We stared at an empty coach’s chair. It was unusual, said the other three, for Felix Galimir to be late. So we brushed up a few passages, alternating playing with talking, mostly questions tinged with nervous anticipation. Our cellist asked if we thought Galimir would hear the entire Haydn quartet or just the first movement. The first violinist reminded us that we were going to get yelled at no matter what we played. I wondered aloud if someone that old really “yelled”. We began to play another passage.
As if on cue, the door to the adjoining bathroom burst open, and along with the sound of the toilet flushing we experienced a verbal barrage. “No! Why so short and picky, the sixteenth notes? I cannot hear the second violin! And you, cello, you must really play here!” Evidently our coaching had begun on time. Mr. Galimir had simply been multitasking from an alternate seat.
Over the next few years I witnessed the full range of emotion from our coach, whom we addressed as “Mr. Galimir” but who was known among us by his last name alone. Though he was 86 when I began working with him, I experienced everything in Technicolor, for Galimir never dialed anything down. He jumped into the air and roared, crouched low and whispered, stomped around like a big game hunter, and at every moment seemed much larger than any of us, though the opposite was the case. Happily married, music was still his first love, and to play her with less than total dedication was to slap her in the face. To play sloppily, even with deep feeling, spoke to a lack of dedication in the practice room and earned the same scorn. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then Galimir was sincerely loved, for every chamber musician at Curtis had his or her own version of the man’s rusty-door-hinge Viennese accent.
In sports, an “old-school” coach demands results and brooks no excuses. This was our chamber music diet at Curtis, yet with Galimir in the coach’s seat it was not all gruel. The knowledge that we had to perform for such discerning ears each week actually freed us from endless discussion and pointed us in the direction of progress through playing. Music, not English, became our first language during rehearsal, and the true test of any theory was its worthiness in performance.
Of these practical considerations, the one most important to Galimir was balance. We were usually able to recognize the melodic line and to let it be heard. But woe to the group who achieved this at the expense of vitality in the other voices! As the second violinist in our quartet, I bore the brunt of many assaults when I failed to play up to the others’ sound. Since the second violin, from the audience’s point of view, traditionally sits behind the first violin, I often had to make more sound than the first in order to give the illusion of equality. In this I was a slow learner. Galimir’s repeated voicing of “not enough second violin!” became an instant refrain in our quartet.
One coaching session took place in Curtis Hall, on Beethoven’s “Harp” quartet, Opus 74. Near the end of the first movement, the first violin explodes into an extended passage of diminished arpeggios. The second violin adds a singing melody, increasing the tension, and at the exact point when the arpeggios finally resolve into the home key of E-Flat, this melody must soar. As Galimir’s favorite role was that of second violin, this was a special moment, and he was not happy.
To the first violin, who seemed to be hitting all the notes, “Soovin! Your arpeggios…I cannot hear a thing, it is a jumble! Please accent the first note of every four.” We played again, a loud foot stomp interrupting us.
“You don’t understand. Accent only the first note of every four!” Again we played the passage, and Soovin etched the requested notes into the string. Was this not what Galimir wanted?
“NO! Am I going deaf, or can I simply not hear…the first note of each four!” This time, we could not hear any notes but the first of every four, since Soovin blasted these with articulation I did not think possible. I expected satisfaction from our coach, but I had forgotten one thing.
“Wait wait wait! Where is the melody in the second violin?” After a moment of angry silence, even Galimir broke into a chuckle.
Rare as they were, there were other quiet moments, but even these struck with maximum force, such as his hearing of the slow movement from Mozart’s g minor viola quintet. At the end, he remained motionless in his chair, eyes closed, finally opening with obvious effort. “You must play this…when I go.”
“When you go where?”
“When I go.”
There were no other comments. Was this coaching? For the rest of my life I will never remember what else Galimir said about the piece, but I will be unable to play it without investing all that I have.
This story appeared in Chamber Music magazine.