A Very Personal and Unflinching Memoir
Heifetz
As I Knew Him, by Ayke Agus
Amadeus
Press,
February 15, 2001
$24.95, 260 pages
To
musicians and audiences alike, the name Jascha Heifetz evokes the icon of
great violin playing in the 20th century. Whether in live or
recorded performance, his superhuman mastery of the instrument and
exceptional musical vision brought forth statements such as, "There
is Heifetz--then there are other violinists." Stories abound
depicting his icy demeanor and his apparent desire to set himself apart
not only as an artist, but also from friends and family. In her new
memoir-biography, Ayke Agus provides a personal look at the unique genius
with whom her life became linked.
One
can only speculate as to why many prodigies have breakdowns, stop playing,
or make faltering attempts to bridge the gap into adulthood--differences
in actual talent, degree of exploitation by parents and managers, lack of
normal contacts with other children, the tremendous discipline required,
or the prodigy's own desire or lack thereof to continue to pursue a
musical career. Agus traces much of the source of Heifetz’s difficult
behavior to his having been a prodigy, with the family life centered
around him. Although he had to perform and practice, there were relatively
few limits placed on his childish demands.
I had just turned ten when he played Beethoven Violin Concerto with the
University of Miami Symphony.
Potted palms had been placed at each end of a high school stage. My
piano teacher said, "His playing is cold," and my mother said,
"It's all a matter of publicity." But by the end of the first
movement, I felt uplifted in a way I
would never forget. I
sat in the third row, clutching my organdy skirt, gazing up at him. He
stood almost motionless except for the sweep of his bow across the
strings. Afterwards, I raced backstage and stood in line, the music still
resounding inside of me. I handed him a little book in which I collected
autographs--he glanced at me icily, didn't smile. He looked, page by page,
through my book before signing it. Then he asked my name, did I play the
violin, and handed it back. I must have had my heart in my eyes, because
author Ayke Agus tells us that he did not particularly like children. In
fact, by her account, one gets the impression that she became almost the
only person he trusted and liked.
My late husband, oboist Marc Lifschey, often told the story of Heifetz’s first appearance with the Cleveland Orchestra. Frightened by rumors of his imperious manner, the conductor, George Szell kept saying, "I'll handle him. I'll show him who’s in charge." The concertmaster, Joseph Gingold, said soothingly, "Come on, George, you're both great musicians, you'll make wonderful music together." But when Heifetz walked on stage, he seemed to be shielded by invisible steel walls. Szell bowed his head, folded his hands and smiled eagerly. "Yes, Mr. Heifetz. Whatever you want, Mr.Heifetz,” he said. From time to time, Heifetz would step up on the podium, whisper to Szell, and point to someone in the orchestra. In total silence, every musician froze. After the first run-through of Tchaikowsky concerto, Szell asked, "Shall we do it again, Mr. Heifetz?" Heifetz said coldly, "I'd rather not," then turned and walked off the stage. That night, several minutes after the performance, Marc suddenly noticed that the audience and the rest of the orchestra, all but he and violinist Berl Senofsky, had left the auditorium. The two of them just sat there, stunned by what had been the most amazing experience of their lives.
From that day forth, Marc bought recordings of no other violinist. During his last months, he listened to them almost every day. When Heifetz suddenly revved up the tempo, leaving the orchestra behind, Marc would smile and say, "There he goes again!" Agus points out that this and other spontaneous changes were conscious devices for regaining the attention of the audience when he felt it had flagged. Only in his music making and in his teaching could this unyielding, perfectionistic man make allowance for such flexibility. Much of his teaching involved preparing students to cope with the unforeseen.
Some of Agus’s earliest memories hark back to Heifetz’s recordings. She could not believe that someone still alive could produce such unearthly sounds. At twenty, she survived a harrowing audition in which he beat time faster and faster while she played the Ravel Tzigone for him. Afterwards, he looked at her "with something resembling a smile." She thinks that her Indonesian-Chinese background, having trained her to respect age and accept authority without question, may have prepared her to be both the whipping post and the confidante of the man whom she says "prided himself on being difficult even at relatively normal times....things had to be done immediately if not sooner, and there were no excuses for failure." Like Heifetz, who had supported his family as a prodigy, she had been deprived of a normal childhood. Not only had she been trained to respect age and accept authority without question; as the eldest child, she held the responsibility for the younger ones, incurring blame and even punishment if they did something wrong.
Unexpectedly,
Heifetz’s interest shifted to her piano playing. For the next 15 years,
she served as his private accompanist, musical colleague, assistant, house
manager, and companion, almost totally at his beck and call. She describes
him as a man who had to control everything, even topics of conversation
(i.e. no politics, religion, or music). He did not hesitate to interrupt
when he felt someone had talked for too long.
He had no formal schooling,
but read extensively about art, as well as biographies of artists,
musicians, singers, composers, and actors. He subscribed to the Readers
Digest and National Geographic, which he considered down-to-earth,
unpretentious magazines, but cancelled the New Yorker when Andrew Porter
replaced Malcolm Sargent as music critic.
He
distrusted technology, considered it a waste of human intellect and energy
- he refused to allow his recordings to be converted to digital
format. Although his name symbolized perfection,
he preferred some takes that were technically flawed but more
musically exciting. He believed that one should try the impossible to see
if the odds could be beaten: "Do it or else." He held no firm
theories on how to execute passages, but by instinct and long practice
knew what a particular piece wanted to say. Agus says, "Words, in his
view, were for critics, amateur music lovers, and theoreticians whom he
referred to as 'musicriminologists.'" He refused honorary doctorates,
and labeled people who liked to explain music "the learn-ed
ones."
According to Agus, Heifetz was convinced that people were either for him or against him. He attempted to bend even City Hall to his will. He did not tolerate being disagreed with, gave no second chance if he felt he had been slighted or even if his whims had been ignored. Although most famous people struggle to separate those who truly desire friendship from the name-droppers, Heifetz took it a step further. He imposed on his friends "all kinds of vexations, which he expected to be tolerated and cheerfully endured."
One gets the sense of a genius who fulfilled his destiny with a fanatic perfectionism. But "success had put him on a pedestal where, as an intensely private person, he felt unsafe and uncomfortable." He kept track of which noted musicians committed suicide or used drugs and alcohol, or wasted their talent. Maintaining a family as a buffer against the outside world required skills other than those he had acquired.
Several chapters detail Heifetz's studies with Russian violin guru Leopold Auer, his teaching, his transcriptions, his training of Agus as an accompanist, and his final mental and physical decline into old age and death. To the author's credit, no names are mentioned--Heifetz hated gossip, and she provides none. Her picture of him is neither sentimental nor jaded; rather, she presents a well-written and balanced view of a master-disciple relationship that had strong musical and personal ties. It is poignant that, towards the end of his life, this secretive man exchanged personal stories with her, knowing she would write about him. After a lifetime on Mt. Olympus, he must have wanted to allow a peek through the impenetrable wall he had built. #
Ayke
Agus
Paula Chertok
is a writer living in Portland, Oregon.