An Orderly Mind

Mr Stamakis is coming for me at 7:15. ‘Seven fifteen precisely,’ I told him. With the traffic and the crowds — there are certain to be interruptions. One will have to chat with well-wishers on the way to one’s seats. Anything less would be rude.

‘Talent,’ I said. ‘Talent, dedication, and an orderly mind.’

When I was 20 years old I had already won first prize in composition at the Conservatoire Nationale; I had won the Prix de Rome. I had written two symphonies, sixteen sonatas, a dozen songs and a string quartet. I was an adequate composer. I could write a flawless sonata — first theme, second theme, development, etceteras. But one does not compose music merely because one knows the rules of composition. The world does not need another adequate composer. Therefore, I destroyed everything I had written and dedicated myself to a life of teaching.
I have not for one moment regretted my decision.

And the Good Morning woman asked, ‘How does it feel to have taught so many geniuses?’
(She makes some sort of gesture to indicate her contempt for the question — and the questioner.)

I do not like television interviews. What can one say in five minutes to a woman whose entire understanding of music is that she should smile and say thank you for coming when she hears the show’s theme.
I agreed to the interview without hesitation. For Mr Stamakis’ sake. Mr Stamakis, whose opera receives its world premier tonight at the Metropolitan Opera House, has been my student for 17 years. His mother brought him to me when he was 9 years old. He played for me Beethoven’s sonata in A major, opus 101. A child of 9 years with a maturity rare to find in a musician twice his age.

(She hums a few bars of Beethoven’s opus 101.)

Extraordinary. He did not rush, nor was he overly sentimental. Not a show-off. Not mere facility as one finds among the young violinists. He had already such a comprehension of form.
I said, ‘Not bad at all. But pay attention, my dear. When you have do, re dièse, fa in the bass, I would not make the diminuendo so strong.’
I did not flatter him. One must not train the student to expect adulation. There were those who refused Bach, refused Stravinsky. My own father rarely spoke a word of praise.

How does it feel to have taught so many geniuses?
She was referring of course to Mr Stamakis and also Mr Bernstein, Mr Szering, Mr Edelman, Mr Sidlin, and the others. How does it feel? I do not know what it means to be a genius. We are as fools to say this one is a genius, and that one, and the other…
I was the first woman to conduct the New York Philharmonic, the Cleveland Orchestra, the Chicago Symphony. I was 27 years old, thoroughly dedicated. If I did not sleep, fine. If I did not eat, fine. If I did not–
–whatever. I found sublime pleasure in my studies. I woke up every morning in a cloud of notes — music everywhere — I was surrounded by music.
Mr Stamakis at age eleven could sight read through an orchestral score — Strauss, Mahler — no matter how difficult. Then he was also fascinated with American baseball, knew the names of the players, statistics, that sort of thing. There was no time for such nonsense. One had to feed the mind, set things out for him like so many dishes at a buffet — music, literature, philosophy. In the evenings we read Aristotle, Voltaire, Flaubert, Spinoza.

Other students were not so diligent, sitting up all night in the cafés on Boulevard St Germaine, imitating the expatriate writers, thinking themselves to be Mr Hemingway, Mr James Joyce, I don’t know what — waiting for inspiration to bubble up from their champagne and cassis, learning slang words — argot. I say, ‘Do not insult yourself to distort the language before you have mastered it.’ Always they want to write their symphonies before they have mastered harmony and counterpoint. One does not know even the essential repertoire.

Mr Richter, for example, knows the 48 preludes and fugues of Bach from memory.
Mr Richter was not born knowing the 48 preludes and fugues of Bach.
One must learn them as one learns one’s name. As any school child can recite Dante from memory. One can say to Mr Richter, ‘The fugue, C sharp minor, book one.’ And of course he will play: (She sings the beginning of the fugue; perhaps an offstage pianist takes over) Do, si, mi, re…

Madame Stamakis had sent a letter saying she had a gifted son and they would arrive from Athens on such and such a date. ‘Very well,’ I wrote back to her. ‘I will expect you for tea on Wednesday afternoon.’ And there she came with her son, Nicolo, very nice and well behaved in a suit and tie. We were chatting about education — where the child might go to school. And quite unexpectedly he sat down at the piano and played the Beethoven.

(She goes to the piano and plays the opening melody of Beethoven’s opus 101, or instead, an offstage pianist might play the piece, continuing as she speaks.) You see the great genius of Beethoven that he starts, not on the tonic, not A major as one would expect, but E major. The dominant. As if beginning in the middle of a conversation. E major, and so lyrical the melody. Yet one has a sense of harmonic instability even from the first measure. In the tenor voice – mi, re, re, do, si — the D sharp of the E major scale does not resolve to E but becomes a chromatic passing tone down to D natural. He is ambiguous. We are not firmly in E major. The cadences are on weak beats, elisions. One does not hear a strong cadence on the tonic until the recapitulation. He remains within the classical structure, yet every moment is a surprise. One would give everything — one’s life — to understand.

