Slapped by a composer, queried by a pianist, charmed by a novelist, etc., part 7

If it came to a choice between hearing Rubinstein in Carnegie Hall, and seeing Howdy-Doody and his antics with the evil Doctor Pauley on our little black-and-white TV, I'd have no trouble choosing. But no one asked me for my preference: So, on a mid-March lunch hour, my mother helped me dress for the concert, in a little brown herringbone suit bought especially for the occasion.

My mother was a natural beauty, lovely in whatever she chose to wear. We rode to the City by train, and when my father, dressed in a business suit, met us in Grand Central, and the three of us walked over to his office, at 555 Fifth Avenue, I felt this was indeed a special occasion, since the three of us never went anywhere as a family.

My father absolutely beamed, so proud was he of his little family on this evening. When we went up to his office, and, sitting down at a Royal electric typewriter to rattle off the Pledge of Allegiance in record time, I impressed the couple of Amoco employees who were working late. Invited into his new office, I now got set to accept and open a large brown envelope from my father. This, too, was very unusual, since my father never presented me with a gift . . . just out of the blue, like this.

What was in the brown envelope were two models, one a 1918 Locomobile, the other a London Hansom cab. A year or two earlier, my father had taken me, in our black 1950 Buick Roadmaster, to the Connecticut museum holding Metropolitan Opera tenor Jimmy Melton's antique cars, I'd fallen immediately in love with these beautiful, exciting speedsters, a couple with exciting rear "rumble seats." Watching my quick change from indifference to exuberance, he bought me a picture history of automobiles at the front desk. From that day forth, I determined to learn all I could about old cars, so I could pop some arcane information on my friends, and maybe boost my standing among them. This evening, he'd surely remembered seeing this enthusiasm in his son, who was beginning to enter the surly stage of his teenage development. Well, it wasn't so much the models for which I was thankful. It was the sudden and warming understanding that my father, who I had thought was living his life apart from my mother and me, had been all the whlle quietly mindful of my interests, and had bought something that might help knit the two of us together.

I was struck by Artur Rubenstein's appearance and demeanor on stage. He was on the short side, it seemed to me, but muscular. He had plentiful hair, whether gray or not I can't seem to remember. What I do remember is that it was as curly as Harpo Marx's, and almost made me laugh. But, it didn't take long for this man's artistry on his Steinway, whether playing a Chopin nocturne or a Schubert piece, to transfix me. I began to be thankful my father and mother had brought me along.

After the concert, my father led my mother and me to Mr. Rubenstein's dressing room. Clearly, this had been arranged beforehand, because we no sooner knocked on the door than a moderately sweaty-browed but smiling Rubenstein showed us in. My father had helped pay his way through Ohio Wesleyan University in the early '30s, by playing the piano nightly on the local radio station, and the two of them chatted about that for a couple of minutes, before drawing me into the conversation, I later suspected my father and Rubenstein had orchestrated an interview that might inspire me to follow the path of this master.

"Do you practice the piano everyday, Charles?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I try to. Although I usually have a lot of homework to do," I said, trying to pre-empt the criticism I could hear in the near-future.

"How long do you practice every day, Charles? You know, to become a good pianist, you must practice each and every day. How long do you practice daily?" Oh boy, I could feel the pressure growing in my head, as in a horrible headache. I might as well face the music right now, I thought.

"Well, I try to practice at least an hour every day."

"Oh, no, Charles! "he erupted, his eyes growing wide with sudden contempt for this nicely dressed and well-behaved young man who, behind his polite and well-behaved exterior, was hiding a lazy and probably deeply rebellious soul. Ah, these American youngsters -- what they promise for the future!

"No, Charles, you must practice much longer!"

"How long?" I asked.

"I practice 10 hours a day," he thundered.

"But when am I going to do the other stuff? That's important, too."

"Other stuff?"

"Yeah, like mowing the lawns, taking the dog for walks, trading stamps with my friend Kevin Hunt, doing research for my English paper on Mark Twain? That stuff's important, too, isn't it?"

Artur Rubenstein's face suddenly appeared to have been deflated, his whole being defeated in his effort to inspire an American youngster to follow the same path that had led him to personal happiness and world fame. He smiled ingratiatingly, and asked, "Charles, what career would you like to follow when you grow up?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure at this point. I only know I love to read and I love to write. Maybe something in that line of writing, if I can find it." I wasn't giving him much encouragement, and I started to condemn myself for how I was treating him. He'd started off, trying to oblige my father, whom he'd never met before, then, when he caught sight of my basic indifference toward a career in music, gave up on foisting his own point of view on this boy, and tried to enter the boy's world.

To be continued