In all Europe there is no match for Sergei Koussevitzky, bull fiddler. Last week in Boston he forgot for an evening he was a great conductor, gave a concert alone with his first love. One arm over its shoulder, his head bravely near its horns, he stroked it, caressed it, hypnotized it until it fairly quivered with the excitement of making music again. Fleetly, like a master violinist he put it through the most intricate paces. Solemnly, majestically he let it announce itself father and ruler of them all. Ladies, victims long since to...
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