answer that my marks were, yes, okay, and I quite liked school. Actually my marks were typically pretty damn good, but in the presence of someone really accomplished (and extremely modest) like Mouncher, modesty seemed the only right course. — And was I happy at school? Well, not really. — Did I think that my school days would be the happiest of my life? I certainly hoped not! — At this, Mouncher would chuckle encouragingly, and assure me that he was miserable at school, and not very good at his lessons. He was always too interested in the violin, he would tell me. And did I like sport?
No — I was able to reply without hesitation — sport was the one thing I cordially detested.
At this response, Mouncher would look reflective; and given his highly didactic approach, it says something that he would toss his head to and fro, and after a moment, say, “Well, I suppose that some people like sport, and some people prefer other things.” I remember it being quite gratifying that he was very respectful of different preferences and aptitudes, even in the case of people some seventy years his junior and with at most one thousandth part of his talent. And then Mouncher would sigh, and confess that he, himself, had been quite keen on sport, and particularly tennis. But he had had to give up sport, including tennis, because it might have damaged his wrists — and as a violinist, he had to look after his wrists.
And with that, Mouncher would give me a knowing look, as if to say, “If you want to look after your wrists, you had better not do any sport.”
Whilst firm and highly demanding, Mouncher was encouraging too, always commenting on any progress that had been made, so that the pupil felt confident that even greater progress would follow. (I find myself wishing that my subsequent teachers had had that valuable ability to communicate hope and self-belief.) At the same time, he never failed to communicate the immense seriousness of the undertaking, nor its great difficulty. Learning the violin was hard work, sacrifice and struggle, and it was also an immense privilege, for in working at the art one was walking in the footsteps of the great musicians of the past. Practice was a solemn, almost religious, duty. While he was certainly not always solemn, there was never any doubt about Mouncher's seriousness and he certainly communicated it to his pupil.
He delighted in recalling a man in his thirties who had come to him, long before, declaring that he would like to learn the Elgar concerto. After a couple of elementary lessons, and only rudimentary progress, the adult pupil became impatient, and asked how long it would be before he could get started on the concerto. Mouncher assured him that it would be many years. The pupil, appalled, revealed that he thought it would take only a couple of months. “No,” replied Mouncher, “it will be many, many years: perhaps ten, perhaps twenty.” After that lesson, the pupil never reappeared.
Mouncher told us about his first meeting with Ševčík. He was extremely nervous. Ševčík always spoke in slow and emphatic German: in those days it was not the done thing to speak Czech in upper middle-class society. Towards the end of the first interview, which Mouncher found every bit as terrifying as he had expected, he ventured to ask how much practice he should do each day while studying at the academy: three hours? Five hours?
Ševčík looked at him intently for some time, and then, unusually, replied in heavily-accented English: “Tventy-four hour in day. [Pause] Tventy-four hour enough not.”
Every weekend, the students at the academy would put on a public concert. During the week, the violinists would all practise a set concerto. Just before the concert, Ševčík would have them all stand round him and would then pick today's soloist. And then they would go on stage and perform!
Once, a soloist's E string broke during a slow movement. Incredible as it seems, one of the other students fitted a replacement while the soloist continued to play up on the A string.
Ševčík set great store by the practice of the specially graduated exercises for which his method is famous. His students would have to play these for hours and hours each day. One of the oldest students at the academy was a German, who was constantly heard practising the advanced bowing exercises. The man's single-mindedness was amazing: he seemed to play nothing else. One day, Mouncher asked him how long he had been practising these bowing exercises. “About forty years,” came the reply. Mouncher looked at me as he told this, his face expressive of round-eyed astonishment, and then, with a little smile and a shake of his head, he said ruminatively, “Very thorough, those Germans.”
Ševčík was a very strict teacher, a man of iron will who expected unquestioning obedience. When Mouncher first went to the academy, Ševčík would be constantly smoking short black Russian cigarettes — very strong. No sooner had one gone out than he would light the next. One day, Ševčík's doctor told him: “if you don't stop smoking those things, you'll be a dead man within a year.”
Ševčík stopped smoking immediately and completely, and never smoked again. However, such was the force of his habit that his fingers kept going up to his lips, and when he caught himself doing this, he would sit on his right hand. But this didn't always work, and the hand would come up again.
One of the members of the academy was something of an inventor, and he devised an automatic mute that could be put on and taken off by rocking a specially designed chin-rest in a certain way. Students tried it out, but the project was deemed a failure because people kept setting and unsetting the mute accidentally.
On one occasion, Ševčík became irritated by one of his pupils, not a particularly good player, who always took a long time to tune his instrument. “Come on, that's enough,” Ševčík said, “that's as in tune as you'll ever play!
It strikes me that Ševčík was very much a man of his place and time — although in some respects he was perhaps ahead of it. The extremely methodical appraoch, the quasi-scientific focus on technique, bear comparison with the highly methodical approach to composition that was emerging in the Vienna of the early twentieth century. Likewise, the austere reductionist philosophy of the Wiener Kreis, particularly as envisaged by Witgenstein, was an attempt to describe the whole of reality in terms of individual, simple atoms.
