Don’t they, indeed? It is a dozen years since England heard the last of Kreisler and what resides in the ear is a mist of nostalgia. It is ever thus with living legends: we forgive their latterday lapses and remember them only as they played in their prime. Kreisler the magnificent is a thing of the distant past. We had been waiting for the next Kreisler long before the last one left the platform.

Here, however, we have the glimmer of an oncoming heir. For those who see omens in such things, his début concert at the Royal Albert Hall on 3 May will fall thirty years less a day to the night that King Kreisler made his triumphant return to London after the Great War, a night when the sweet tone of a stringed instrument dispelled agonies of mortal struggle and human loss. The coming 3 May, one has the suspicion, could be another such night.

From what I have seen of the promising Eli Rapoport, in out-of-the-way recitals that he has been giving under Mr Simmonds’ careful management in Basingstoke, Guildford and Poole, I can vouch that playing of such communicative felicity and physical mastery, such seriousness and sense of fun, has not been seen since the great Fritz first slipped into our midst like cream into coffee, changing our textures for ever. Young Mr Rapoport has a sound all his own and a style to match: half cocky, half rapt. He will be going places far beyond Basingstoke, Guildford and Poole before this season is out; the sky, one feels, is his lower limit. His approach to Bach, still yet dangerous, resembles a cobra coiled in sunlight on a rock – a thing of beauty that can strike without warning. The B minor partita in particular . . .

There was no need to read on. Critical assessment melted into pure hyperbole, quotable gems cascading down the page. A copy of the article was mailed, ‘Compliments of Mr Mortimer Simmonds’, to the William Hickey gossip column of the mass-readership Daily Express. Two days later it produced the page-lead: ‘London Lad Could Be Next Kreisler, Experts Say’. To millions who had never entered a concert hall, Kreisler was still a familiar radio name, an eternal artist. Introducing the next Kreisler to Express readers was like unveiling the heir to Rodin in Le Monde.

Once the popular appetite was whetted, the media pressure turned unrelenting. My father policed it to the best of his ability, but his phlegmatism was sometimes overwhelmed and the demands on Dovidl began to mount.

‘You must ease up on the boy, Mortimer,’ my mother scolded, one morning over breakfast. ‘All these inquisitive interviews, endless concerts in God-forsaken dormitory towns and his daily practising – it’s taking a toll on his health. Look at him: pale cheeks, rings under his eyes, no appetite. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is losing sleep. How long did you sleep last night, David?’