“Play it again, it is not in tune.”

After another attempt, then another, and another, he leaped to his feet, grabbed his violin from its open case on the couch, and played the passage. To my astonishment, though the sound was rough, the notes were pure!

“Now, look at my hands! Look at my fingers!” I tried hard not to take a step back as he thrust them in my face. Each finger was twisted like an oak that had battled drought, wind and rain for a hundred years. How could he play in tune?

“You see, even I can play this in tune, and I am…three thousand years old!”

I think that beats even the hardiest tree.

I soon learned to anticipate these lessons. As we were exchanging pleasantries at the beginning of such an hour, I put down my violin and began stretching my forearms, hands and fingers. Mr. Galimir’s conversation trailed off as he watched my demonstration, and finally he fell silent. I looked over at him, and he looked at me as though I were growing a third arm out of my head. “What–is–is this a modern dance?”

I laughed, “No, I’m just stretching.” Seeing that his face was blank, I continued, “You know, it’s like athletes. I’m about to play Paganini, and my muscles have to be warmed up just like an athlete’s.”

“Are you going to the Olympics?”

I endeavored to explain further. “Well, if the muscles are cold, they won’t work the way they’re supposed to, and you can get hurt. I’m trying to stay healthy.”

His eyes and mouth at this point were drooping, and he simply shook his head. I barely heard, “I just don’t understand you.”

The thought of relieving myself with my nearly 90-year-old teacher sitting in silence a few feet away was not appealing, but I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I agreed and visited the Zimbalist bathroom. I emerged, walked over to the desk where I had placed my violin, picked up my instrument and turned to face Galimir. He was staring at me openmouthed with an expression approaching horror. I froze, then my mind raced: my fly was up, I had washed my hands, I hadn’t made any particularly strange sounds. Then he spoke: “Young man, in this country…we close the door all the way!” I looked at the door, and indeed it wasn’t securely closed. It was an inch ajar. Then he got up from his chair, walked over to the door, and inched it open bit by bit, peering inside the bathroom as he did so. “Unless,” he turned, with a look of wonder on his face, “you want to show me what you did.”

After listening for a minute, Mr. Galimir stopped me and leaned back in his chair. “You know…you learn the opposite of how I learn.”

“What do you mean?”

His pitch rose considerably, forecasting some blistering words. “I mean–that when I have a new piece, I first practice it slowly and carefully in tune. Then I play faster in tune. You–start fast and out of tune and then you play faster and more out of tune!”

The lesson unfolded as usual, with me playing and Mr. Galimir interjecting comments and criticisms. It seemed to me that there were more “good!” or “very good!” comments this week than usual, so I was pleased. When I reached the end of the movement, where the cadenza would normally be played, I stopped. “And the cadenza?” he asked. I said, “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t prepare it as well as I wanted to. It isn’t ready to be played.” Then Mr. Galimir leaned forward, cupped a hand to the side of his mouth, and whispered as if telling me a secret about someone else. “Truthfully…the rest of it wasn’t ready either.”

Once I came into a lesson wearing a T-shirt reading, “Joseph-Beth Booksellers, Lexington, Kentucky”. Does that tell you anything about my sense of style back then? He took a long look, squinting and reading, finally repeating, “Lexington–Kentucky. Must not be a very good bookseller.”

Near the end of my second year with Mr. Galimir, we worked on Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy. It is fraught with technical challenges, and takes a while to become comfortable to the hand. I had not reached that point during one lesson, and he made it his mission to stop me every time I played a note out of tune. For those of you who have never had this experience with someone who has discriminating ears, I recommend it. You will never want to play another out-of-tune note again.

One passage required him to stop me after nearly every note. Finally he threw up his hands and said, “You know, Mr. Nathan. You could go back to Alabama…and you would be a big success!” This last was delivered in a deep, almost growling voice, with both fists raised over his head. Then the arms dropped to his lap. “But not in New York.”

“So, next week you’ll bring it in?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you like me to call you and remind you?” This was not meant disrespectfully. By this time I had a good feel for what he wanted help with and what he did not. He often appreciated reminders of this kind. But he declined, and I realized later that instead of asking, I should have simply called!

That week, I took his warning not to begin my work on the Prokofiev quite seriously: I didn’t work on it, or any other solo pieces! Instead, I figured that I was busy enough with orchestra and chamber music rehearsals. I have no doubt a glance at my calendar for that week in 1997 would confirm that I was indeed busy, but I should have factored in some time to learn a new piece…

When I got to my next lesson, I walked in ready to begin Prokofiev. I instead heard the dreaded words, “So, what do you play?”

Hoping he was joking, I said, “Prokofiev 1?”

“Very good. Go.”

I began to sweat. “But I don’t have the music. Did you bring your music, with your bowings and fingerings?”

This time he paused, but without any sweat. “You know–I completely forgot! It is in New York.”

I kicked myself for not calling him.

He recovered instantly. “So, what do you play?”

