Gryphon by Charles Baxter Read Free Book Online Page A

precision required by Bach, the unpianistic fingerings of Brahms.
    I saw Stecker every week. While I played, he would doze off. When he woke, he would mumble some inaudible comment. He also coached a trio I participated in, and he spoke no more audibly then than he did during my private lessons.
    I couldn’t understand why, apart from his reputation, the school had hired him. Then I learned that in every Stecker-student’s life, the time came when the Master collected his thoughts, became blunt, and told the student exactly what his future would be. For me, the moment arrived on the third of November 1966. I was playing sections of the Brahms Paganini Variations, a fiendish piece on which I had spent many hours. When I finished, I saw him sit up.
    “Very good,” he said, squinting at me. “You have talents.”
    There was a pause. I waited. “Thank you,” I said.
    “You have a nice house?” he asked.
    “A nice house? No.”
    “You should get a nice house somewhere,” he said, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket and waving it at me. “With windows. Windows with a view.”
    I didn’t like the drift of his remarks. “I can’t afford a house,” I said.
    “You will. A nice house. For you and your family.”
    I resolved to get to the heart of this. “Professor,” I asked, “what did you think of my playing?”
    “Excellent,” he said. “That piece is very difficult.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Yes, technically excellent,” he said, and my heart began to pound. “Intelligent phrasing. Not much for me to say. Yes. That piece has many notes,” he added, enjoying the non sequitur.
    I nodded. “Many notes.”
    “And you hit all of them accurately. Good pedal and good discipline. I like how you hit the notes.”
    I was dangling on his string, a little puppet.
    “Thousands of notes, I suppose,” he said, staring at my forehead, which was beginning to get damp, “and you hit all of them. You only forgot one thing.”
    “What?”
    “The passion!” he roared. “You forgot the passion! You always forget it! Where is it? Did you leave it at home? You never bring it with you! Never! I listen to you and think of a robot playing! A smart robot, but a robot! No passion! Never ever ever!” He stopped shouting long enough to sneeze. “You
should
buy a house. You know why?”
    “Why?”
    “Because the only way you will ever praise God is with a family, that’s why! Not with this piano! You are a fine student,” he wound up, “but you make me sick! Why do you make me sick?”
    He waited for me to answer.
    “
Why do you make me sick?
” he shouted. “Answer me!”
    “How can I possibly answer you?”
    “By articulating words in English! Be courageous! Offer a suggestion! Why do you make me sick?”
    I waited for a minute, the longest minute of my life. “Passion,” I said at last. “You said there wasn’t enough passion. I thought there was. Perhaps not.”
    He nodded. “No. You are right. No passion. A corruption of music itself. Your playing is gentle, too much good taste. To play the piano like a genius, you must have a bit of the fanatic. Just a bit. But it is essential. You have stubbornness and talent but no fanaticism. You don’t have the salt on the rice. Without salt, the rice is inedible, no matter what its quality otherwise.” He stood up. “I tell you this because sooner or later someone else will. You will have a life of disappointments if you stay in music. You may find a teacher who likes you. Good, good.
But you will never be taken up! Never!
You should buy a house, young man. With a beautiful view. Move to it. Don’t stay here. You are close to success, but it is the difference between leaping the chasm and falling into it, one inch short. You are an inch short. You could come back for more lessons. You
could
graduate from here. But if you are truly intelligent, you willsay good-bye. Good-bye.” He looked down at the floor and did not offer me his hand.
    I stood up and walked