I was just beginning to adjust to my new circumstances when I was told that Mr. Galimir would be coming down to Philadelphia the next week! I was overjoyed, but also nervous. As I was just starting with my new teachers, most of my repertoire was in the early stages. Remembering lessons with him where I had played pieces that weren’t quite ready, I decided instead to revive the Bach a minor sonata, which was the first piece we had studied. I spent a great week relearning the piece, using the experience of my last two years to my advantage. I wanted to present him with something completely different from what he had seen the first time we worked on the piece.

When the lesson began, we talked about the summer for a few minutes, but he was eager to hear the Bach. I could tell that he didn’t have the same energy that he had brought to his first lessons with me, but his ears were the same as ever. After the improvisatory first movement, he said, “You play very well,” a high compliment from him, “but I don’t know why it’s not very well in tune.” I should have waited for the whole sentence. But he asked me to go on anyway.

The fugue felt great, much easier than when we had struggled through it two years before. Every so often I glanced over at him, sitting in the familiar chair, his eyes closed, but his mouth articulating the rhythms. During one of these wanderings of my eyes, my brain wandered as well and I suddenly forgot what came next. I was almost to the end of the movement! His eyes shot open, and he leaned forward. “Ja, ja, go on!” He began singing the next few notes with such conviction as though he could start my arms moving with his voice. I sheepishly finished the movement with no further glances in his direction. Only then did I look over to see a mischievous grin on his face.

“You know, you played it very well…until the end, where–I don’t know why,” he dropped his voice, “you f****d it up.”