Not wishing to admit that I hadn’t worked on anything new, I fumbled for a few seconds. Then I latched onto a life preserver! I suddenly remembered that I had practiced for a casual recital the next week. Part of the repertoire was Bartok Rumanian Dances, six short folk dances with piano accompaniment. I didn’t have a pianist with me, and the whole piece was less than ten minutes long, but it was something! Plus, Bartok was near and dear to his heart. It was perfect. I offered the Rumanian Dances.

“OK, go.”

I played the first, for once hoping that he would stop me and pick it apart. He simply motioned to go to the next one. I played the second, all of thirty seconds long, and he did the same. My life preserver started springing leaks. I played the third, composed entirely of tricky artificial harmonics. No reaction. I poured my heart into the fourth, a sensual gypsy lament. I danced wildly through the fifth and sixth, the sixth building through tempo after tempo until the end is a frenzy of barely articulated notes. My bow flew off the string, and to my astonishment Mr. Galimir leaped out of his chair, a triumphant look on his face.

“Terrific!” he cried, raising two clenched fists above his head!

He had never reacted like this to my playing. I was dumbfounded.

Mr. Galimir also froze like a statue, then gradually melted back into his chair, the look of triumph slowly fading into an ironic smile.

“It was not very good.”

My stomach was turning over and over at this point.

He continued, this time yelling, “It’s dirty music and dirty playing!” Then, after a pause, “What else do you have?”

I admitted that I didn’t have anything else. What could I do? I asked if he would help me with my chamber music parts, which he did. He didn’t warn me about neglecting my solo practice, but I didn’t exactly need explicit instructions. We began the Prokofiev the next week.

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.”

Curtis furnished train tickets to me and Tina Qu, with whom I would share a two-hour lesson at Mr. Galimir’s apartment on the Upper East Side.  Around noon, we met at school and headed to the train station.  It didn’t look like much of a walk, so we were in no hurry.  However, distances in real life tend to be greater than what they seem on a map, so between reading the map and juggling instruments and garment bags (for that evening’s performance), we found ourselves running by the time we reached the station.  To no avail:  the train had just left.  I was near panic, not realizing that there would be another train within the hour.  But even after this realization, someone still had to call Mr. Galimir and tell him that we would be late.  Of course, neither of us had ever spoken to him, and this would be a poor introduction.  I elected to make the call.

Fighting the din of 30th Street Station, I dialed the number and when a voice answered, I hurriedly said, “Mr. Galimir?”

“No, let me get him,” answered the voice.  It had been his wife!  Strike one.

“Hello?” came a creaky voice.

“Hello, Mr. Galimir.  This is Nathan Cole…we haven’t met or spoken before, but I’m coming with Tina Qu to play for you today.”

“Ja.”

“Well, we just missed our train and the next one will come in an hour.  Will you still be there?  What is the best thing to do?”

“What is best?  What is best is that you are on time for your train.”

I didn’t have an answer for that, so he continued, “So come one hour late, and play.  What do you play?”

I was confused.  “Violin.”

“Ja, violin I know, but what do you play for me?”

Now I understood, but a few seconds late.  It would not be the last time.  “Oh, I’m going to play Prokofiev’s second concerto.”  I had worked on it all summer.

“No, I don’t like that piece…you will play scales.”

What?  I had worked for months preparing for my first lesson and it was for nothing!

“What scale do you play?” he asked.

“Well…all the major and minor ones.”

“Ja!  But what scale do you play for me?” he was getting irritated.

I decided to be bold and pick one.  “C major.”

“No!  Not C major!  What book…what method…what…” he was definitely angry now.

“Oh, I see.” Although I practiced scales now and then, I didn’t really follow a system and it had been years since I had seen a scale book!   I tried to remember the name of the last scale book I had used.  Had I known better I would have realized that his principal teacher, the great Carl Flesch, had authored the most widely used scale book in existence.  Any other name was an impostor.  “Wessely,” I answered.

“Wessely?” came the incredulous reply.

“Wessely,” I confirmed.  “W-E-S–”

“I know how to spell Wessely, but…who is Wessely?  You play Carl Flesch.  So come and you will play, and there is…a girl?”

“Right, Tina Qu is coming with me.”

“Ja, you come, and bring the girl, and I will see you later.”
I hung up the phone very gently, fearing to disturb the relative calm with which we had ended the conversation.  In less than an hour, Tina and I were on a train to New York, and an hour and a half after that, we were in the big city.  A short cab ride later, we were in the fashionable Upper East Side and riding the elevator to Mr. Galimir’s apartment.  I knocked on the door.

“Ja?”

“It’s Nathan and Tina,” I said to the door.

The door opened, and I stood looking over the head of the great violin teacher.  I couldn’t believe this was the same man who had made my heart race over the phone!  Tina and I both towered over him.  There was silence.  Finally Tina bowed.

