By DONALD DeMARCO
The pontificate of John Paul I lasted but thirty-three days. In the words of Carlo Cardinal Confalonieri, this Pope was like “a meteor that lights up the heavens and then disappears, leaving us amazed and astonished.” One of John Paul’s last actions was to review and revise the upcoming fourth edition of Illustrissimi (the most illustrious), a document that would contain his only human, spiritual, and pastoral testament.
Illustrissimi is a series of open letters to illustrious individuals such as Charles Dickens, G.K. Chesterton, Mark Twain, Guglielmo Marconi, Saints Bonaventure, Francis de Sales, Teresa of Avila, and Therese of Lisieux. In each of these charming letters, the former Albino Luciani is able to insert a Christian message, one that springs from his pastoral heart.
The notion of writing an open letter to an illustrious figure is fascinating. If one cannot expect to meet such a hero, one can at least write him a letter, though it may never reach him. It is an exercise of dream fulfillment, touching the garment’s hem of those whom you deeply admire. Pope John Paul began his letter to Jesus by stating, “I Write in Trepidation.” These four words capture my mood in writing, though one that he will never read, to Vladimir Ashkenazy.
We were born in the same year and spent most of our lives outside of the country in which we were born. We both enjoy a marriage, our only marriage, which has lasted more than fifty years and has produced five children. We are both Christian and, early in life, developed a strong affection for the music of Frederic Chopin. We both played Chopin at Carnegie Hall, performances that were duly noted in The New York Times (though my performance requires an extended explanation). We are both teachers and have experienced, like many, the pain of opposition. What we have in common, so it would seem, would serve as a basis for a good friendship.
Our commonalities, however, belie our differences. The distance between our places of birth, Gorky, Russia, and Fall River, Mass., does not begin to measure the difference in our pianistic talent. Hence, my admiration for Ashkenazy, a virtuoso of such stupendous talent that it leaves me in a state of astonishment. I heard him perform Chopin’s Etudes (Opus 25) one night at Boston’s Symphony Hall. He was flawless and his pianistic wizardry reduced technical difficulties into smooth, unbroken threads of musical magic.
“It is a gift,” Ashkenazy does not hesitate to acknowledge. And I do not doubt that he has made full use of it. The inevitable question arises, “Why not for me, also, God?” This was the question that perplexed Salieri in Peter Shaffer’s play, Amadeus, mindful of the lavish gift God had bestowed on Mozart. God has His own reasons and we should not question them. We should admire without being envious. Admiration is praise given in joy. Envy is sadness at another’s good fortune. Admiration enlarges our spirit. Envy reduces us to bitterness.
Envy carries with it an assortment of vices. It is useless, since it cannot produce anything on its own of merit. It is presumptuous since it presumes that the gift was given to the wrong person and would have been put into better effect if it were given to the right person. It is mindless since it empties the mind of the proper attitude one should have toward a genuine gift.
Yet the temptation toward envy of those whom are richly endowed is legion. Thinking of the seemingly unlimited amount of money in the possession of Bill Gates, for example, one might say, “If I had this amount of money, I would be the happiest man in the world.” The same presumption attends envy of beautiful people, outstanding athletes, brilliant scientists, and spellbinding actors. While envying others, however, comes the rejection of self. Kierkegaard wrote about “despair of defiance,” in which a person refuses to be himself because God did not shower him with the gifts he would have preferred to receive.
How does Ashkenazy think of himself? Does he see himself as a member of the Illustrissimi?
“Naturally, I understand what it means to play an instrument,” he once said, “what it takes to produce the sound, but I’m not exceptional.” At the same time, does he admire or envy those who are, in some way, above him? Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, are his superiors as composers. But as a true musician, Ashkenazy submits to their genius by putting ego aside and placing the intentions of the masters in the forefront. As Ashkenazy himself has warned, “If you go for fame, you have a problem. Just go for the music you are playing.” The instrumentalist serves the composer; the composer serves his muse, or better yet, serves God.
Great music should elevate our spirits. Music always intimates something higher than itself. For Johann Sebastian Bach, “I play the notes as they are written, but it is God who makes the music.” For Beethoven, “Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy.” Music, writes C.S. Lewis, is “news from a country we have never visited.” God is the ultimate musician, the highest of all the Illustrissimi.
We listen, understand, and admire. There should be no room for envy or bitterness.
Vladimir Ashkenazy’s genius can serve as a meditation on life, service, humility, sharing, and God. Though widely different in gifts, we human beings are united in our humanity. The performer needs his listeners. The conductor needs his orchestra. I should rejoice as a listener because it installs me on that escalator that carries me upward. Ashkenazy and Mozart are part of that sequence.
When the audience applauds, it expresses its admiration not only for the instrumentalist, but for the composer, for music itself, and for the ultimate author of music, who reigns in Heaven.
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