However, my experience of the Ševčík method was certainly not that of a deadening reductionism; rather, it was a tool by means of which a teacher could help a pupil to overcome his limitations and progress to the playing of more demanding music. Certainly, I never gained the impression that technique was an end in itself.
Indeed, I think that technique and the Ševčík method were never more than a framework within which a teacher could teach more effectively. In the end, it is not the system, but the teacher who teaches; and whatever system enables the teacher to teach effectively, that system is right for that teacher and that pupil.
On 13 July 1967, My sister, my father and I attended a farewell concert at Taunton's Grammar School, Southampton. Mouncher and his wife Muriel had taught there for many years, and now Muriel was finally retiring, so the concert was being held in their honour.
In fact, the couple had also both taught at the other Southampton Grammar School, King Edward V. (The latter still exists: the former exists in name alone, as the name was transferred to a sixth form college created on the site of the former Girls' Grammar School in Bellemoor Road. The original Taunton's School was built on a site bequeathed to the city for educational purposes, and two schools were built on the land, Taunton's in the early C20 and Oakmount after World War II. In the late 1980s the City Council decided to sell the land for housing and the schools were destroyed.)
Muriel was considerably younger than Edgar — by at least fifteen years. Their youngest daughter, Anthea, had a house in Lodge Road and in about 1966 the parents decided to sell their home in Belmont Road and move to the larger, airier house in Lodge Road. The house name “Cremona” went with them. It was a pleasure to see Anthea's magnificent harp standing in a corner of the music room.
Shortly after the move, Edgar was contacted by Southern Television to record a programme called The Best Years of your Life. It was intended to display the talents of people over the age of eighty. Edgar recorded what was probably his last recital for this programme. Sadly, the series was never broadcast.
Later in 1967, there was a joyous celebration: I think that Edgar and Muriel may have assisted at a parental bottle-opening after I won the Full Music Scolarship to Downside, mainly on the strength of my violin playing. (Although lesser music awards were made, I was the only person to win this scholarship until after 1972.) Of course, Mouncher had been preparing me for it and although it was a pretty small-scale triumph compared with some of his past achievements, it was perhaps the last triumph of his teaching career.
By 1968, Edgar felt that his eyesight and hearing were deteriorating to the point that he could no longer continue teaching, or even playing. He asked my father if he would like to buy his violin, to which my father readily agreed, and so the deal was struck for the princely sum of £300 — it does not seem very much for a Camillus Camilli nowadays, and I suspect that it wasn't much even in 1968. (Inflation had not really got going yet, and I remember at about the same time going to Hill's in London and getting a Pfretzschner bow for £21 that was informally valued at over £200 when it went in for its first re-hair three years later.)
I wrote to Mouncher every term and he wrote back, his painstaking copper-plate appearing more quivery as time went on. I visited him during the school holidays: he was always very glad to see me, particularly because I was able to enunciate in such a way that he could hear what I was saying. The last time I saw him, it was plain that he felt he had lived his allotted span and would rather pass on.
I remember that once he asked me if I had any desire to become a professional musician. I probably replied that I was not sure. He advised me against it, saying that I would enjoy playing much more if I didn't have to do it for my work. He referred to some orchestral musicians he'd known who didn't enjoy their work at all. (To this day I'm not sure if this well-meant advice was also in recognition of my own technical limitations.)
After his death, I visited his widow Muriel. She remembered Edgar very fondly; at the same time, she acknowledged that she had been married to a man from a different age. He had been an extremely autocratic husband and father. For example, he would always dine apart from the children. Everyone in the family had a set bed-time — even his wife had to be tucked up by 9p.m. So it was with a gleeful flourish that Muriel offered me a glass of sherry in the late morning. I got the impression that this kind of thing would not have been tolerated while dear Edgar was alive.
Before we parted, Muriel gave me part of his collection of sheet music. Most of the important scores had been donated to the library at Southampton University, but he asked for some pieces to be kept for me. Among the collection I was fortunate enough to find his copy of the Tchaikovsky concerto with some of Ševčík's fingerings written in — in ink!
She also gave me this New Year greeting card, which Ševčík had sent to Mouncher in December 1930, some four years before Ševčík died.
Edgar Mouncher
Professor of the Violin
FORMERLY PUPIL OF THE LATE
PROF. ŠEVČIK
Director of the Conservatoires of PRAGUE and VIENNA, and World-Famed Master of KUBELIK, KOCIAN, BRATZA, ZACHAREWITSCH, ZIMBALIST, HOCHSTEIN, MARIE HALL, MARJORIE HAYWARD, DAISY KENNEDY, ERICA MORINI, Etc., Etc.
Mr Edgar Mouncher, for over three years, in Vienna and Bohemia, a pupil of Professor Sevcik, is open to accept engagements for Recitals, Concerts, etc., and to receive a limited number of Pupils in Violin Playing.
The following Testimonial from Prof. Sevcik qualifies Mr. Mouncher in very high degree as an exponent of the famous Method which has produced so many of the great Violinists of the present day.
