During the adagio there was a look of rapture, of ecstasy on his face; it was as if he had experienced a “transubstantiation.” One or two other fine works still remained to be played at the concert, but we didn't wait for them. I accompanied Berlioz to his door. On the way no word was exchanged between us: we were still hearing the Adagio and its sublime prayer. As I said good-bye he took my hand and said: “That man had everything … and we have nothing!”

To my mind Anton Bohrer feels and understands the popularly supposed eccentric and unintelligible works among Beethoven’s output as few men do. I can see him now, at quartet rehearsals,with his brother Max (the well-known cellist, now in America), Claudel, second violin, and Urhan, viola, in ardent support. Max, at the strains of this transcendental music,would smile with the sheer pride and delight of playing it; he had the relaxed, contented air that comes from breathing one’s native element. Urhan worshipped in silence, eyes averted as though from the radiance of the sun; he seemed to be saying,“God willed that there should be a man as great as Beethoven, and that we should be allowed to contemplate him. God willed it.” Claudel admired the others for the depth of their admiration. But with Anton Bohrer, the first violin, it was a sublime passion, an ecstasy of love.