Introduction
Prelude
and The Raft of Poverty
In the Circus
Ring
The Pedlar's
Prediction
Hail Caesar!
Jealousy
is Dead
A Steam Engine
for a Piano
Stalin
Organs
Hungarian
Rhapsody: a failure
White
Nights
All
or Nothing
JEALOUSY IS DEAD
In
a semi-stupor, I was about to play my
last card. The waiting room door opened
and in came a young, slender subaltern.
I leapt to my feet and stood to attention
as he languidly returned my salute.
As
he came closer, his features seemed
familiar. Wherever could I have seen
him before? I was about to ask when
the consulting-room door half opened
and the major-doctor stuck his head
out, apparently expecting him. "Hear
you are at last, dear fellow! Delighted
to see you!" The major, clearly
moved, came up to his visitor, shook
his hand warmly and courteously stood
aside to let him go in first.
I
was intrigued by the medical officer’s
affability, which bordered on the obsequious.
I had never before seen a senior officer
treat a subordinate, who did not even
appear to be a friend, in this way.
As the door was shutting behind them
I thought, "That man has already
taken my place some time in the past."
The feeling brought back childhood memories.
Memories of a boy who had taken my place
at the top. Every time I crossed his
path at the Liszt Academy the feeling
of jealousy returned. His playing had
about it a halo of superiority which
was reflected in his behaviour, and
his exasperating dominance in every
domain had plagued much of my childhood.
Sitting
in the Infirmary waiting room, I thought
back to those times at the Academy and
saw again the huge classroom where a
great concert grand had pride of place.
I met this particular boy shortly after
being admitted on special dispensation.
(I am not using the word ‘special’ just
to show off but because I passed into
the top class almost at once without
any preliminary study in other music
schools.) I was nearly twelve while
he, one of the youngest in the class,
was almost twice my age. The confidence
of his playing, a result of his adult
strength and maturity, was incomparably
superior to the performances of a budding
eaglet like myself. If only I could
have played like him! From a young boy’s
point of view, it was just not acceptable
that our age difference should be my
greatest handicap. If I could not be
the best in the class of adults soon
to take their final exams at least I
should not be dragging behind and had
at all costs to play like them. Instead
of admiring his talent, I saw him purely
as a rival. His virtuosity and the way
he made child’s play of the sort of
technical difficulties the rest of us
had such problems with made me sick
with admiration. I was so fascinated
by his technique that I did not even
pay attention to the finesse of his
interpretations. I am pretty certain
the others in the class were just as
fascinated by the aristocratic grace
of his playing. While we banged away
at our pieces for the teacher as best
we could, he, on the very piano which
had just received such a battering at
our hands, was at one with the music
and on occasion moved us deeply. Fortune
smiled on him: being the only son of
a very rich and influential family assured
him of every success and consideration
in society as it was then. He came to
classes at the wheel of a splendid sports
car, dressed in the latest fashion.
The others were impeccably dressed too
but I do not think I ever saw him in
the same suit twice running. A feeling
of shame and inferiority arose in me
each time I saw him, all the more as
my only pair of trousers – which my
mother had to keep adding pieces to
– was barely fit to be seen. The same
went for my one shirt, which could not
be enlarged and was not far off bursting
at the seams.
Shortly
after winning his diploma with flying
colours, he left the Academy to start
on what promised to be an outstanding
career. He was engaged straight away
in towns in Hungary as well as abroad.
He came on a farewell visit to the Academy
before leaving on his first tour. Our
teacher asked us to play something from
his programme, which he did willingly,
as always, playing us Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie.
There was something visionary, even
frightening, about his sublime interpretation.
The piano sang, sighed and begged beneath
his fingers as Chopin’s wonderful morbidezza
surged forth. To play this piece one
needs all the emotions displayed by
other composers and more, and this poses
insurmountable problems to the musician
who cannot fully enter Chopin’s nirvana.
By the end I was close to tears. Forgetting
my shyness and the people round me,
I approached the piano as the last sounds
died away. He sat quite still, his arms
hanging limply like those of an exhausted
puppet. I asked in an unexpectedly deep
voice for a child, "How do you
manage to convey every tremor of your
soul so perfectly?"
He
did not seem inclined to reply so I
insisted, "What do you see and
feel when you play this piece? The understanding
between you and it is like that of an
engaged couple. (Whatever came into
my head to say that?) How do you do
it?" He turned to me wearily, replying
in an expressionless voice, "To
write such music you have to be dying,
as Chopin was. Either one has to be
in the same situation to bring the work
alive or perhaps some artists have souls
older than their years." An embarrassed
silence hung over the room while, with
all the wisdom of my twelve years, I
puzzled over the meaning of his words.
It was the only time we ever spoke,
though we were to see each other again.
