Teacher, Teacher, I Declare (Part Two)

In the eight years I spent under Mme K’s tutelage, she exposed me to the great piano literature of the 18^th and 19^th Centuries (choosing only sparingly from the 20^th), introduced me to the prominent local orchestra conductors—each of whom invited me to perform concertos with their symphonies, taught me to be a fierce competitor, and filled my head with romantic notions of female performance heroines and handsome suitors.   I could not have been closer to her had she been my own mother.  She had become involved in every aspect of my life, frequently spoiling me not only with rich foods but also gifts of fanciful clothing and  costume jewelry.  For example, upon my high school graduation she presented me with a silky set of harem pajamas, which my mother whisked away and returned before I could entertain any idea of wearing them in a co-ed dorm.

While I set out for college with the excitement and self-centeredness of a seventeen-year-old, I felt a bit beholden to her, wondering privately whether I was expected to live out her dreams.  Over the years I had heard stories of her brief life as a concert phenomenon.  She was a product of the Meisterschule fur Klavierspiel at the Vienna Academy.  I was playing some of the pieces that she had performed as a bright young star, in many cases performing the same pieces in the same Miami venues.  Most particularly, we shared the Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody No. 12.  She told me that her own teacher had been a pupil of the great Emil von Sauer, considered the heir to Franz Liszt’s piano traditions, making Liszt my own musical great, great grandfather.  This explained her partiality to bombastic music; she was forever consigning to me the most technically difficult of pieces and challenging me to master them with my tiny hands.

I worked hard to keep in touch with her from college, writing to her almost weekly with details of my new piano teacher at the New England Conservatory.  I was excited to gain entry—by audition only—to Leon Kirchner’s legendary chamber music performance seminar.  In those days, it was the only class at Harvard where a student could get course credit for performance.  It was first and foremost an analysis class, with emphasis on how the harmonic and structural design informs performance.  But the enthusiasm I had for all the new aspects of music I was learning was lost on Mme K; she believed me suited for the solo concert stage and had no patience for collaborative chamber music, or my new piano teacher’s love for Mozart and “smaller” piano pieces.  Her letters became critical and impatient, each one claiming that I was wasting my time and my talent.   In truth, I was no longer considering a musical career, but I did not have the heart to use that particular defense. 

I rushed to visit her at the end of my freshman year, attending her Spring Concert—an extravaganza of performances by all of her students.  Although she was cordial, it was clear she had moved on and that others were now at the center of her universe.  I felt relieved; no longer would I have to carry the burden of living my life for her.  Harvard was not a piano-centric world and I loved seeing the full spectrum of music open up before me. I was entering a new chapter of my life.

As I spent less and less time at the piano and more time exploring the riches of a liberal arts education, my correspondence with Mme K dried up.  I did not want to disappoint her or arouse her ire by talking about my classes, or the fact that I was no longer taking private piano lessons.  In fact, it would be more than twenty years after college before I would perform again.  The occasion was the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition for Outstanding Amateurs (IPCOA) in Ft. Worth, Texas.  After hearing about the competition from a former classmate, I spent the better part of two years preparing the 60-minute program that was required.  I found a piano teacher, put together a program that included a couple of pieces from my youth, and filled out the program with some important pieces from my musical “bucket list”.

I was pleased to do very well at the competition, advancing to the semi-final round and being awarded the prize for “Best Performance of a Baroque Work” for playing a couple of Scarlatti Sonatas.  I was thrilled by this award because the Scarlatti pieces included one I had studied under Mme K paired with another I had just learned from scratch.   I reached out to Mme K, thinking she would be excited to hear that I had begun playing again.  Instead, she railed at me for losing touch, for not including her in my life as I completed school, got married, and had children.  I was stunned, but of course, she was absolutely right.  Why had I assumed that her interest in me ended just because the music did?  

I think back to how I perceived her when I was a young child.  She was a stern taskmistress, whose simple life with her compatriot husband was about order, excellence, and achievement.  There was a definite humor, however, that permeated everything she did.  She worked me hard, but she also created a safe haven where I could make music while escaping the other facets of my life.  I had forgotten the moment that passed between us on our very first meeting, when she looked deeply at me and held my eyes.  In that instant I had felt the mischief of a young girl, her heart full of dreams, longing, and adventure.

I had been too blind, or too naïve, or too immature to understand how much we had been kindred spirits.  Nor did I understand the battles she herself had waged every day of her life.  She had used her talents to escape the turmoil of her country, landing in a Vienna conservatory as a rising star.  There she met a handsome soldier who shared her love of music and the language of her beloved homeland.  But he had secrets of his own of which she was unaware.  He had been a spy for the Nazis, a position which bought him favor from the regime while deflecting attention from his homosexuality.  His proposal of marriage furthered his own interests.  She did not know she was walking into a loveless marriage, one that would never be consummated.  Her devout faith and stubborn pride kept her by his side, living for over forty years as his devoted wife and partner, until his death almost twenty years ago.  Despite a career as a bank vice president, he left her penniless—without resources, documentation, or support.

I honestly believed her interest in me had been only musical, lasting only to the extent that I was living out her dream.  I could not have been more wrong.  She had made me a child of her heart; however, I was awkward with relationships, and lacked the ability to deal with her in any way other than as my teacher.  I had misunderstood her criticisms and disapprovals, failing in my own capacity to see that her love was unconditional—as a mother’s for her child.   But now, she has regressed back to her native tongue; it is a hurt that can not be undone and a debt that can never be repaid.

Tomorrow's blog:  Smashed