COPY OF TESTIMONIAL
(Officially Translated)
“I, the undersigned, hereby certify that the Violinist, Mr. Edgar Mouncher, of Southampton, England, studied with me from September, 1909, until December, 1912. He completed his studies in Violin Playing in excellent manner, and has acquired a thoroughly sound knowledge of my Teaching Method. By reason of this I can, in the warmest possible manner, recommend Mr. Edgar Mouncher as a Teacher of Violin Playing and as a Soloist.”
(Signed) PROF. OTAKAR ŠEVČIK
(Director of the Master School for Violin Playing at the
Royal and Imperial Academy of Music in Vienna).
(Dated) Vienna, Dec. 3rd, 1912.
The above Testimonial is legally attested by Dr. Emerich Fiala.
(State Notary).
Henri Bastarsch, Violin Professor, Prague Conservatoire, writing in the “Sumavske Proudy,” Bohemia, says:— “Mr. Edgar Mouncher, who played Mozart's D Major Concerto, evinced a devoted interest to technique in the interpretation of the selected composition. Exceptionally pleasing was his absolute certainty in the difficult arpeggios, as also the fiery rendering of the sforzandos. Equally satisfactory was his glissando, which was played throughout with finish and elegance. The Cadenza in which the most difficult violin technique prevails (double triple and quadruple stopping, left hand pizzicato, etc.), was rendered solidly and with surety. The difficult passages on the G string, and the pure and clear trilling towards the finish roused the audience to a loud storm of applause and approval.”
Sumavske Proudy, Bohemia.
“From first to last was an increasing admiration of the crystal purity of tone and absolute mastery of all difficulties.”
Kunst und Literatur, Prague.
“Mr. Edgar Mouncher is a Violinist who has been studying with Sevcik. Very favoruable reports are to hand of is playing at a concert given by the famous master in Bohemia. Mr. Mouncher was especially commended for the surety of his technique.”
The Strad, London
“Edgar Mouncher, the Violinist, who left Southampton some years ago to study with Sevcik, has returned here again a finished artiste, and one of whom his native town should be proud. He has a far-reaching connection.”
Musical Standard, London.
“Mr. Edgar Mouncher, a brilliant Violinist, played in masterly style and with delightful expression, achieving also admirably balanced interpretation.”
Bristol Times.
“Splendid technique and virtuosity of a highly finished artiste.”
Clifton Chronicle.
“A tone of exceeding beauty, and a fine exhibition of technique marked by sane musicianly qualities.”
Bournemouth Guardian.
“A Violinist with a great reputation, an almost perfect technique, style fluent and easy, with rare interpretation.”
Dorset Daily Echo.
“A splendid rendering of Veracini's ‘A minor Sonata,’ technical display being submerged into making the purest of music.”
Portsmouth Evening News.
“Sir Thomas Beecham, at the Guildhall, Portsmouth, conducted a remarkably fine concert in connection with the Imperial League of Opera. The big orchestra of over seventy selected musicians was brilliantly led by Mr. Edgar Mouncher.”
“He possesses all the essential qualities of the true artiste — technique, temperament, and confidence — and, from his opening contribution, Mozart's lengthy and exacting ‘Concerto in D,’ to his concluding number, Wieniawski's ‘Airs Russe,’ he always held his audience. The programme submitted represented every phase of art from the florid work of Mozart, and a tender nocturne by Chopin, to a stately movement by Beethoven, and a particularly difficult Bohemian Dance (‘Holka Modrooka’) by his old master. Perhaps, however, he was heard at his best in the exquisitely delicate Chopin-Wilhelmj ‘Nocturne in D,’ Bazzini's lively ‘Witches' Dance,’ and Wieniawski's ‘Concerto in D Minor.’”
Southern Echo.
“The finest performance since the visit of Kreisler.”
Southampton Times.
“Mr. Mouncher is a virtuoso of high order, his solos being played in a manner possible only to the really finished artiste. He placed no reserve on his power of emotional expression, and his sentiment is of the purest type.”
I.W. County Press
“Mr. Edgar Mouncher is a player whose possession of many of the finer artistic qualities entitles him to special consideration on the part of all genuine and cultivated music lovers. Beginning with Saint-Saens ‘Concerto in B Minor,’ the three movements of which served to show the performer's technical competence undergoing a sustained test, he met with a reception the enthusiasm of which was obviously spontaneous. In Bach's ‘Sonata No. 2’ he succeeded in bringing out the details with remarkable clearness, and at the same time infusing into it those emotional qualities without which such a composition becomes merely the excuse for a display of virtuosity. The ‘Allemanda’ and ‘Tempo de Bouree’ were particularly fine. His masterly treatment of Saint-Saens ‘Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso’ won him a storm of applause, and from this point he triumphed till the end, giving some small numbers and Hubay's ‘Carmen Fantasie’ with perfect ease and confidence.”
Hampshire Chronicle
For further particulars and terms address —
EDGAR MOUNCHER,
“Cremona,”
40, Belmont Road,
Southampton.
Professor of the Violin at Wellington College.
Lessons given in :—
LONDON
BOURNEMOUTH
SOUTHSEA
RYDE, I.W.
WINCHESTER
SOUTHAMPTON