When
hard times came I heard that my childhood
rival had had to cut short a tour abroad
and return at once to Budapest for military
service.
As
for my medical, I was not as fortunate
as my friend from the Academy. Indeed,
I think he was partly responsible, if
not consciously so. The doctor did not
even examine me but threatened me with
the military tribunal if ever I refused
to get into the train with the other
volunteers without a maximum of regulation
patriotism. Whereas my pianist colleague
had been accompanied to the door by
the doctor, more obsequious than ever.
From what I gathered from their conversation,
he had been exempted from all military
duties. As they went out, they were
both laughing and chatting about the
benefits of convalescence on the shores
of the Adriatic.
I
was once again consumed with jealousy:
"To think that while he’s sitting
under the palm trees with his family
I’ll be crouching to avoid Stalin’s
missiles!" Truth to tell, I did
not believe at the time that he was
ill. Quite the contrary: I was certain
that life did nothing but shower its
blessings on him and that his indecent
good luck had obtained his exemption.
The enchantment of Montenegro for him,
the Polish tundra for me. A mere slip
of paper had saved him from the German
whip, the Russian knout and even the
Hungarian truncheon, which was much
favoured by the police now that they
were fully won over to the German cause.
A
few months later I found myself on the
front somewhere in Poland. One evening
I was returning with a friend, who acted
as the camp’s radio. We were crawling
through the mud in the direction of
our lines after attempting to drive
off a few soldiers and peasants trying,
poor chaps, to defend their country
with a machine gun left behind as scrap
metal. Between bursts of firing, my
companion came to a halt, sat down in
the mud, rolled and lit a cigarette,
then said, "I hear you’re a pianist."
"Why
do you say that? If you want to place
an order for your funeral march tomorrow,
I can’t do it. I’ve got to mine the
railway track," I muttered darkly.
"No," he said pensively, "though
I’ll make a note of your offer – you
never know. I asked because I had a
pal in Budapest. He had a doctorate
as well as being a fine enough pianist
to turn all the top ones at the Academy
green with envy. His name was György
Faragó ." [(1913-1944).
First Prize Fauré competition,
1939, then teacher at the Liszt Academy
until 1941, when he was dismissed due
to anti-Jewish legislation]
"Why
do you say ‘was’?" A very close
shave awoke us to the fact that the
glow of our cigarettes had betrayed
us. "Because he’s dead," said
my pal, flattening himself in an even
deeper puddle. A grenade exploded nearby
and caused us to shift positions. I
could not believe what I had just heard.
"What did he die of?" My pal
kept crawling all the harder and whistled
between his teeth, "Cancer."
I
felt myself grow pale beneath the layer
of mud on my face. The news was like
an electric shock. I thought back to
the rivalry which had kept us apart.
The wretched, insurmountable class barrier
that had prevented us from becoming
friends. As I lay on the sodden ground
that night, I vowed to myself never
again to have any feelings other than
forthright, humble admiration for anyone
of artistic merit and ability, even
if he did outstrip me.
It
was an ideal spot to atone for that
final childhood sin with the first signs
of adult perceptiveness. For the first
and last time in my life, I had been
jealous of someone else being the object
of admiration. Just then, and for some
time to come, I had had to ward off
a flood of misfortunes while everything
he undertook went right. In exchange,
there was a special clause in his curriculum
vitae that he was obliged to accept.
I would not be so bold or presumptuous
as to say to what extent he had realized
he was doomed yet there must be some
form of premonition by which certain
people realize their lifespan is rapidly
running out so that they have no illusions
about the future. (No-one can tell what
the morrow holds in store, and so much
the better: if everyone knew what was
going to happen the next day, there
are not many among us who would not
change their previous day’s plans.)
Only those who have this innate gift
are able – thanks to what I would called
an ‘adapted’ subconscious – to sense
how much time is remaining to them to
fulfil their mission. Like faith it
is a gift from God. Those to whom it
is given make use of it, while others
merely claim to have it. The greatest
gift a musician can have is the possibility
of lifting just a corner of the veil
covering that mystery.
During
that outstanding young pianist’s existence,
he was granted permission from on high
to cross the impassable line separating
virtually all musicians from the true
genius of the composer, and very few
of those called are chosen to do so.
The last time I saw him, his only wish
was to live yet he was already Death’s
chosen one. That invisible, pitiless
shadow passed over us both that day.
Most perturbing of all is the fact that
I, in good health, had appealed to Him
as a means of escape, were it in the
form of a grave illness, from the constant
ill-luck which had dogged my footsteps
and was to go on doing so.
Death
had kept the appointment but had chosen
someone else. It had come to take one
of the chosen few who had been no more
than a rival who could, better than
anyone, have helped me discover those
secret paths I was going to have to
seek out alone. I still cannot help
thinking how such a brief friendship
might have developed. I will always
regret it.
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