I retired two years ago when Sarah, my first and only wife, died. Cassie,
our daughter, wont use that verb; she says passed.
Sarah had been after me for years to hang up my baton. Travel or
not travelshe didnt care so long as wed be together. Now Ive got the
time but not Sarah.
Why did her dying provoke me to retire? In order that I could die a
little too? To let her have her way, even belatedly and uselessly?
Because I couldnt go on doing what kept me from her without her?
Frankly, Im not certain. I actually retired on an impulse. There I was on
the phone with Miles Cotter, our mild-mannered, omni-competent
orchestra manager, about arranging for a childrens choir for the Mahler
Eighth when I found myself saying Miles, time to start looking for a new
music director. I didnt decide, but something in me did.
I tell everybody who asks that Im writing my memoirs. This keeps
people on their toes. They worry about what I might write about them;
its like being a rich old coot with a revisable will. The concertmaster has
been almost irritatingly attentive and Ive heard from no less than four
former assistant conductors. Well, I did my best for them. Theyve all got
jobs though only one has an orchestra to order around. There arent a lot
of openings for conductors. In the arts, supply generally outstrips
demand; think of poetry. My retirement created the biggest vacancy in
years. It was as if an archbishop kicked the bucketthe whole hierarchy
rearranged itself. According to an article in the Sunday supplement, my
replacement is working hard to attract a younger audience. Well, hed
better.
In my working days I traveled. I did the usual guest conducting but
mostly I took the orchestra on tour. That was much more fun, especially
in Asia. Europeans tend to be blas on principle; and their critics excel in
finding reasons to be unenthusiastic. Reading some of our notices, I
sometimes had the feeling that haute Europeans believe the words
American and conductor go together about as well as pork and
ice cream.
Anyway, now I go nowhere. Cassandras happily married in New
York and busy with her job at one of the flushest arts foundations. She
used to raise the money but now she dispenses it, which she assures me
is much better, like conducting in Tokyo instead of Vienna. Shes been
out to visit me twice since the funeral. And I flew to New York once,
though only for a weekend.
Ive moved into our summer house here in Shelter Cove. Its on
the northern California coast, a phrase the locals always use so that
nobody will think they live anywhere near Los Angeles. SC is full of big,
costly piles that wouldnt look out of place at the other end of things, in
Maine. Most are rented out almost year round. Not mine. Ive got enough
space here to put up a small circus, if they should chance to drop by.
I remember my newly widowed mother complaining about having
to come home to a dark, cold empty house. I was at the Conservatory
at the time and had two roommates, one obsessive and the other
depressive. I didnt say it to her, but those adjectives sounded pretty
good to me.
Im not going to write my memoirs because to do so would require
both perfect honesty and perfect memory, and Im spotty on both
counts. What do I do? I do a lot of reading, even studying. My current
roommates are elevated bad cholesterol an high blood pressure. I dont
have a dog, which they say keeps you alive longer, like being married.
How many years could I have left, then? And yet I feel this urge to fill in
the chasms in my education. Mostly, I read philosophy and history, the
former for the mental gymnastics that try to explain things, the latter for
the intricate stories that also try to explain things. I dont really expect
anything to get explained, though. I dont think of history as what
happened but what historians make of what happened. As for
philosophy, I consider it idle speculation raised to something like high
art. Anyway, when I study Plato and Epictetus, Thucydides and Gibbon,
Huizinga and Tuchman et alia, I take notes and on occasion Im moved to
compose commentaries. For these I use the black Pelikan fountain pen
my daughter spent all her savings to give me for my fiftieth birthday. I
have to buy the ink online. But its a link to tradition, that pen, and, of
course, to Cassie too. I used to annotate my scores with it. The Pelikans
the first thing Id grab if the house went up in one of those blazes they
have out here. (Local joke: California does have seasons, four of them
fire, flood, mudslide, and riot.)