I have not heard the score to his opera. He sent a tape recording to me in Paris. Lost in the mail. Of course, you see it everywhere, people with no self- discipline. It is rare to find a mail carrier who has any pride in his work. But never mind. I told Mr Stamakis he could come here to the apartment and play for me.

The piano is quite good — a Bechstein, which belongs to Mr Sidlin. Also my student, but 40 years ago. I am a guest here in his apartment. As you see, he has exquisite taste, and not a speck of dust, the piano always in tune.
(She pounds out octaves in both hands to demonstrate. Perhaps a note of anger slips through…)

Unfortunately Mr Stamakis did not have time to play his opera for me. Until today, he has never allowed his compositions to be performed before I have heard them. There are always refinements to be made.
And then, well, you see, the interview this morning. They had wanted student and teacher together, but at the last minute he was too busy. Seven o’clock in the morning — already he is busy. The opera, of course. Sewing new buttons on the costumes, whatever. No detail escapes Mr Stamakis. Even last night, the dinner party his mother had arranged, he was unable to join us. I was disappointed not to have seen him, but Mr Stamakis is meticulous. As one would expect.

Quite unlike the young lad he has befriended, an American pianist. Rather vulgar. You see dozens of them, bursting out of the American conservatories with their flamboyant techniques.

(She looks at her watch, gets up, takes her overcoat which has been draped over a chair, and holds it in her lap as if she expects Mr Stamakis to arrive any minute.)

It was Mrs Stamakis who insisted I come to the United States for the premier. She wanted a surprise for Nicolo. Such a devoted mother. Always with her son, always thinking of his interests.

My own mother was an extraordinary singer who was with Prokofiev at conservatory in St. Petersburg. He wrote his early songs for her. She died when I was thirteen. She had a lovely voice but did not pursue a career. A gifted amateur, quite satisfied to attend to me and my father. In the evenings the apartment was full of musicians — from the Opera orchestra, from my father’s school. There was chamber music; sometimes my mother sang. I, too, composed my first songs for her. Songs for my Mother. I was 10 years old.

One can never do enough to appreciate one’s mother. I must constantly remind Mr Stamakis.

Mr Sidlin, who is away conducting the Berlin Philharmonic, insisted that I stay here in his apartment. Of course it is empty most of the time now that his wife has divorced him. I warned him against her — a shallow woman. And you see, twenty-two years later their marriage is a failure, their children off who knows where. Nevertheless, the relationship between teacher and student remains one of great intimacy and trust, and the housekeeper, Mrs Tomlinson, has taken excellent care of me.

(She goes to the window, looks out. She is growing anxious.)

The television station sent a limousine to pick me up this morning. The driver asked me what route I would like to take and I said, ‘Monsieur, I do not ask you how to conduct Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and I would not expect you to ask me how to drive the car.’

(She pauses, engrossed in the view from the window.)

Yesterday I went for a walk in the park with Mrs Tomlinson. We saw a young woman — not so young perhaps, sitting just over there on the bench. I thought perhaps I knew her; she was looking at me. I said, ‘Good morning.’ She said, ‘Good morning.’ That was it. She called to mind a young woman who had been my student perhaps ten years ago. A talented girl, although her name escapes me. In the class one had always two or three American girls. Ten years ago — Mr Stamakis was there of course. Sixteen years old. His Sinfonia for strings, percussion and saxophone received its premier at the Centre Pompidou. This woman was maybe twenty years old at the time. Always nervous. She played guitar classique.

I recall the year. We studied Mozart, The Magic Flute in analysis class. Mr Stamakis could solfège through the entire opera from memory. Mr Stamakis understood already — one gives up one’s life.

(She turns away from the window and sits in a chair next to the piano.)

The girl was not terrible. Average, I would say. She wanted to study chromatic harmony. ‘But my dear, listen to me,’ I said. ‘One does not study chromatic harmony until one has mastered the basics. For the first year one does not write so much as a dominant seventh chord.’ She began with the first exercises in Duclos — as they all do — realizing given basses, harmonizing melodies. Four parts. She played a Bach suite for me on the guitar. Not bad. She was not bad at all. I said, ‘When you have la, re, sol, do in the bass, you must stop the strings.’

One had to push her. Not that she was lazy, but disorderly. One afternoon she came to her lesson, dove at the piano and played the opening of Brahms’ German Requiem — very slow, melancholy — in F. I was touched. She had the passion for music. I said, ‘My dear, this is very nice, but you must admit Brahms was not the genius of Mozart.’

It’s quite true — he was not.
‘But I love Brahms,’ she said.
‘That is all very well, but what about your exercises? You play me your harmony and the tenor voice is not legato.’ And then she continued, but one had to take hold of her wrist at the piano to stop her from committing grave errors.
‘Faite attention ma petite!’