“What does she do?” he asked me.
We introduced ourselves and he rushed us inside, eager to get to the playing.  Mrs. Galimir took our things, but not before Mr. Galimir noticed my garment bag.  “What is…this bag?” He tried to take it from me, but as it contained a tuxedo, shoes and a large book, it was quite heavy.  He nearly lost his balance, and shouted, “What do you bring to your violin lesson?”

I explained that I had a concert that night and these were my clothes.

“Do you wear clothing made out of…concrete?”  I had to laugh.

Soon we were in the studio, and Tina was to play first.  As she played a short piece by Saint-Saëns, I watched Mr. Galimir’s face.  His eyes would open wide and glow when she executed a brilliant passage or expressive slide, or they would squint and his mouth pucker when a note was out of tune.  I began dreading my turn.

When it came, he asked, “So, what do you play?”

I almost laughed, remembering our first conversation.  I didn’t wish to repeat it, but I also didn’t want to volunteer any scales.

“Prokofiev second concerto,” I said with little conviction.

“Oh…no, I just–don’t–like that piece.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I realized he was used to people who had many things in their repertoire at once.  He broke the silence with, “So play scales.  Go.”

Now those violinists who have studied the Carl Flesch scale book know that there is a particular order to the keys and variations of the scales.  They begin with C Major, then its relative minor, a minor.  Then down a third to F Major, then its relative d minor.  When it comes to arpeggios, it is minor first, then major, then first inversion, second inversion, etc., with 7 arpeggios in all.  If you have practiced with this system for years it would be automatic.  Otherwise it is not at all obvious.

“What scale would you like?” I asked the former Flesch student, who looked at me as if I had asked him how to hold the bow.

“C Major, of course!”

I played a C Major scale, slurring four notes to a bow.

“Very good!  Now is it possible, Mr. Nathan, to play something other than four notes in a bow?”

“Sure.”  I started playing six notes per bow.

“No!  No, do not play four notes or six notes!”

I paused.  “How many notes?”

He began to laugh, already frustrated.  Neither of us knew just how far this would go.  “Play as many notes per bow as you can.”

Now I understood.  He wanted to see how fast I could play the scale.  I played the entire scale, up and down, in one bow.

“No!” he shouted, and shot out of his chair.  I took a step back in fear.  He did an imitation with his mouth of my super-fast scale.  “Play in a normal tempo, but change the bow whenever you run out.”

I did so, and came to the bottom of the scale.

“Go on.”

But there was nowhere else to go.  Expecting the worst, I asked, “What do you mean?”

“A minor, of course!”

I played the a minor scale in the agreed-upon fashion, then stopped again.

“Ja, go on!”

I looked over Mr. Galimir’s shoulder at Tina, and she must have seen the pain on my face.  She tried to mouth, “F Major” but Mr. Galimir beat her to it.

“Ja, F Major, then–d minor, then–B-flat Major, et cetera!”

I played a few more scales, each time looking to Tina to confirm what I should be doing.  Evidently she had spent some time with Mr. Flesch’s treatise.

Finally Mr. Galimir stopped me, taking a deep and ragged breath.  This had evidently taken as much out of him as it had me.  “Now, arpeggios.”

“C Major?” I asked, feeling like I was getting the hang of things.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said in a tired voice.

I began to play a C Major arpeggio.

“No!” and again he started out of his chair.  “You play E-natural!”

“Yes,” I answered, as E-natural is the second note of a C Major arpeggio.

“You must play E-flat!”

“Oh, you want a c minor arpeggio?”

“Yes.”

I complied.  I should have guessed his response.

“OK, go on.”  This time he didn’t wait for a reply.  He simply saw my blank face and said, “C Major!”

When I had finished that arpeggio, I looked to Tina who tried to mouth me the notes to the next one.  Communicating silently over his head, we were able to piece together the five remaining arpeggios.

Words cannot express the relief I felt when Mr. Galimir sank back into his chair and breathed, “OK.”  There was a pause, and then, “You will practice all 24 scales with arpeggios every day.”  My eyes opened wide, as I had only ever practiced one key a day, even when I had practice scales regularly.  “Then, thirds, sixths, octaves, fingered octaves and tenths.”

This was beyond belief.  “For all 24 keys?”

“Yes, of course.”

For the first time, I protested.  This would take me hours a day, just for scales.  He agreed, and we worked out a compromise:  all 24 keys for single-note scales and arpeggios, but only 6 for double-stops.  It still took me two hours a day for the first week.

Finally, we had to work out what piece I would study first, since the Prokofiev was not suitable.  He immediately suggested Bach, and as I had never worked on the a minor solo sonata, that was the decision.

I cannot remember anything that was said after that, since I was still in a daze.  Tina and I collected our things from the closet, after one more comment about my gigantic garment bag.  In another minute, we were on the streets of New York on a beautiful fall day.  The fresh air began to revive me, and as Tina and I jumped into a cab that would take us down to Merkin Hall, I stared out the window and wondered what my future would be with this volcanic 86-year-old man.