All my reading isnt so weighty, of course. I also read lighter stuff
for entertainment. Its so much better than television which seems to
offer only endless permutations on a few familiar formulas and whats
new seems mean-spirited: the familial and personal humiliations of the
reality show. Movies have begun to bore me tooeven good ones;
they all seem a half-hour too long. Platos dialogue seems to me better
than Hollywoods, maybe even Truffauts. Of course I also listen to a lot
of music, though never my own recordings. A few weeks back I played
Igor Markevitchs 1961 Symphonie Fantastique with the Lamoureux, and
was so thrilled I decided to take a detour in my reading program. I was
hardly going to read Berliozs memoirs when I couldnt write my own, so
I bought the biography by D. Kern Holoman. The reviews reprinted by
Amazon all lauded it. The book is good and thorough; it runs over 700
pages and weighs more than two and a half pounds, which is tough on
my chest as I like to read in bed.
I remembered some things about Berliozs relations with Harriet
Smithson and even a little about the premiere of the Symphonie
Fantastique, but going over these in Holomanian detail had an oddly
what looking at Harriet Smithson playing Juliet was for Berlioz. Except
that I understood the music and Berlioz didnt understand English.
Except that I didnt produce a blizzard of billets-doux. I just went home in
August and sealed the memory up in the usual plastic bag. It only broke
out whenever I happened to hear the Ravel waltzes.
Youve guessed what happened? I read about Hector and Harriet
and was reminded of Victoria, of me and Victoria. But, as I said, my story
only began with this shard of memory and quickly left it.
The novella begins with Bershad, the protagonist, a young second
violinist. Hes just been hired by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, so
hes feeling lucky and a little pleased with himself. His dreams are
modest. Someday he might be asked to join the first violins. Perhaps
hell find a woman who likes him enough to marry him. That sort of
thing. In the meantime, he enjoys the city, makes new friends, goes to
parties, listens attentively to his older colleagues, practices five hours a
day, studies scores, watches television, and fulfills his civic responsibility
by rooting for the Red Sox.
Then one weekend the Orchestras guest soloist is a female
prodigy, a violinist whos only eighteen and has already been famous for
six years and has played everywhere. Shes going to perform the Barber
concerto. Bershad cant take his eyes off her; he even stops bowing for
several bars. Shes magnificent and he falls hard.
Shes staying at the Ritz-Carlton. He sends her flowers and notes.
He tries to persuade her to see him. When theres no reply, he persists
anyway. Hes pulled aside by the orchestra manager. Theres been a
complaint from the young womans mother, who travels everywhere
with her.
He writes her more letters. Theyre all returned.
He sends her three poems; they bounce back too.
Bershad begins to take long lonely walks along the Charles, goes
back and forth from Cambridge to Boston and vice versa. He lingers on
the Harvard Bridge and the Longfellow too.
Then, one night under a full moon, he is possessed by an idea. It
astounds him so much that he is breathless.
He will compose a concerto for her. Hed written some things at
the Conservatory, nothing much; he didnt take his required composition
class too seriously. He was a violinist and that was all he had aspired to
be. A violinist with a job. But a theme came to him on the bridge, then
another. He ran home and began to compose. This concerto would be his
way to her, the path. Hed dedicate it to her and then shed have to take
note of him and, of course, would want to perform the premiere. There
would be rehearsals, just the two of them, working out both the music
and the flowering of their love. Hed liberate her from the vigilant
mother, from the shelter of her prodigys childhood. Hed take her to
Fenway Park where theyd eat peanuts and Italian sausages. His dreams
grow bigger as the concerto became longer.
forever be John Keats and among the English poets. Why would he?
Dont put my name on the granite tombstone, he bitterly instructed
Severn. My name, he said, is writ in water. He got the girl, got his Fanny
Brawne, but also he didnt. So, lifes like that. In fact, its like almost
anything.
Heres how my novella ends:
Visitors were always surprised that the window in Bershads studio did
not look out over the Pacific. What, they wondered, was the point of
paying through the nose for the privilege of living on the coast if youre
going to look away from it? But when he worked Bershad wanted to be
reminded of where hed come from, where she still was. It pleased him
to think that the light streaming into his study had lit up her living room
three hours earlier. The cord was thin, a beaten filament, but, for Bershad,
it was unbreakable.