Over the course of a long life, it’s been my privilege to
experience performances by some of the greatest musicians of recent times. As a
high school student in the nineteen-fifties, my parents were generous enough to
drive me to the University of Tennessee in nearby Knoxville to hear such
performers as American opera stars Jan Peerce and Leonard Warren. It was there
I heard the great pianist Arthur Rubinstein twice.
Since I write books about gifted musicians, I’ve begun also
to read more books about real-life musical geniuses and am currently engrossed
in Rubinstein’s book My Young Years.
The book is as much about Arthur the young man as it is about Arthur the piano
virtuoso, and I am enjoying it immensely. It seemed almost criminal that I paid
the grand sum of seventy-eight cents (plus shipping) for this now out-of-print
book written by this great artist.
From the time he was about fifteen (he made his professional
debut at thirteen), Arthur began to develop a zest for experiencing all life
has to offer a young man basically on his own. I’ve raised my eyebrows and
laughed more than once at his escapades. Women of all ages seemed to find him
irresistible, and he reciprocated enthusiastically. He developed the palate of
a gourmand and money slipped through his fingers much too easily.
The result of this was that the young pianist far too
frequently found himself in dire straits. He borrowed money constantly, paying
it back when he could. This all took place in the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries in Europe, and there were many wealthy and titled patrons
of the arts who were very generous with him.
Recently I was struck by a part of the book in which he
describes hitting bottom. A wealthy friend was ignoring his pleas for financial
assistance, and twenty-year-old Rubinstein was barely eating. He was seized by
a deep depression and eventually attempted suicide. He tried to hang himself
with the belt of his bathrobe, which broke when he kicked the chair aside, and
he was thrown to the floor.
He cried for a long time; but tears were not enough, and he
says he “staggered” to the piano and “cried myself out in music. Music, my
beloved music, the dear companion of all my emotions; who can stir us to fight,
who can inflame in us love and passion, and who can soothe our pains and bring
peace to our hearts – you are the one who, on that ignominious day, brought me
back to life.”
Thank you, maestro. An affirmation of everything I’ve tried
to express in my books.
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