She said, ‘Excuse me Mademoiselle, but I cannot see. May I turn on the light?’ ‘At four thirty in the afternoon? Certainly not,’ I said. ‘It is not a question of light. It is a question of concentration, self-discipline.’
Mr Stamakis was systematic in his studies — all the madrigals of Monteverdi. In order. All the cantatas of Bach. In order. The works of Mozart, Beethoven, and so on…

The girl, no. Her mind went from subject to subject — Brahms, then Mahler, Landini, Poulenc. And her harmony exercises, correct but perfunctory. Far from sublime. I would have to dictate a new melody for her. I said, ‘Now again. Reharmonize.’ And she was nervous. One could see her hands trembling and her face so close to the music. Of course it is difficult to read in four clefs at once. Nevertheless…

She continued with her exercise. ‘No!’ I said. ‘No, is terrible. You must stop! When you have in the tenor voice (she sings, more or less) do, si, re, do, la, sol, sol — it must be legato. It must be! Or you have nothing. Carelessness, as those who do not remember even the smallest of civilities — to say please and thank-you, and then the women leave their children in the back seat of automobiles to suffocate, and men who, suffering the most mild disappointment, come home and kill their wives, and one goes on casually along without a thought, reading picture magazines. No studying, not literature, not history. Who has read the letters of François le Premier? Who has read Aristotle, Plato, Tolstoy, Spinoza? It is a waste. A waste to know so little and you see even we are being poisoned in the water, in the food. And someday there will be no more electricity.’

‘Eh bien, play me your harmony if you please.’

(She looks at her watch again.)

One does not mean to discourage them. If they truly have the calling for music then nothing I say will make any difference at all. They continue. They will continue…

Spinoza said, ‘Love towards a thing eternal and infinite feeds the mind wholly with joy, and is itself unmingled with any sadness, wherefore it is greatly to be desired and sought for with all our strength.’
Many of the students had no money. It did not matter. They lived in chambres de bonnes, they lived in dormitories at Cité Universitaire. One young man, very pale, told me he was living on bread and marrons glacés. It is a pity, but as long as one can live — however difficult…

Monsieur Debussy had no money. His wife would come to him at lunch time and say, ‘What would you like? We have enough money for either meat or flowers but not both.’ And Monsieur Debussy always chose the flowers.

So you see…

(Pause)

One tried to encourage them without flattery, without false hope. On Wednesday afternoons after analysis class my butler, Giuseppi, would leave plates of sandwiches, cookies. They could have a bit to eat and talk with one another. And Mr Stamakis, always the center of attention. So polite, curious about everything, everyone. The American girls crowding around him. They were always inviting him to films, to cafés. He declined, of course, preferring solitude or an occasional outing to a concert with the other young men.

(She puts on her coat, walks back to the window.)

Had he not refused them, one would have had to intervene. One had to protect him. He was young; they were wild girls. What did they want with him except to amuse themselves? American girls — nervous, spoiled, casual. Sitting all day on park benches without the sense to bow down and thank God in his heaven for the gift to understand even a little music.

I believe her name was Jane or Jan. Janice.

(A beat. She looks at her watch again.)

Seven forty-five. But they will certainly hold the curtain for Mr Stamakis.

(A beat)

Of course he was a little vexed with me when his friend Andrew did not win the competition last month. The Competition Internationale de France. I was president of the jury. The young man was a fine pianist. This is true. But there were other fine artists as well.

Mr Stamakis had sent me a letter. He said, ‘I am asking my friend Andrew to call you. You will adore him, as I do. He’s a brilliant musician, delightful and inventive.’

One gets letters from former students — even those who did not distinguish themselves in class. Some of them have done quite well. Now their compositions are performed in recitals. They send reviews; they send pictures of their children.

(A beat)

The young man came for tea several days before the competition. He said he was well installed in a studio at the Cité des Arts. We spoke of the competition, of course, and Mr Stamakis.
I said, ‘No doubt he will marry soon. And one can only hope that he finds a sensible woman who will not interfere with his work.’

The young man seemed almost stunned, as if the idea had not occurred to him. ‘Well of course,’ I said. ‘It is quite inevitable.’

He only laughed and shook his head, saying we had nothing to worry about; Mr Stamakis would never find a woman to compare with–

‘It’s quite true, of course,’ I said. ‘He has always been especially devoted to me. Nonetheless, he must find a young woman, someone sensible who can take care of his affairs.’
The young man only shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Like a foolish child unwilling to see that his best companion has grown up and left him.

Well you see he had not the clear mind of an artist. He was rather muddled. And then in the competition he played Rachmaninoff third piano concerto. An unimportant composer, Rachmaninoff. A show-off.

One had to admit that the young man’s performance was stunning.